"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
"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.