Wanda stares at him with a crinkled brow. He moves, and she sits still. She often liked to mimic those around her, consciously and unconsciously parroting their movements in real-time. It's how she learned to walk with confidence, like Pietro, and hold her coffee, like Natasha. It's how she perfected her American accent, and even worked on her Brooklyn one while listening and echoing Steve.

She doesn't try to mimic Strange now.

Is it a trap? Would accepting this invitation prove to him that she is still a danger to those around her? If she accepts, he can— What? Inform everyone he invited her to read his mind, she did, and therefore conclude she is evil? Strange is not a storyteller. He reads bodies; he understands the fundamentals from textbooks and experience of cutting people open. He is nothing like her when it comes to weaving great tales that could be real.

Wanda doesn't get up from where she sits, not wishing to spook him.

She doesn't know why she does it. Lifting her hand, she curls her fingers into her palm but her index and middle, and presses those two against her temple as she looks at him. Her eyes don't glow red; she isn't interested in puppeteering him. It's meant to be akin to skating along the surface of a thick layer of ice.

She's too nervous. She doesn't approach it with the ease she's used to. But there's resistance that isn't in the form of any mental barrier he's erected. What was once a seamless slither feels like trudging through a thick bog. But Wanda persists.

He's afraid. Wanda doesn't need telepathy to know that.