[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
We navigated the labyrinth of the terminal until we found the premium check in desk for our airline. There was no line here, just a plush red carpet leading to a polished wooden counter.
A young woman in a tailored uniform was typing away at a computer terminal. Her nametag read Melissa.
"Good afternoon," I said, sliding our two heavy suitcases onto the silver scale beside the desk. "Checking in for the flight to Venice."
'The perception filter requires people to not look closely,' I looked at the audience and whispered. 'But when an airline agent literally reads your legal name and looks directly at your government issued ID... the filter breaks. Logic demands it.'
I reached into my pocket, pulling out our two passports. I slid them across the polished wood.
Melissa took the passports, opening the first one. "Certainly, sir, let me just pull up your..."
Her voice trailed off.
Melissa's eyes darted from the passport, up to my face, then over to Wanda, then back to the passport.
Her mouth fell open in a perfect 'O'.
"Oh my god," Melissa gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. She looked around the empty premium check in area as if expecting hidden cameras. "You... you are Dr. Spencer. And... and Miss Maximoff."
"Guilty as charged, Melissa," I smiled, leaning casually against the high counter. "But we are traveling incognito today. A covert mission for pasta and ancient architecture."
"I... I saw the news," Melissa stammered, her cheeks flushing a bright pink. "Everyone at the ticketing gates was talking about it that day! You saved that little boy. And... and the internet says you are the..."
"If you say 'National Husband,' I might have to cancel my flight out of pure embarrassment," I laughed, holding up a hand.
Wanda stepped up beside me, resting her arm lightly on the counter. "He gets very shy when people use his online title."
"I am not shy, I am humble," I corrected, nudging her shoulder.
"You guys are just... wow," Melissa breathed, frantically typing on her keyboard to process the luggage tags. "It is such an honor to have you flying with us today. The luggage is checked through directly to Marco Polo."
She printed the cardstock boarding passes, sliding them across the desk along with our passports.
"Dr. Spencer? Miss Maximoff?" Melissa asked, her voice dropping to a nervous whisper.
She pulled her smartphone out of her uniform pocket. "I know this is totally against protocol... and my manager would probably write me up... but could I possibly get a photo with you? My mom is your biggest fan. She cried watching the news segment."
I looked at Wanda. She wasn't annoyed.
"We would be happy to, Melissa," Wanda said softly, stepping around the side of the luggage scale.
"Come on," I said, walking around to join them. "Get the good angle. Make sure my jawline looks heroic."
Melissa giggled, holding the phone up high.
I threw my arm around Wanda's waist, pulling her close and smiled at the camera. Wanda leaned her head against my shoulder, a bright smile lighting up her face.
CLICK.
"Thank you!" Melissa squeaked, clutching the phone to her chest like a winning lottery ticket. "Your private lounge is just past security, take the elevator to the fourth floor. Have an amazing flight!"
We waved our goodbyes, heading toward the priority security lane.
"See?" I whispered to Wanda as we put our shoes back on after the metal detectors. "Fame isn't all bad. Sometimes you make a ticketing agent's day."
We found the elevators and rode them up to the fourth floor. The doors opened directly into the First Class Lounge.
It looked like the lobby of a five star hotel in Dubai.
The floors were polished marble. Ambient lighting glowed from recessed ceiling fixtures. There were massive leather sofas arranged around private glass tables.
And against the far wall was a buffet that looked like it had been catered by royalty.
"Wow," I said, stopping dead in my tracks and staring at the food. "Look at this. Look at the privilege. I booked a flight and suddenly I am elevated to the ruling class of aviation."
Wanda laughed, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from the entrance.
"I am looking at the little sandwiches," I protested, letting her drag me across the thick carpet. "Wanda, they have tiny quiches. Unlimited tiny quiches. Do you understand the caloric potential of this room?"
"You just fed a cat half a chicken and you are already hungry for tiny quiches?" she teased, pulling me toward a secluded sofa in the corner of the lounge, entirely shielded by frosted glass partitions.
"It's the principle of the thing," I argued, allowing her to push me down into the incredibly soft cushions of the sofa. "If it is free and tiny, it must be consumed."
Wanda sat down right beside me, ignoring the vast amount of space on the circular couch. She tucked her legs beneath her, leaning heavily against my side.
"You can get the tiny quiches in a minute," she murmured, resting her head on my chest and closing her eyes. "Right now, we are waiting."
I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head.
"Waiting is acceptable," I whispered. "But if they bring out the chocolate mousse, I am abandoning my post."
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
Wanda rested her cheek against the soft cotton of Aryan's t-shirt, listening to the comforting beat of his heart.
She could hear the faint clinking of silverware from across the massive room, the polite conversations of the few other passengers occupying the private suites and the soft jazz playing through the hidden speakers.
Aryan had eventually succumbed to the lure of the buffet. He had returned to the sofa five minutes ago balancing two small porcelain plates.
One contained an assortment of miniature sandwiches with no crusts and the other held a slice of cheesecake that looked like a work of art.
She watched him now, her eyes half closed.
He was delicately balancing a tiny cucumber sandwich between his thumb and forefinger, examining it with the intensity of a surgeon before popping the entire thing into his mouth.
He chewed, his eyebrows raising in approval.
"It is just cucumber and bread, Aryan," she murmured, an amused smile touching her lips.
"It is cucumber, bread and an infused dill cream cheese that tastes like pure elitism," he corrected, swallowing. "I could eat forty of these. I am going to ruin my dinner."
"You never ruin your dinner," she reminded him. "Your stomach is an endless cavern."
"A cavern of taste," he agreed, picking up another tiny sandwich.
Before he could eat it, a soft chime echoed through the lounge overhead speakers.
"Good evening, passengers. Emirates Flight 204 to Marco Polo International is now ready for priority boarding. First Class passengers, please make your way to Gate 42."
Aryan placed the tiny sandwich back onto the porcelain plate with a dramatic sigh of sacrifice.
"Duty calls," he announced, standing up and brushing nonexistent crumbs from his jeans. He offered his hand to her. "Shall we, my Queen?"
Wanda placed her hand in his, letting him pull her up from the deep cushions.
They walked out of the lounge, their hands firmly linked.
They walked down the wide concourse toward the gate. When they arrived, there was no waiting in line.
A gate agent saw their tickets and immediately unhooked the velvet rope, ushering them down a separate jet bridge that bypassed the main cabin entirely.
They stepped onto the plane.
Wanda stopped just inside the door, her breath catching in her throat.
It looked like a luxury hotel corridor. The walls were paneled in polished wood.
A flight attendant, a tall man in an immaculate beige suit, stood at attention. His nametag read Thomas.
"Welcome aboard, Dr. Spencer. Miss Maximoff," Thomas smiled warmly, bowing his head slightly. "It is an absolute pleasure to have you flying with us today. If you will follow me to Suite 1A and 1B, I will show you your accommodations."
Aryan squeezed her hand, leading her down the short aisle.
Thomas stopped in front of a pair of sliding wooden doors. He pressed a button and the doors glided open with a soft whir.
Wanda stepped inside.
She stared.
"Aryan," she whispered, her hands dropping to her sides.
It was a private room. The walls went floor to ceiling.
There were two massive leather armchairs that looked wide enough to sleep in. In front of the chairs was a polished vanity table with a pop up mirror and a massive flat screen television mounted against the bulkhead.
The windows were framed by mechanized curtains.