explosion | OPEN POST.

All Wanda has ever wanted is him.

She knows she should've learned her lesson. Magic isn't a toy. It's not something she should use to fill in the holes in her own heart. It's something that needs to be used properly, accurately, and with proper intent that's stripped of its emotion.

But when she sees him step inside of the suburban home she's built, replenished with furniture they only ever dreamed of from her sitcoms and movies, and sat it beside a house that's filled with a kind family who love nothing but to let him be a bad influence on their young children… It's worth making the same mistake and correcting it to be something fruitful, in her control, and here.

He's always been worth it.

This time, when Wanda creates a hex, it's not out of an emotional outburst. She'd been particular, specific in the way she'd built it. It isn't broken. It's as flawless as she can make it, a safe haven for the two of them to exist as they were always meant to be. She can't and won't hurt anyone this time. She has the person she wants—and she knows, in time, her family will come back to her. He's stayed beside her since she reached for him and felt him reach back; he hasn't disappeared as she had been so fearful he would.

Allowing Pietro to be fallible is a flaw in the universe's design that she's corrected. Tying him to her is the only way to fix what she hadn't been able to correct so long ago.

Wanda smiles. "Did you enjoy your run?"

It had been traumatic, to say the least, to more or less come back from the dead. For one thing, it hadn't been something Pietro had signed up for. For another, there was actually a momentary flash of guilt in his heart for not 'walking it off' as the Captain had insisted. For a third, he had failed his sister and that was entirely his own fault and he still hated himself for that fact.

The first few days had been a testy thing, in the long run, of Pietro trying to find his footing in the new truths of his life and not always succeeding. But time, and freedom like he hadn't known in the very small fragment of days between 'escaped Hydra' and 'died from Ultron'. Adjustments were made in small steps, and he had finally adjusted to his new way of being.

The running, of course, helped. Running that he came in from and flopped down on the couch rather than taking a shower.

"Very much. I saw some deer. The baby was very cute and had spots on it."

Don't worry, he didn't pet the deer.

At least he's come back. Every time Pietro leaves, Wanda frets it'll be the last time. And yet—she still tells him to go. She'll be fine; she much prefers her floors to remain intact and not bear holes in them from his restlessness.

"And you did not bring back the deer?"

Tsking, Wanda shakes her head. Despite wanting to feign disappointment, she doesn't wipe her smile from her face. Can't. Pietro is back and she permanently smiles now. She doesn't know how to frown, be sad, or even exist without the pinch to her cheeks.

Approaching the couch, she tapped the toe of his shoes. "For that, feet off the couch."

If he'd brought back the deer, he'd have a hell of a lot more waiting for him. Maybe a drink with an umbrella. A little snack. Instead, all he has is Wanda tapping his shoe and magically playing with his shoelace, turning that into a bit of a knot in itself.

Feet off the couch? Pietro doesn't answer at first. Just leaves his feet on the couch and smiles. Yep, this worked for him. Very comfortable. You like him to be comfortable, don't you sister?

"It is not polite to tie someone's shoes more. How will I get them off?"

"Hm."

Wanda doesn't make it a point to untie his shoelaces, taking his question as an invitation to continue to wrap it into a knot. Of course, if he wanted the shoelaces untied, they'd be free within seconds. It's nice to relax and to simply be a pest as she would be in Sokovia.

"Perhaps, you'll be nice to the lady of the house and do as she says." She smiles down at him as innocently as she can muster. "I hear that she is very kind but scary."

"I'm very nice to the lady of the house, as I am not tickling her at this moment," Pietro pointed out with a side smile.

Kind, yes, but he's never had cause to fear his sister. So he isn't taking the scary.

She scrunches up her face and shakes her head. "She's not ticklish." Wanda knows she's very, very ticklish. That fact hasn't changed since Pietro's death. All that changed was the fact she had no one left to tickle her... until little Tommy.

"I hear that she's very strong and unticklable."

No, she's still very ticklish. Anticipating what's inevitable, she magically ties one shoe's shoelace to the other—as if that's going to stop Pietro.

"Oh, she's very ticklish," Pietro grins as he sits up. Yes, he sees his shoe laces tied together. Doesn't keep him from reaching for his sister to try and tickle her.

"She is very strong and very ticklable."

She laughs, "Stop it!"

Wanda doesn't take a step back, even though that would—and should—be the next step. But she doesn't want to move away from Pietro. She's spent far too long without him to ever want to deny him anything ever again... except undoing his shoelaces. Isn't this how one ties their shoelaces together?

With her hands on her hips, she playfully glares down at him. "You'll regret it if you try to tickle me, Pietro."

He smiles but he does open, stopping his tickling to instead just hold her. To hug her.

"Perhaps you can bribe me? Breakfast would be nice."

Even while Stephen is wrangling the mindflayer (one of the many unsavoury duties Wong had pawned off on him), he's half-distracted wondering what might be awaiting him back at the Sanctum Sanctorum. And so his attention lapses enough that he sustains a cut along his temple, but the monster doesn't latch onto him and drain his sanity dry, so at least there's that— he eventually manages to magically wrestle it into a pocket dimension, seal the edges, and pinch off the wards. He tests the containment until he can't feel the tremors of it trying to escape any longer, its greedy tentacles grasping.

Job done, he dusts off his cloak and decides to portal back to the grand foyer with a twirl of his hand.

Back home on the metaphorical ranch, a golden window appears like it's carved out of thin air. It hisses and spits glowing light before opening, and then Doctor Strange, former Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the Mystic Arts, steps through.

Unfortunately, the Sanctum truly is flooded.

He takes one step out and, before he can catch himself, plummets downward. With a strangled yelp of surprise and flailing arms, he falls into the water. When he eventually manages to float himself back out, he's sodden and drenched: black hair plastered to his skull, red Cloak of Levitation hanging heavy from his shoulders and miserable, the cloak somehow managing to look like it's sulking.

He peers around. It's like when the blizzard blew through and the place was filled with snow, but now it's just water, an impossible ocean lapping at the grand curved staircase. The guest chairs are bobbing gently next to a floating credenza.

"Well, this is worse than I thought," he says.

To her credit, Wanda's done her best to lower the water levels. Before, it'd been up to the very wet and still dripping ceiling.

She stands on the first floor and wrings her hands, appearing very, very sheepish. While she knows what she's done is the very opposite to the task Wong had set, she does feel a little proud of herself. How many witches can summon water with a mere flick of her wrist? How many of them could summon water from the Pacific and have it feel as real as the ocean beneath a blazing sun?

The water below has a very dull red glow. The water level doesn't decrease any further. Wanda's a little afraid that if she tries to make it all vanish, it'll flood the streets of New York.

Wong had made reallocating what he conjured up look easy.

"I warmed the water," she says proudly and grins widely. Wanda Maximoff still looks very, very sheepish. (It beats feeling despondent.) Strange looks like a drowned rat and his cape—his poor cape—doesn't seem to be fairing any better. "There's even sand on the floor... for the crabs."

Watch your feet, Strange.

Floating above this miniature ocean, Stephen stares down past his dripping boots, and— yes, the water's clear enough that he can see the new sandy bottom over the mismatched parquet floor, and even the occasional blurry shape of a scuttling crustacean.

For a fleeting moment, he considers just tossing up his hands and giving up and leaving it be. Maybe this is just how the Sanctum looks now. They can use the side alleyway entrance to get in and out. They can tell visitors to come around the back. Maybe they can set up parasols and beach chairs and serve tropical cocktails on the landing. Wong won't mind, would he?

The cloak tugs at his shoulders and starts curling itself up, twisting and wringing out the water, and Stephen sighs. He floats over to the staircase and lands nimbly next to Wanda, and then absentmindedly kicks his feet a little, shaking off the water like a dog.

"I did appreciate it not feeling like taking a plunge into the North Sea. So you brought it all here, but haven't been able to send it back?"

"Yes," she beams. Wanda does her best to hide her sheepishness. "Kind of."

While Wanda theoretically knows she can send all of this back to where it came from, a part of her is afraid. And it's a big, huge part of her—Hex-size, really—that is a little terrified at the idea of sending it all back and accidentally doing it wrong. What if she turns the ocean inside out? What if the Sanctum collapses because of her efforts to send the ocean and its sandy bed back?

She can hear Agatha's voice rattle inside of her head. Her Hex had been as broken as she was. She worries about breaking the vast ocean that's remained dormant and somewhat left in peace for years.

"I thought I would see if I could make pieces of it disappear... like a puzzle."

"Bite-sized chunks. It's a good idea."

Stephen glances over at her. They're not deeply acquainted yet, but he's started to get a better and better sense of the woman, the more time they spend together — what with Wanda taking up residence (or sanctuary) in the Sanctum Sanctorum, burying herself in the library and trying to understand more about her magic. Adding a bit of amiable chaos, both figurative and literal, to the sorcerers' lives here. It's been nice, having the company around; she helps as a tie-breaker whenever he and Wong are squabbling over something deeply banal, like which Spotify playlist to put on in the library.

But right now, he has a fair idea that she sounds sheepish and a little hesitant. He's pretty sure he understands. Her powers are like catching lightning in a jar and then not knowing what to do with it, not wanting to bite off more than she can chew.

For all that his duties relate to maintaining balance and harmony, he isn't all that good about self-moderation. When Stephen Strange saw a challenge, he liked to chase it. When he saw power, he wanted to seize it. So perhaps it's a good thing he's not the one trying to fix this on his own; he'd probably have already flooded Greenwich Village.

He makes a decision. Shakes out his damp sleeves and rolls them up. "I'll shore up the edges of the spell, contain it in the lobby so the water doesn't spill over into the parlour or kitchen or through the front door. And then you can take a crack at it."

The man starts to concentrate, a distracted expression crossing his face as he stitches together the threads of a containment spell. He knows the Sanctum like the back of his hand. He can stabilise the foyer. He can set the stage for Wanda to carve out her puzzle pieces.

Wanda opens her mouth to protest—what would she say? "No, thank you"?—but she knows from living in the Avengers' Compound with so many men that the moment they roll up their sleeves, it's a done deal.

With Strange, she doubts he offers his magical help lightly.

She'd much prefer he simply clean up the mess. While she knows Strange can be quite messy (aren't all surgeons, past and present?), he has a sophisticated air about him that makes her want to stand a little taller and tug her shoulders back. The desire to prove herself isn't new. It's simply the equivalent of an old pair of worn shoes she hasn't dressed in for a long time.

"Okay."

That doesn't sound overly confident. If this was WandaVision, she'd rewind the tape and take another crack at it. And as tempting as it is—WandaVision: Wanda Takes Manhattan—she knows better. Has to be better. It's what she had promised herself when she chose to leave her own solitude.

Glancing at him, she doesn't roll up her sleeves to mimic him. Instead, she tries something else entirely: to somewhat be herself.

And that currently includes turning the somewhat blueish Sanctum water into a red glow.

"I want to send all the crabs away first." They, after all, are merely innocent citizens caught up in her spell.

"Can you leave behind at least one?" Stephen asks, his gaze riveted on the glowing water rather than her. "I love crab legs." Once she looks over at him, she'll be able to see a mischievous twinkle in his eye, a half-smile in the corner of his mouth. "Kidding," he adds.

His crooked, articulate fingers (once shattered, now still shaky, but capable of more than he ever expected) twitch in mid-air, sketching out the borders of the spell, continuing to pin it all safely in place for Wanda while she works. The pair of them operating in tandem, rather than one of them having to fix it alone.

He could, of course, clean it up himself. Probably. But it's no way to learn. Teach a man to fish, etc. Teach a woman how to send away all her fish. The best way of learning is by doing. Doctor Strange can be a frustrating teacher — pompous, easily-annoyed, a little too convinced of his own self-importance — but he can, at times, be a good one, too. He'd rather let her flex her muscles and get the practice.

She chuckles. Shaking her head incredulously, Wanda ensures to scoop up all the crabs and send them back to where they came from. Rather than focus on specific coordinates, she allows them to lead the way home through how they feel. She's always worked best on relying on those around her to open up to her to let her in. It's how she used to bring people's nightmares to fruition, letting them do all the work while she merely plied open the door.

"Your jokes are very unfunny," she says all while smiling. She shakes her head again as the water continues to glow and ripple. It's almost as though she's brought the Hex with her. But it does start to lower, even if it's slowly. The water doesn't rise as she had believed it to.

Glancing at him, she feels bold. "Is that why Wong doesn't have any laughing lines?"

"Wong doesn't have any laughing lines because he's a grumpy old man and absolutely zero fun." All false, of course: for all the current Sorcerer Supreme's glowering resting bitch face, Wong is actually also a riot.

Stephen watches the water roil beneath them as it sinks, attentive like an attending physician eyeing a delicate procedure. That tell-tale red glow is so very her: not just the Scarlet Witch's trademark colour, but the fact that it's also Wanda Maximoff's distinctive magical signature. Her fingerprints are all over it, and when he concentrates, he can always recognise the ripples of her presence left behind, like catching a whiff of her perfume after she's left the room.

It's been fascinating, getting to learn alongside a different magic-user with a novel and unfamiliar flair to her spells (less trained, more instinctive, more impulsive). It's not what he's used to. The Masters of the Mystic Arts — whether sorcerers, disciples, apprentices, or novices — all drew their powers from the same source, like tapping the same well, drinking the same water.

Whatever Wanda is, she's something else entirely. She's the ocean.

He shakes off those thoughts. "I think it's working," he says, a little unnecessarily, because they can both see more of the sand-strewn steps reappearing.

Pride bursts warmly in her chest. It's juvenile; she shouldn't feel proud of having accomplished what should really be a simple task. Cleaning up after oneself should be easy. It should be the first lesson anyone learns. But after the messes she created in Lagos and Westview, Wanda feels like she could lift off the floor and float happily.

She doesn't, of course. That would be entirely too distracting and absolutely not helpful at all. Although... if anyone can multitask...

She playfully scrunches up her nose. "I hope your floor isn't stained red."

Even though Wanda knows her magic doesn't leave a physical stain like paint, Strange's home is very different to the homes she's occupied in her life. It pulses in the way she thinks Westview had for Agatha. While Wanda still hasn't quite learned how to sense the specific tendrils of magic as Agatha once had, she's more attuned to it now.

"But if it is, at least something will match your cloak."

WandaVision's set designer, ladies and gentlemen.

Stephen bites back a smirk, even while the cloak puffs itself up behind him, obviously pleased at having been mentioned. "They don't appreciate redecorating here. I should know. Tinsel and pine trees and mistletoe at Christmas was highly frowned upon."

The Sanctum was a beautiful building — hardwood floors, ornate windows, antique furniture, four-poster beds — but you could practically feel the weight of all that accumulated time and history as you entered the place. The front entrance was especially built to impress, and had done so for centuries. The upper floors were roiling with ancient artefacts and magical bits-and-bobs, gathered from sorcerers over the ages. (The basement, on the other hand, was a mess. Don't go into the basement.)

"And truly, if you're worried about making a mess in general, don't be. Odds are good I've already done worse."

He wasn't the Sorcerer Supreme any of his colleagues would have chosen, and he'd practically tripped and landed facefirst into the role, and had to improvise on the fly and make the best of it under desperate circumstances. And then he'd gone and accidentally ripped open the multiverse while trying to help a kid. He and Wanda both knew a bit about making a mess.

"You have done worse?" Wanda arches her brow, smiling.

She's not distracted talking to him. In fact, it's nice to be talking about something rather than existing in concentrative silence. Fixing this little mishap is a lot easier when her mind isn't on the task at hand and how the water isn't moving at the speed she wants it to.

It is moving. Wanda feels the pressure of it beneath them begin to thin and dissipate. The ocean's slowly returning to where it had come from, possibly happy to finally be taken home.

"Have you done worse than putting a big oak tree through someone's house?" She doesn't appear demure at the thought of Westview. Uncharacteristically, she feels good about it. "That's a deleted scene in WandaVision, around episode two. I had to fix it very quickly."

"Just someone's house? You could do so much worse than a house." Try the entire universe. Or even Westview itself—

But he hasn't pried, hasn't forced Wanda to tell him everything about what happened back there. She'll talk in her own time. At the question of what he's done, Stephen tips his shoulder into a noncommittal shrug. "Mm. Buy me a drink at the Bar With No Doors and maybe I'll tell you about it."

It's not flirting, exactly — but a perpetual tongue-in-cheek flippancy which, at first blush, doesn't seem like it ought to fit with a Master of the Mystic Arts. Chalk it down to his unconventional entryway to the paranormal. He's always been a little mouthy, a little playful, even when he was gloved and bloodied and hands-deep in someone's spine in the middle of an operating room.

She'd known he hadn't been joking around about the bar. Even though she's come to know that Strange likes his dry quips every now and then, she does think that there had been an endgame in sight. Go to a bar, enjoy themselves, possibly sing very bad karaoke and either remember the tone-deafness or be granted the luxury of not remembering the other had embarrassed themselves at all.

But she can't help the trepidation she feels. New York bustles with people. It's louder than Westview, significantly noisier than her Sokovian cabin. She's still getting used to swimming in a vast sea packed with so many fish.

If he didn't trust her, she doesn't think he'd be gently pushing it.

"A glass of water will do?" She smiles, then feigns concern, "I wouldn't want to embarrass you by drinking you under the table."

"Oh, is that how it is?" Stephen's attention finally slips to the side; he cranes his head and looks at her fully, bemused. "Here I am, helping you out of the goodness of my heart, and all I get is mockery in return. The injustice."

His distraction takes its toll a moment later: down the hall, he can feel the door to the kitchen creak and whine. Some water is starting to seep through the hinges, trickling onto the tile floor. Wong is the most talented chef of the resident sorcerers; he's going to murder them all if his kitchen is ruined. So after a second, Stephen shores up the edges of the spell again, fortifying the boundaries, holds it steady once more.

It's a matter of willpower, more than anything, and he's always been bullishly good on willpower.

"Anyway, I've already been humiliated in a drinking competition, so I'm not eager for a repeat. I don't recommend going up against an Asgardian, in case you were wondering."

OPEN POST.

( THE ONLY THING I EVER WANTED. )

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must be the season of the witch.

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