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.
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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.