[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
The music had stopped.
I wasn't sure when. Maybe five minutes ago? Maybe an hour? Time is a wobbly concept when you're a reality bender, but it's even wobblier when you're holding a woman who smells like rain and cherries.
We were standing in the middle of the living room. My hand was still resting on the small of her waist, her hand was still curled around the back of my neck, playing with the short hairs there. We were swaying, just barely, to the ghost of a melody that had long since faded into silence.
I looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, her forehead resting against my chin. She looked peaceful.
Look at this. Just look at it. I am currently hugging the Scarlet Witch in a living room in New Jersey and neither of us wants to let go. If I die right now, put this on my tombstone: "Here lies Aryan. He died happy and very, very warm."
I tightened my hold just a fraction, pulling her flush against me. I could feel the beat of her heart through the layers of our clothes.
Thump thump (him).
Thump thump (her).
It was syncing with mine.
"Wanda," I whispered, my voice sounding rough in the quiet room.
"Mmm?" she hummed, not opening her eyes.
"The song ended."
"I know," she murmured into my shirt.
"We're just... standing here."
"I know," she repeated, a smile audible in her voice.
"My legs are starting to fall asleep," I lied. "It's a medical condition. Stationary limb paralysis."
She laughed, a low vibration against my chest. She pulled back slowly, opening her eyes. The green in them was bright, flecked with gold from the setting sun streaming through the window.
"You and your medical conditions," she teased, but she didn't step away. She just loosened her grip, her hands sliding down from my neck to rest on my chest.
I looked at the window. The rain had stopped. The sky was a bruised purple, the sun dipping below the horizon.
"It's 5 PM," I noted, glancing at the clock on the wall. "We danced through the afternoon."
"Time well spent," she said softly.
"We should..." I hesitated. I didn't want to break the contact. "We should get some air. Before we fuse together permanently. As much as I would enjoy being a two headed entity, finding shirts would be a nightmare."
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Wanda smiled, finally stepping back. The loss of warmth was immediate.
"A walk," she agreed. "The rain has stopped. It should be peaceful."
"Peaceful," I echoed. "I like peaceful."
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
She watched him walk to the coat rack.
Her body still hummed with the phantom pressure of his arms. It was a strange sensation… feeling held even when she was standing alone.
She grabbed her coat… the long trench coat that matched the scarf she was still wearing.
"Ready?" Aryan asked, holding the door open.
"Ready," she said.
They stepped out onto the porch. The air was scrubbed clean by the rain. Puddles reflected the streetlamps that were just starting to flicker on.
They walked down the driveway.
Wanda looked at his hand. It was swinging by his side, brushing against his thigh.
She saw his fingers twitch. He moved his hand an inch toward hers. Then he pulled it back. Then he moved it again.
He was doing the calculation again.
He is clumsy, she thought fondly. And he cannot figure out how to hold a hand.
She decided to put him out of his misery.
She reached out. She slid her hand into his, lacing their fingers together.
Aryan jumped slightly, looking down at their joined hands like she had just performed a magic trick.
"Oh," he said. "Hi."
"Hi," she smiled, swinging their arms gently. "You were struggling, Aryan. It was painful to watch."
He let out a huff of laughter, squeezing her hand tight. "I wasn't struggling. I was... calibrating. Wind resistance. And Velocity. Hand holding is complex physics."
"It is grabbing," she corrected. "And holding. This is how it is done."
"Show off," he grumbled, but he pulled her closer as they walked. "Okay, fine. You're the expert."
They walked down the street. It was quiet. The wet pavement shone like obsidian.
"Look at the hydrangeas," Aryan pointed out as they passed a neighbor's yard. "They're drowning. Over watering. Amateur mistake."
"Not everyone has your touch, Plant Whisperer," Wanda teased.
"True. Sir Drinks a Lot has set a high standard."
They turned the corner.
"It is nice," Wanda said, looking at the rows of houses with their warm windows. "To just... walk. Without looking over your shoulder."
"That's the Westview promise," Aryan said. "Boring. And safe."
They walked for another block, enjoying the rhythm of their footsteps.
"HELP!"
The scream tore through the evening air.
"That came from the park," he said, his voice dropping all humor. "Come on."
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
We rounded the corner to the small community park. A crowd had already gathered near the swing set. Maybe ten people. They were panicked, shouting over each other.
"Call 911!"
"Is he breathing?"
"Oh god, look at his face!"
I pushed through the crowd. And I broke into the center of the circle.
A woman… maybe late twenties, wearing a raincoat was on her knees in the wet grass. She was clutching a baby. A boy. Maybe a year old.
She was shaking him.
"He's not breathing!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face. "He swallowed something! Help him!"
I dropped to my knees beside her.
"I'm a doctor," I said. My voice was calm. It cut through her panic like a knife. "Let me check."
She thrust the child into my arms.
The baby was limp.
I looked at his face.
Blue.
His lips were cyanotic.
His fingernails were grey.
Total obstruction, my brain cataloged. Hypoxia setting in. Time is zero.
I laid the baby on his back on the flat ground. I placed two fingers (index and middle) on the center of his chest, just below the nipple line.
"One, two, three... twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty," I counted aloud, pressing down firmly, about an inch and a half deep.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
I paused, checked the mouth, but saw nothing I could reach safely without causing damage.
The mother was sobbing behind me. "Please! Please save him!"
