Chapter Text
There's knocking at his door.
It's evidently Wanda. Because who else resides within the sanctum apart from them. But he struggles with paranoia. It remains, as does so in the usual basis that began from his line of work — Stephen checks the magically-enhanced barrier that runs the perimeter of the sanctum. It's still running. Still emitting its security of any paranormal abnormalities. So, not an intruder. Not the inhuman ones. He's skeptical over any ordinary humans entering this building. And if so, why the knocking. He opens his door and her form is shown, ready for another tentative knock.
Her expression is timid, which he hopes changes because she just woke him up.
"Um… I'm sorry, are you busy?"
He groans, rubbing tired eyes. "It's 2:15 AM in the fucking morning. What's this about?"
She finds difficulty in her response — It's unclear, unwanted. Perhaps, uncertainty is sound in every word that escapes her lips. Her hands are folded, and she moves erratically as if unsure. Obviously nervous. He exhales a breath and moves slightly away for her — lest this goes on for an hour or two whilst they stand, and he lets her in his room.
His room is every bit of Stephen — organized and messy. Books and items are appropriately placed, and some are discarded with their lack of care. Candles are placed randomly, some she realized, scented. There's a paper she sees on the ground, filled with his name poorly written. Wanda pretends to not notice it. His bed is wide, wider than hers, and he feels mildly guilty about it — he's over it the next second. Reluctantly, she sits on the couch.
Still, she remains hesitant, her hands fidget mindlessly.
"Sorry, it's stupid. And in hindsight, I should've asked you about this hours ago, or probably the next morning when you've had your rest. But, I'm here now, not sleeping because it's been in my head." Wanda babbles. She stumbles over everything, over little unrelated details. And in the middle of it, her accents are caught intertwining. If only he had proper peace, Stephen would find it entertaining. "Um… I just want to ask. If you know how to message a friend?"
His eyes fight to remain open. "Message who?"
"A friend." She states quickly, composure calming. "I know it's trivial, but my friend is probably on the other side of the earth with a phone that's been replaced more times than I can count. Do you know a spell… or like, some, mystic art to give a message?"
It reminds him of Christine, oddly. Exposed, natural feelings that slacken logical reluctance or illegitimate appearances. How real Christine smiled at the mention of someone, it's mirrored to Wanda despite certain tentative nature. How Wanda seems to follow her heart, seemingly, and not her logic. Why else does she move so restlessly. She wants something. So she comes to him.
Why now? He wonders. It's the first she requested, ever since she came. The first time she seeks him for something.
He sighs. Because who is he to deny.
"Pass me that piece of paper." He orders. "There's some on the table."
She does so automatically. Their fingers grazed, she looks surprised that he was so willing. Stephen chants unrealistic words, words he thinks she should learn. But it's something he thinks and not one that he outright says. It's a sign of respect, if anything. One hand is making signs as the other holds the blank paper before the piece turns a shade of gold. He conjures a pen effortlessly, lends both of them to her.
"Write what you want for her there. Once you've finished, just fold it and think of your friend. It'll immediately transport the paper to her."
Wanda looks down. She looks happy. Oddly, he feels it's not real. "That easy?"
"More or less, make sure you don't get the faces mixed up. Might be the real-life equivalent of sending a text to the wrong guy." He opens the door, a hand to insinuate her leave. "Now, if you'd excuse me, I'd like my nap so I can function like a human being."
She stands to leave. "Oh, and Stephen."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you." She smiles.
Her smiles hides something else. He shakes the thought away. "What friends are for."
~~~~~~~~~~
She's been staring at it.
The paper feels taunting. It's begging her to write, and admittedly, one she can't do on a whim. Because it's an inward dare to not ask the doctor about this for more than once. She decides it to be a one-time thing, and a one-way communication. It's a chance for her to pour, express — share stories that she longed to tell Natasha. It's not supposed to be exceptionally hard, and not one that should be. But, it is.
Or how she's making it hard.
Because Natasha is family. Families are forever — present during struggles. A harmonized pack, a collective bond. Wanda is the least of those.
It's one area she's consistent with — because she's never spared a chance to revert to her past. And so, Wanda skips by any effort that pushes her to become anything but ordinary. She wonders if Natasha's mad, or if the spy is rightfully valid to express herself in an upsetting manner. Too many opportunities she passed; too many chances of righting her wrong.
Natasha calls Wanda family. Wanda wonders if she's even deserving.
Then, there's Stephen. Because what does Wanda say to her regarding him. Or where she lives. Or that she's neglected her, but follows to live with a stranger.
A wizard of New York will garner some strange looks. So too will a magical doctor — more likely to bring anxiety than solace. Her kidnapper turned friend… absolutely not.
She doesn't want to write, and so she doesn't. Wanda hadn't expected to reach this point, much less. But Stephen surprised her. And she doesn't know if she should be grateful for it — because she wanted him to refuse. Only so she feels contacting Natasha becomes unnecessary.
But it didn't, and writing to her becomes all the more mandatory.
Wanda wants to sleep instead. She does so, only to forget.
~~~~~~~~~~
He's not a professional — not when it comes to eavesdropping.
By any means, not intentional, and probably never can be for his own purposes. It's a breach of privacy — no matter the snooping he does most often than not. Privacy is a concept he respects, and one trained during his moments in the hospital — that oath of sharing information to be nothing but confidentiality between patient and doctors.
But she never makes things easy. Not when she calls in the echoey hall.
It's the first he's seen her use a phone. Oddly that piece of technology almost everyone should have, yet never considered her with one. It's every day that she ups and does things without the distraction of sticking her nose inches to the screen. It puts perspective on her values with relationships — he thinks it's a first of anything he knows about her, other than what exactly describes Wanda Maximoff as a character.
Stubborn to a fault. Partly Emotional. Direct. Somber in most instances — It's a list he creates in the back of his head in the week she's been by. Supposedly, he should know her. And he does. To an extent. She keeps a lot to herself, and he thinks it correlates or is aligned with her own history. He's never privy about it.
Her panic is palpable. And when she walks in circles with distress as she hears more concerns over her phone, Stephen thinks it can barely be good. If, not at all.
It's when he thinks he should interrupt, or ask the problem. Or even be there to confront the issue because Wanda is exposing herself. He hears her mentioning her alias — her talk is concerning, but not extending to the range of catastrophic.
She's stressed, but takes it well.
There's a breath of farewell and thanks before Wanda hangs it. And it's immediate with how she looks for him because the path she goes is the direction to his room. He meets her halfway when turning the corner. She flinches when nearly bumping into him. Wanda recovers quickly.
"Hey. I know this is sudden but can I borrow you for a moment?"
Stephen pretends like he wasn't within her range seconds ago. "And this is for?"
She raises her phone in a display. "My landlord called. My apartment had issues with the water pipes and now the whole unit is flooding." Wanda tucks her phone in her pocket, face beyond annoyance with a sort of acceptance. "He called to suggest taking my things out before he claims any of them, knowing I don't live there anymore and pay rent. Can you do what you did and bring us there?"
It hits him that she never did ask for her belongings.
"You're asking me to bring your valuables now?"
She shrugs, and he wonders why she never seems to care. Or if there's anything she ever cares about at all. "They were never anything worth a lot. And I've always expected them to be left, at some point or another. But, it's not the time for that yet, so I might as well salvage some."
She's a unique one. He never was a man to judge.
~~~~~~~~~~
They both step on the foot-tall flood. She's quiet when witnessing the aftermath of her ruined interiors, vastly shocked and immensely sorrowful.
She meant her words — none were off the mark. But it's a year she spent inhabiting her condo — making it hers officially. Marking her own home of cherishable memories she wishes to grow old in, maintains comfort in, and maybe, conceive something new. It's her own world, in ruins and distraught.
Her eyes reminisce, and nostalgia hits. And she seems to look in the distance, as a trait he notices her do on an average basis. The place carries her idea of staying average, included in society. He hears her huff quietly.
"Welcome to my humble home."
He scowls over the flooding. The boots were brand-new. "Had it not been for the emerging water, I'd say your place looks beautiful."
"It was more of a place to stay than a home." She confesses, palm dragging across her marble slab of a table. "But, it was fun while it lasted."
"Tell me which are still salvageable." Stephen refocuses, proceeding to manifest boxes with a turn of simple hand gestures.
"Anything dry is good enough." She leaves her phone unsecured on the table, then points at the single sofa, drenched in murky water. "Trash or no?"
"It's leather. The material is more likely ruined by this point."
She agrees, looking at him like he'd pointed the obvious. Wanda shakes her head, then proceeds to tread to her unused bedroom. Arms crossed, and she peeks inside, assessing the damage he can't see himself. Stephen opts to put decors inside the boxes, rather than staying impractical throughout. It starts with her accessories — she owns nothing more than some rings settled in a jewelry box. Its condition is rustic, somehow barely noticeable. Then there's the case of her books, undeniably her source of entertainment. It's thoroughly wet, and a bit harder to repair — he mentally notes to fix it if she'd ask for a spell. Stephen inspects the fridge curiously. It was a mistake when a rotting scent permeated the air.
She comes back to him, hands full of her clothing. It gives her more options with the expansion of her wardrobe, rather than the robes and only the robes he'd handpicked for her from Kamar-Taj. She drops them in a vacant box.
The chiming rings in a sudden — her phone vibrates violently as it lightens. The numbers pop with the shaking circle, the sentence below states to drag it upwards to receive the call. She picks it up hurriedly.
He ignores it entirely because he just minds his own business. Her call was short-lived, barely a minute, mostly the other side screaming. Stephen sees that her phone display is still showing, there's an atrocious quality image she'd picked as her home screen. But it looks to be a figure, male. It surprises him because it's a first look at what relationship she has outside the sanctum. Outside her own self-secluded life.
"What was that call about?" He asked when he should have continued minding his own business.
"Landlord." She breathes out the title like it's poison. "Just wanted to make sure the message gets crossed. Aggressively."
"Speaking of those," he closes one filled box. "Did you send that letter?"
She avoids looking at him. "Honestly. I stored the paper."
He raises a brow, doubting at her words but believing it too. "Next time, I'm setting up soundproof walls. Because I don't want the next time happening at my needed sleep schedule." His hand works at taping the box. There's a fleeting moment that he sees her focus shift towards it before meeting his gaze again. "What happened?"
Her expression looks defeated. It's those looks of surrendering a battle. "I don't know. I'm not ready, I guess."
"Not ready for what exactly?"
"For everything." She states strongly. There's a shelf outside her peripheral that he sees tremble slightly. He ignores it almost. "There are too many things happening one after the other. And I don't know what to say because it just feels suffocating. I feel like I was just floating in the pool, calm. Now it feels like I'm drowning in the ocean."
Stephen stores the box away, opening another box to fill it anew. He contemplates before speaking. "Then, maybe you can talk to him about that. It's a feeling. It's something."
"Him?" She asks, thinking to who he's referring.
"Your friend," He points, signalling the phone and the picture. "The guy on your screen?"
She looks sunken, all immediately after the mention. Wanda looks to have taken a blow, hard and agonizing. It shocks him with her audible, sorrow-filled gasp. It's in an instant how close to a state of hyperventilation she was until she relaxes inevitably. He regrets asking.
"No, no. He's… he's a twin."
She looks suffered as she presses on. "A dead one. His name is Pietro."
He feels the air escaping his lungs. And it's as if he stepped on landmines, ready in detonation. It's a territory not yet ready to be explored, or delved, all due to the raw emotions still lingering with causes to hurt. As a sad reminder. A tragic past. Painful memories.
He finally breathes, feeling capable of talking. "I'm sorry. For your loss."
She nods. He doesn't know if it's acceptance, or her forceful motion to fake a sentiment. "Yeah."
They don't speak more.
~~~~~~~~~~
Wanda says she should have asked him for more favours when they entered her plain room. He… doesn't know how to respond about it, because he carries the boxes with his own magic. He said he'd help, not be a butler.
Of course, she's joking.
"You should learn magic."
He brings it up abruptly. There's melancholy that splashes her face in the split second before she straightens, back polished, and deals it like a joke. Or something of amusement. Because she's made it clear. Verbally clear. Physically clear she has a distaste of her own potential. She scoffs at him, cutting open the first box that lands in her room.
"And you should smile more, doc." She brings out her pillow that she throws to her bed.
"I'm serious." He states assuredly.
"I'm serious too, doc. Keep that look and your crease will stay as wrinkles." Wanda calls him with titles. It's a cautionary move, to say she's pissed without exposing it. Or disappointed. Either way, unhappy.
But she keeps her irritation mild, controlled. Because those are things she can.
Stephen says these things as suggestions. Offers he thinks she should consider than outright shun them. Dent her walls, at the very least.
He asks her this, "Then what would you recommend doing?"
She blinks, her answer straightforward. "Nothing." She hangs her clothing inside the closet, her library of clothes expanding than simple robes he picked out from Kamar-Taj. "Or we can go and extract my powers from inside my body, if that's an option."
He doesn't miss the small plea from her line, wishing it was an option. It's not. Probably won't be.
"Nothing else?"
"We've been doing what you told me to do. I live here for who knows how long it will be." She says it harshly, a tad too aggressive. Unintentionally. "It's not ideal, but I don't mind the circumstances," Wanda admits. It's at least a person she can talk to. Or one to stop an evil she is not adequate to handle solely.
He's a safety measure, more or less.
Stephen drops the last of her boxes. "If you need anything else, I'll be in my study."
She hums. He takes it as she understands.