"Oh, there's plenty else." That playful quirk to her eyebrow is surprisingly delightful, Strange decides, and decides in the same moment that he'll do what he can to keep that expression on Wanda's face. It's a far better sight than her looking sheepish and crestfallen.
And the truth is, he's nosy about everything. He always wants answers, in every realm of his life where it's possible. The universe is full of magical things, patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper. He's been grilling her about her magic, her powers, her capabilities, and there's whole ruined craters which he knows he doesn't want to touch yet (Vision, Westview, Pietro, Sokovia—), and so he settles for something innocuous and innocent and personal. Something about her as a person, rather than an instrument of ineffable power.
"Is your favourite colour red?" he asks, with a cock of his own eyebrow.
She barks her laughter. "Yes." Immediately, she points at him, her smile bright and vibrant. "But not for the reasons you are thinking!"
No, she hadn't read his mind. It's simple math: Wanda's magic is red, and thus if she likes red, that must be why.
(She's certain if she wanted to change her magic's colour, she possibly could. The Sunny Witch sounds quite nice, actually._
She sits back and rests her hands on her lap, pressing her lips together in an unsuccessful attempt to try and stop smiling. Her bright smile does turn wistful. Briefly, she does consider not giving him her true answer. She could wrap it up in Vision. She could say it was simply a colour she liked for no reason at all. But then Wanda wouldn't be telling the truth. She's tired of the truth being a rare thing.
"My mother liked red, so I wanted to like red." Wanda shrugs. "Then I started to. Pietro liked red just to annoy me, but I refused to budge from liking it. Now, it reminds me of that." Of home.
"That's nice," Strange says, and although the comment itself is toothless and bland, he sounds genuinely warm as he says it. Any little tidbit about her family, he knows, is a mark of trust. A gesture of something real.
He, too, misses that teasing back-and-forth between siblings.
"I didn't have any choice with the colour scheme of this thing; it just showed up." He gestures with an arm toward where the Cloak of Levitation hangs over the back of his chair, and it billows from his elbow as if in an impossible breeze, before settling again. "It does add a spark of panache, though. I'd be so dull in my all-black otherwise. In our order, you start off with white robes as a novice, then crimson as an apprentice, then get your own customised robes when you officially become a Master of the Mystic Arts."
He takes another sip of his drink, eyeing Wanda where she's leaning back in her chair. "The red suits you," he says. "It goes well with your hair."
It's— a compliment, maybe? Sort of? He's bad at them.
She smiles, chuckling softly. Of all the things anyone has ever said about her hair, that has to be the kindest of them all.
"My hair was not always red," she says lightly. Wanda's in a good mood. It may be because of the people she's around—like-minded individuals, people who don't care that the Avengers' hanger-on is here with the ex-Sorceror Supreme.
It feels like confessing some deep, dark secret. Strange doesn't know who she used to be. He doesn't know that she used to favour blacks and deep reds and try and hide within the shadows so no one could see her while she studied them. But as time passed and she became less like the person she used to be (and had less, far, far less), she's grown lighter.
It seems a little backwards. Isn't she meant to grow darker the more she loses and finds herself lost?
"Like before your cloak," she cocks her head towards the sentient thing, "I used to have very dark hair. I liked black, too. But then I heard of you and I thought I would be kind and not make you feel intimidated by how well I can wear black."
The Bar With No Doors is a fantastic place to disappear into a crowd: a venue where you won't stand out for your abilities, where no one will look at you askance or give you a sidelong stare, where everyone is just a little bit strange. It's good for not feeling alone.
Strange's mouth twists, amused, like she's throwing him a bone for not upstaging him in costumery. "Cute," he says, and takes another hearty swig of his drink. He's feeling mellow, a little loose around the edges. "Very dark hair and liking black. Let me get this straight. Are you saying you were a goth? Were you a Hot Topic goth, Wanda Maximoff?"
He's not sure if the pop culture reference will work for a woman who grew up in Sokovia, but he volleys it out there regardless.
"I was a Wednesday Addams goth, Stephen," she gently chides. His given name, not his surname, sounds very strange coming from her. It's in Wong's presence that she sometimes opts for "Stephen" over "Strange". It feels entirely informal and very friendly to call him a name that she thinks belongs to his friends.
"I had the black makeup around the eyes," she continues and gestures to her eyes with a flutter of her fingers, "and the very dark hair. It was very dark. I only started to go light in the States."
In an attempt to blend in, in a way to shed who she used to be. She tried to be someone she wasn't and only managed to go lighter and lighter until she set herself on figurative fire. Now, her hair is a strawberry red that separates her drastically from the dark woman who used to haunt Sokovia. Now, she brightens up New York City.
"But I set the bar very high." She raises her arm above her head and lifts slightly off her chair. "Taller than you. It would have been embarrassing if you had tried to be a goth like me," she laughs.
"Ah, Wednesday, the much better kind," he concludes warmly. Who hadn't liked the Addams Family? (And it's perhaps not a surprise: there had been the 1960s television show, the later movies, all staples of an American cultural export and jotting neatly alongside the other family comedies that she'd inhaled while growing up.)
"I could probably be a good Gomez for Halloween, honestly, but then I'd have to shave off this thing." Strange strokes his chin contemplatively, gesturing to the iconic and precise goatie. "I'd probably look villainous with just a pencil moustache, though. D'you think I could pull it off?"
It only occurs to him a second later— was that the first time she'd ever referred to him just by first name? He thinks it was, and it sparks an unexpected little flicker of warmth and familiarity. He normally insisted on such strict formal distance throughout his life (paging Doctor Strange, a common refrain at the hospital, the imposed distance even between him and his patients), but if he could drop the surname with the kid, then he can drop it with Wanda. She's earned it, too. It certainly sounds less stilted coming from her, and he finds that he likes the effect; it makes them sound more like friends than strangers.
She scrunches up her face and makes a show of scrutinising him. If he was to be anyone from the Addams Family, she couldn't pick an actual family member. Since getting to know him, she understands how much of a disservice that belief is to who he is. He may appear sharp and a touch unapproachable, but she thinks he's a little like Gomez. Swept up in the magic of it all. Possibly capable of being swept up by someone else. He knows how to laugh, much like Gomez, even if it isn't as frequent.
He's either Gomez or Lurch, depending on the day.
"I would think you would make a decent Cousin Itt," she teases. "All you need is to grow this"—with a flicker of her hand, the tips of his hair brushing against his forehead glow red—"and then you will be perfect. But if you can't commit to Itt... I think Gomez can possibly upgrade to a goatee. I think Morticia likes him no matter what his facial hair looks like."
"She would. I think that's pretty much the whole point of them, that they love each other and like each other regardless." He sounds— a little sentimental over it, perhaps? — strangely, surprisingly sentimental, considering Stephen Strange presents to all the world an image of being crisp, logical, scientific, and certainly not one to moon over the idea of hashtag #marriagegoals.
But. Somewhere beneath that ribcage, that heart is more vulnerable than he'd like. Somewhere in his desk drawer sits an envelope and a wedding invitation in a familiar hand.
Strange absentmindedly touches the strands of his hair which had just glowed red; there's a faint tingling against his fingertips like faint electric static, the fizzing after-effects of Wanda's magical signature. He opens his mouth, on the verge of promising something pithy: next Halloween, we're dressing up and sending you round the block to trick-or-treat to all the kids, but he thankfully remembers just in time. Remembers the potential pitfall and bites down on the suggestion.
Quick— swerve.
"And ah, but I'm not chic enough to be Cousin Itt. No one is. I'll probably have to try for Gomez." Strange tips his drink, drains the rest of it in one fell swoop, then his fingers toy with the now-empty glass, turning it in restless half-circles against the condensation on the table. "Do you want a refill? Is it dangerous for a witch to get drunk?"
Wanda glances around as if she's searching for anyone prying into their conversation. Once satisfied in her discovery that no one honestly cares about a sort-of Avenger and a sorcerer speaking, she leans across the table to whisper conspiratorially, "I can drink even Thor under the table." She smiles and chuckles, leaning back.
No, she absolutely cannot—not that she has ever tried. Her antisocial behaviour has left her with too many questions and not enough facts.
"Would the bartender be offended if we magic drinks?" She glances over towards the bartender as if expecting them to be eyeballing her after saying such a thing. But they're busy… bartending. Wanda's realising that she doesn't need to be overly paranoid about showing off her powers… and may be enjoying it a little too much.
Turning back to Strange, she smiles. "I think you would like this drink from Sokovia."
"I can't see why they would mind. Less work for them, I imagine." It's a party trick Strange falls back on far too often himself — conjuring alcohol is quick to get a gasp and a laugh, sometimes easy to impress, and usually the person he's trying to impress appreciates the free drink to boot — but he hasn't been on the receiving end from Wanda yet. His curiosity is piqued.
"Alright. I'll have one mystery Sokovian drink, please."
Rather than take his Tikki cup, Wanda delicately waves her hand and conjures up a round cocktail glass. She doesn't pull her hand away; Wanda wiggles her fingers (a little unnecessarily), summoning red magic to her fingertips. The empty glass is slow to fill with a red liquid (a little on the nose for her, she knows) until it reaches three-quarters of the way.
Inside the liquid, Strange will find his favourite sweet fruit cut up into smaller pieces.
"It's not alcoholic, but it does the trick." Kompot had been a favourite drink of hers and something she had been able to make herself even in the United States.
Bemused, Strange watches the liquid swirl and fill up the cocktail glass, bobbing with chunks of fruit: apples, blackberries and blueberries, with a touch of honey. He takes a sip, makes an admiring noise. He hadn't expected it to be non-alcoholic, but he realises that he doesn't mind.
He's never had Eastern European kompot before, but it sparks— something, a recollection, how did she know to choose apples—
(A memory: his grandfather's apple tree in his backyard upstate. Stephen and Donna scrumping for apples, tugging them fresh off the branches, scampering off to enjoy them together by the lakeside. The family taking them to a local cidery and getting a discount on the end result.)
The taste is rich and crisp and steeped in autumn.
"So, like sangria but without the wine?" he remarks after a moment, shaking off the memory, ducking a look down at the glass and taking another sip. "This is good. You should introduce us to Sokovian food and drink more often."
While Wanda may be tempted every now and then to dip her toes into the pools of both Strange and Wong, she allows them to wade towards her of their own accord. The last handful of years has taught her it's much more fulfilling when someone hands her a piece of themselves rather than she takes it from them.
She watches him with her smile widening slowly and with pleasure. She likes that he likes it. Another thing she's done correctly.
"You will regret those words, Stephen," she says playfully. "When you taste my cooking, you will want nothing else."
Her mother's recipes she's committed to memory are bewitching, if she says so herself.
"It'll be a nice change of pace from Wong's cooking. I mean, he's an excellent chef, don't get me wrong, but his juice cleanses leave something to be desired. I'm tired of hearing the body is a temple and needs the purest fuel in order to be a clean vessel for magic. I could go for some Eastern European comfort food instead."
Strange takes another sip of the kompot. He'd wondered if the food and drink might have been too close to home to mention — a raw wound, a homesick reminder — but it seems Wanda doesn't mind. Perhaps that taste of home can be healing, too, in its own way.
"So," he says, raising his glass in a toast to her: Wanda Maximoff, their visiting witch, their guest star. "Here's to underwater features, cleaning up messes, and excellent home cooking."
Ah, yes. Her very embarrassing spot of magic. Wanda is very happy to toast to that.
She raises her glass and smiles proudly. It's not every day Wanda Maximoff receives genuine compliments that haven't been scripted by her hand. It's something she believes she can very well get used to... Compliments, not scrutiny. (No matter how tempted she may be to turn the Sanctum into an aquarium again, she will make an effort not to.)
Gently clinging her glass to his, she hides behind hers and laughs, "Here's to the fish I put in your bed."
Not everything can have a perfect sitcom clean-up, after all.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
And the truth is, he's nosy about everything. He always wants answers, in every realm of his life where it's possible. The universe is full of magical things, patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper. He's been grilling her about her magic, her powers, her capabilities, and there's whole ruined craters which he knows he doesn't want to touch yet (Vision, Westview, Pietro, Sokovia—), and so he settles for something innocuous and innocent and personal. Something about her as a person, rather than an instrument of ineffable power.
"Is your favourite colour red?" he asks, with a cock of his own eyebrow.
no subject
No, she hadn't read his mind. It's simple math: Wanda's magic is red, and thus if she likes red, that must be why.
(She's certain if she wanted to change her magic's colour, she possibly could. The Sunny Witch sounds quite nice, actually._
She sits back and rests her hands on her lap, pressing her lips together in an unsuccessful attempt to try and stop smiling. Her bright smile does turn wistful. Briefly, she does consider not giving him her true answer. She could wrap it up in Vision. She could say it was simply a colour she liked for no reason at all. But then Wanda wouldn't be telling the truth. She's tired of the truth being a rare thing.
"My mother liked red, so I wanted to like red." Wanda shrugs. "Then I started to. Pietro liked red just to annoy me, but I refused to budge from liking it. Now, it reminds me of that." Of home.
no subject
He, too, misses that teasing back-and-forth between siblings.
"I didn't have any choice with the colour scheme of this thing; it just showed up." He gestures with an arm toward where the Cloak of Levitation hangs over the back of his chair, and it billows from his elbow as if in an impossible breeze, before settling again. "It does add a spark of panache, though. I'd be so dull in my all-black otherwise. In our order, you start off with white robes as a novice, then crimson as an apprentice, then get your own customised robes when you officially become a Master of the Mystic Arts."
He takes another sip of his drink, eyeing Wanda where she's leaning back in her chair. "The red suits you," he says. "It goes well with your hair."
It's— a compliment, maybe? Sort of? He's bad at them.
no subject
"My hair was not always red," she says lightly. Wanda's in a good mood. It may be because of the people she's around—like-minded individuals, people who don't care that the Avengers' hanger-on is here with the ex-Sorceror Supreme.
It feels like confessing some deep, dark secret. Strange doesn't know who she used to be. He doesn't know that she used to favour blacks and deep reds and try and hide within the shadows so no one could see her while she studied them. But as time passed and she became less like the person she used to be (and had less, far, far less), she's grown lighter.
It seems a little backwards. Isn't she meant to grow darker the more she loses and finds herself lost?
"Like before your cloak," she cocks her head towards the sentient thing, "I used to have very dark hair. I liked black, too. But then I heard of you and I thought I would be kind and not make you feel intimidated by how well I can wear black."
See? She can be kind.
no subject
Strange's mouth twists, amused, like she's throwing him a bone for not upstaging him in costumery. "Cute," he says, and takes another hearty swig of his drink. He's feeling mellow, a little loose around the edges. "Very dark hair and liking black. Let me get this straight. Are you saying you were a goth? Were you a Hot Topic goth, Wanda Maximoff?"
He's not sure if the pop culture reference will work for a woman who grew up in Sokovia, but he volleys it out there regardless.
no subject
"I had the black makeup around the eyes," she continues and gestures to her eyes with a flutter of her fingers, "and the very dark hair. It was very dark. I only started to go light in the States."
In an attempt to blend in, in a way to shed who she used to be. She tried to be someone she wasn't and only managed to go lighter and lighter until she set herself on figurative fire. Now, her hair is a strawberry red that separates her drastically from the dark woman who used to haunt Sokovia. Now, she brightens up New York City.
"But I set the bar very high." She raises her arm above her head and lifts slightly off her chair. "Taller than you. It would have been embarrassing if you had tried to be a goth like me," she laughs.
no subject
"I could probably be a good Gomez for Halloween, honestly, but then I'd have to shave off this thing." Strange strokes his chin contemplatively, gesturing to the iconic and precise goatie. "I'd probably look villainous with just a pencil moustache, though. D'you think I could pull it off?"
It only occurs to him a second later— was that the first time she'd ever referred to him just by first name? He thinks it was, and it sparks an unexpected little flicker of warmth and familiarity. He normally insisted on such strict formal distance throughout his life (paging Doctor Strange, a common refrain at the hospital, the imposed distance even between him and his patients), but if he could drop the surname with the kid, then he can drop it with Wanda. She's earned it, too. It certainly sounds less stilted coming from her, and he finds that he likes the effect; it makes them sound more like friends than strangers.
no subject
He's either Gomez or Lurch, depending on the day.
"I would think you would make a decent Cousin Itt," she teases. "All you need is to grow this"—with a flicker of her hand, the tips of his hair brushing against his forehead glow red—"and then you will be perfect. But if you can't commit to Itt... I think Gomez can possibly upgrade to a goatee. I think Morticia likes him no matter what his facial hair looks like."
no subject
But. Somewhere beneath that ribcage, that heart is more vulnerable than he'd like. Somewhere in his desk drawer sits an envelope and a wedding invitation in a familiar hand.
Strange absentmindedly touches the strands of his hair which had just glowed red; there's a faint tingling against his fingertips like faint electric static, the fizzing after-effects of Wanda's magical signature. He opens his mouth, on the verge of promising something pithy: next Halloween, we're dressing up and sending you round the block to trick-or-treat to all the kids, but he thankfully remembers just in time. Remembers the potential pitfall and bites down on the suggestion.
Quick— swerve.
"And ah, but I'm not chic enough to be Cousin Itt. No one is. I'll probably have to try for Gomez." Strange tips his drink, drains the rest of it in one fell swoop, then his fingers toy with the now-empty glass, turning it in restless half-circles against the condensation on the table. "Do you want a refill? Is it dangerous for a witch to get drunk?"
no subject
No, she absolutely cannot—not that she has ever tried. Her antisocial behaviour has left her with too many questions and not enough facts.
"Would the bartender be offended if we magic drinks?" She glances over towards the bartender as if expecting them to be eyeballing her after saying such a thing. But they're busy… bartending. Wanda's realising that she doesn't need to be overly paranoid about showing off her powers… and may be enjoying it a little too much.
Turning back to Strange, she smiles. "I think you would like this drink from Sokovia."
no subject
"Alright. I'll have one mystery Sokovian drink, please."
no subject
Rather than take his Tikki cup, Wanda delicately waves her hand and conjures up a round cocktail glass. She doesn't pull her hand away; Wanda wiggles her fingers (a little unnecessarily), summoning red magic to her fingertips. The empty glass is slow to fill with a red liquid (a little on the nose for her, she knows) until it reaches three-quarters of the way.
Inside the liquid, Strange will find his favourite sweet fruit cut up into smaller pieces.
"It's not alcoholic, but it does the trick." Kompot had been a favourite drink of hers and something she had been able to make herself even in the United States.
no subject
He's never had Eastern European kompot before, but it sparks— something, a recollection, how did she know to choose apples—
(A memory: his grandfather's apple tree in his backyard upstate. Stephen and Donna scrumping for apples, tugging them fresh off the branches, scampering off to enjoy them together by the lakeside. The family taking them to a local cidery and getting a discount on the end result.)
The taste is rich and crisp and steeped in autumn.
"So, like sangria but without the wine?" he remarks after a moment, shaking off the memory, ducking a look down at the glass and taking another sip. "This is good. You should introduce us to Sokovian food and drink more often."
no subject
While Wanda may be tempted every now and then to dip her toes into the pools of both Strange and Wong, she allows them to wade towards her of their own accord. The last handful of years has taught her it's much more fulfilling when someone hands her a piece of themselves rather than she takes it from them.
She watches him with her smile widening slowly and with pleasure. She likes that he likes it. Another thing she's done correctly.
"You will regret those words, Stephen," she says playfully. "When you taste my cooking, you will want nothing else."
Her mother's recipes she's committed to memory are bewitching, if she says so herself.
yrs to wrap? ♥
Strange takes another sip of the kompot. He'd wondered if the food and drink might have been too close to home to mention — a raw wound, a homesick reminder — but it seems Wanda doesn't mind. Perhaps that taste of home can be healing, too, in its own way.
"So," he says, raising his glass in a toast to her: Wanda Maximoff, their visiting witch, their guest star. "Here's to underwater features, cleaning up messes, and excellent home cooking."
end!! ♥
She raises her glass and smiles proudly. It's not every day Wanda Maximoff receives genuine compliments that haven't been scripted by her hand. It's something she believes she can very well get used to... Compliments, not scrutiny. (No matter how tempted she may be to turn the Sanctum into an aquarium again, she will make an effort not to.)
Gently clinging her glass to his, she hides behind hers and laughs, "Here's to the fish I put in your bed."
Not everything can have a perfect sitcom clean-up, after all.