[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
She watched his eyelids flutter shut, the long lashes resting against his cheekbones. He looked so trusting, sitting there on the sofa, willingly surrendering his sight to her.
She stepped forward, placing her hands gently over his closed eyes, her fingertips resting against his temples. His skin was warm, his pulse beating steadily beneath her touch.
"No peeking, Aryan," she whispered, stepping around to stand behind him.
"I am in total darkness," he promised, his voice a low rumble. "Lead the way, my Queen."
She kept her hands over his eyes, leaning down so her chest brushed against his back. "Stand up. Slowly."
Aryan groaned, pushing himself up from the sofa. He wobbled slightly, his hands reaching out to grasp her forearms for balance.
"Step to the left," she instructed, walking slowly behind him, guiding his steps. "Now forward. One, two, three."
"I feel like I'm walking a plank," he joked, his hands sliding down her arms to hold her wrists.
She guided him down the hallway.
The scent of the house changed as they approached the closed door. The smell of the vanilla candles from the living room faded into the clean scent of lemon wood polish and old paper.
She reached out with one hand, turning the brass knob of the library door and pushed it open with her hip.
She guided him into the center of the room.
The evening light had faded, but she had turned on the two small brass reading lamps mounted on the walls. They cast pools of golden light directly onto her work.
"Okay," she whispered, her heart suddenly beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She was nervous. What if he thought it was strange?
"Can I open them now?" he asked, his hands squeezing her wrists gently. "The suspense is terrible. It's bad for my blood pressure."
"Yes," she said, her voice barely a breath.
She pulled her hands away from his face, stepping back a single pace.
Aryan opened his eyes.
He blinked against the sudden light, his gaze adjusting to the room.
And then, he saw the wall.
He stood perfectly still. His hands fell to his sides.
Wanda watched his back, her breath caught in her throat. She looked at the gallery she had built. The five black frames arranged perfectly between the tall oak bookshelves.
In the center, bathed in the golden light of the lamp, was the large collage: LOCAL HEROES SAVE LIFE. Power Couple of Westview. The grainy photo of him doing compressions in the mud.
To the left, the clipping praising his medical genius at Johns Hopkins. To the right, the photo of them laughing at the party.
Aryan took a slow step forward.
"Wanda," he breathed, his voice cracking.
He walked right up to the wall, his eyes tracking over every single frame, every single cut out headline.
He raised his hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he hovered them over the glass of the center frame.
"You... you bought the papers," he whispered.
"All of them," she said softly, taking a step toward him.
Aryan turned his head to look at her. His dark eyes were swimming, glassy with an emotion that was so completely stripped of his usual defenses, it made her chest ache.
"You cut them out," he said, looking back at the wall. "You framed them."
"I wanted proof," she said, her voice thick. She walked up beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder. "For so long, the news only said I was a monster. They said I caused pain. But today..."
She reached out, touching the glass over the photo of him.
"Today, they said we saved a life. They said you are a hero, Aryan. And they are right. You are my hero. And I wanted to make sure that we never forget it."
Aryan let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. He ran a hand roughly over his face, scrubbing at his eyes.
"A hero," he repeated, the word catching in his throat.
He turned fully toward her. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest with a crushing strength. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his broad shoulders shaking slightly.
Wanda wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him just as tightly. She could feel the dampness of his tears against her skin.
"It is beautiful, isn't it?" she whispered, stroking his hair.
"It is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me," he choked out, his voice muffled against her collarbone. "Wanda... you have no idea. You have no idea what this means to me."
'He had a room full of ghosts upstairs,' she thought, closing her eyes and resting her cheek against his temple. 'But this room... this room is for the living.'
They stood there for a long time, bathed in the golden light of the lamps, holding each other.
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
I couldn't speak for a solid five minutes.
If I tried to open my mouth, I was going to ugly cry and I refused to do that. I had a reputation to maintain.
I pulled back finally, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand, giving her a brilliant smile.
"Okay," I sniffed, clearing my throat loudly. "Okay. You win. You absolutely win the 'Best Roommate/Girlfriend/Surprise Planner' award for the century. I don't even have a trophy to give you."
Wanda laughed, wiping a stray tear from her own eye. "I do not need a trophy."
I turned back to the frames. It was immaculate. She had used chaos magic to fuse the paper to the backing… I could feel the faint residue of the red energy.
I glanced over my shoulder, finding the 'lens' hovering near the doorway.
'Are you looking at this?' I asked you, my internal voice fiercely proud. 'She built this. I am the luckiest son of a bitch in the multiverse.'
"Well," I said, clapping my hands together to break the heavy emotion. "If we are discussing incomplete walls, we have a massive problem sitting in the living room."
Wanda's eyes widened, the sorrow washing away entirely. "The photos!"
"The photos," I confirmed, grabbing her hand. "Come on. It's unboxing time. Let's see if Stan's artistic vision matches yours."
We practically ran back to the living room.
The heavy frame was still resting against the sofa. I knelt down on the rug in front of it. Wanda dropped down to her knees right beside me, her shoulder pressing into mine.
"You do the honors," I said, gesturing to the thick brown paper. "Tear it open."
She reached out, her fingers catching the edge of the paper where Stan had taped it. She pulled.
Riiiiiiip.
The sound of the thick paper tearing was incredibly satisfying. She pulled back a large flap, exposing the dark mahogany wood of the frame.
"Oh, it is heavy wood," she murmured, tracing the grain.
"Stan doesn't mess around," I agreed. "Keep going. Rip the center."
She dug her fingers into the middle of the paper and pulled with both hands. The paper tore away in a jagged circle, falling to the floor.
We both went completely still.
It was the freestyle shot.
The dip.
Stan had printed it massive… at least twenty four by thirty six inches. The quality was staggering. The dark grey background of the studio had vanished into velvety blackness, making us pop out of the frame.
There I was, in the charcoal suit, my feet planted wide, holding her waist as I dipped her backward. My face was turned in profile, looking down at her with an expression of such raw devotion that it actually startled me to see it captured on film.
And Wanda...
Wanda was radiant. Her head was thrown back, the emerald satin of her dress shimmering in the studio lights. Her throat was exposed, her eyes squeezed shut in the middle of a full laugh. Her hair was captured in mid air, a halo of auburn fire.
It looked like a stolen second of pure joy.
PS: Come on guys, we just need 72 more Power Stones for another bonus chapter. Let's push it, haha.
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