[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
The word Europe echoed in her mind like a beautiful song.
She had traveled before, of course. With the Avengers. But that was always for missions. It was always running toward a fight, or running away from a disaster.
She had never traveled just to see.
And to do it with Aryan? To walk down cobblestone streets holding his hand, without looking over her shoulder for Hayward or the media? It sounded like a dream.
"When are we going?" she asked, pulling her hands back and clasping them together in excitement. "Next month? In the spring?"
Aryan chuckled, reaching into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out his smartphone.
"Let's see," he said, tapping the screen with his thumb. "Let me just check the flight schedules."
Wanda watched him, amused by his sudden efficiency.
"Okay," Aryan muttered, his eyes scanning the screen. "Newark to Marco Polo Airport in Venice... direct flight... two first class seats available."
He tapped the screen three times.
"Booked," he announced, looking up at her with a triumphant grin.
"Booked?" Wanda repeated, blinking. "For when?"
"Tomorrow," Aryan said, sliding the phone back into his pocket. "Flight leaves at 4:00 PM. We should probably leave the house around noon to beat the traffic."
Wanda stared at him.
"Tomorrow?!" she shrieked, jumping off the barstool.
"Yeah," Aryan nodded, looking slightly confused by her reaction. "Tomorrow. Carpe diem and all that."
"Aryan!" Wanda threw her hands up in the air, pacing across the kitchen floor. "Are you insane? We cannot leave for Europe tomorrow!"
"Why not?" he asked, leaning back on his stool and crossing his arms. "I just paid for a gondola ride in advance. It's non refundable."
"Because I have nothing packed!" she cried out, gesturing wildly to herself. "I have no luggage prepared! We have less than twenty four hours!"
"Wanda, relax," he laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "What do we really need to pack? We grab some jeans, a few t-shirts, a toothbrush and toothpaste. We throw it in a duffel bag and we go. If we need anything else, we buy it in Italy. They have stores in Europe, I checked."
Wanda stopped pacing. She turned slowly to face him, her hands falling to her hips. She gave him a look that could have melted vibranium.
"You have absolutely no idea what you are talking about," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerously calm octave.
"I'm a minimalist," he defended, holding his hands up in surrender.
"You are a man," she corrected fiercely. "You think a 'trip' requires one pair of shoes and a single sweater. Do you know what a woman requires for a multi city European tour spanning different climates and social expectations?"
Aryan leaned his chin on his hand, looking incredibly amused. "Please, enlighten me. What am I missing?"
Wanda took a deep breath, raising her fingers to count them off.
"Day moisturizer," she started. "Night cream. SPF for the walking tours. Hydrating serum for the dry airplane air. Shampoo that does not make my hair frizz in the Venetian humidity. Conditioner. Heat protectant."
Aryan's eyes widened slightly. "Okay, so a small pharmacy. Got it."
"I am not finished," she snapped playfully. "Walking shoes for the cobblestones in Prague. Nice heels for the dinners in London. Boots for Germany. Day dresses. Evening wear. Jackets. Undergarments. Makeup. Adapters for the electrical outlets. An umbrella. A travel steamer because hotel irons destroy delicate fabrics."
She took a breath, dropping her hands. "And I cannot throw that into a duffel bag, Aryan."
Aryan stared at her for a long moment, his mouth slightly open. He slowly closed his mouth, swallowing hard.
"Okay," he said, his voice quiet. "I retract my previous statement. I was entirely ignorant of the logistical nightmare that is your suitcase."
He stood up from the stool, walking over to her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him, a massive grin breaking across his face.
"In that case," he laughed, looking down at her, "we might as well just pack the entire house. Should I call a moving truck? Do you want to bring the sofa? Or just the refrigerator?"
Wanda burst into laughter, resting her forehead against his chest.
"You are terrible," she giggled, slapping his shoulder lightly.
"I am learning," he corrected, kissing the top of her head. "I now know that European travel requires a heat protectant."
He pulled back, taking her hand in his.
"Come on," he said, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Let's go face the nightmare. To S&M Suite!"
She laughed, letting him drag her out of the kitchen.
They ran up the stairs together, hand in hand, bursting into the master bedroom.
Aryan walked straight to the closet, throwing the double doors open wide. He pulled two massive suitcases from the top shelf, dropping them onto the center of the bed with a heavy thud.
"Alright, General," Aryan said, standing at attention and giving her a mock salute. "The suitcases are empty."
Wanda walked over to the bed, looking at the two empty voids. She felt a sudden surge of adrenaline.
"Okay," she said, slipping into planning mode. "Open my side of the closet. We start with the base layers."
Aryan marched to the closet, sliding the hangers along the rack.
"Base layers," he muttered, pulling out a handful of her folded t-shirts and soft sweaters. He walked back to the bed, tossing them onto the mattress.
"Do not just throw them!" Wanda gasped, rushing forward to catch a delicate silk blouse before it wrinkled. "They must be rolled. If you fold them, they crease."
"Rolling," Aryan noted, watching her carefully as she took a sweater, tucked the sleeves in and rolled it into a neat cylinder. "Fascinating. It's like making a clothing burrito."
"It saves space," she explained, placing the rolled sweater into the corner of her suitcase. "Now you. Roll your shirts."
Aryan went to his side of the closet. He pulled out a stack of basic white t-shirts. He tossed them onto his side of the bed. He picked one up, folded it in half and rolled it into a messy lump. He tossed it into his suitcase.
Wanda stared at the lump.
"Aryan," she said, pointing a condemning finger at his suitcase. "What is that?"
"It's a burrito," he defended.
"It is a disaster," she corrected, walking over to his side of the bed. She picked up the shirt, unrolled it and smoothed it flat. "Watch."
She folded the sleeves inward with precise movements, then rolled it tightly from the bottom up. She placed the perfect cylinder into his suitcase.
"See?" she asked, looking up at him.
Aryan wasn't looking at the suitcase. He was looking down at her, his eyes dark and entirely focused on her mouth.
"I'm trying," he whispered, his voice dropping to that husky register that made her breath catch. "But my instructor is highly distracting."
Wanda felt her cheeks heat up. She tried to step back, but Aryan reached out, catching her by the waist.
He lifted her.
"Aryan!" she gasped.
He hoisted her up, sitting her directly on the edge of the bed, right between the two open suitcases. He stepped between her knees, crowding into her space, resting his hands flat on the mattress on either side of her hips.
"You know," he murmured, leaning in until their noses brushed. "I read somewhere that packing is the leading cause of stress in relationships."
"We are not stressed," she breathed, her hands coming up to rest on his shoulders.
"I am," he lied, kissing her lips. "I am very stressed about the heat protectant. I think I need... a medical intervention to calm my nerves."
Wanda laughed, tilting her head back to give him access to her neck. He pressed a kiss just below her jawline, making her shiver despite the warmth of the room.
"You are avoiding packing your trousers," she accused weakly, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
"Trousers are a construct," he muttered against her skin, his hands sliding up from the mattress to grip her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. "I'll buy trousers in Italy. Right now, I am busy."
He captured her lips in a deep kiss. Wanda kissed him back fiercely, her hands pulling him closer, entirely forgetting about the pile of unfolded clothes surrounding them on the bed.
They stayed like that for several long minutes, lost in each other amidst the chaos of open luggage, the European itinerary completely abandoned for the immediate reality of the room.
When Aryan finally pulled back, they were both breathing heavily. He rested his forehead against hers, a lazy smile on his face.
"Okay," he whispered, swiping his thumb across her lower lip. "I am sufficiently de-stressed. Where were we?"
Wanda looked past his shoulder at the messy pile of clothes on his side of the bed. Her eyes landed on a worn out grey hoodie with a frayed string.
Her romantic haze vanished instantly.
"We were discussing your wardrobe," she said, pointing over his shoulder. "And that... that abomination is not coming to Paris."
Aryan turned around, following her finger. He pressed a hand to his chest in mock horror.
"That is my lucky hoodie!" he defended, reaching out to grab the worn fabric. "It has emotional significance! It has been with me through thick and thin!"
"It has a hole in the elbow, Aryan," Wanda deadpanned. "And a stain on the pocket. It is staying in New Jersey."
"You are ruthless," he mourned, clutching the hoodie to his chest. "You are stripping me of my identity."
"I am saving you from the judgment of the French," she corrected, sliding off the bed and taking the hoodie from his hands. She tossed it onto the armchair across the room. "Now. Bring me your sweaters. We are going to roll them properly."
Aryan let out a theatrical sigh, dropping his head in defeat.
"Yes, ma'am," he grumbled, turning back to the closet.