the west wing has learned their rhythm by now, the way the air tightens when sheās near, the way tony doesnāt bother pretending he doesnāt know before she speaks. he doesnāt turn right away. he never does. instead, he choses to let her presence settle, let the moment stretch until itās almost rude. almost intimate. ā you know, ā he says finally, voice low, amused, threaded with something sharper beneath it, ā most fugitives donāt announce themselves like theyāre walking back into a staff meeting they forgot to calendar. ā a pause. then, softer, warmer. ā missed you, too, sweetheart. ā he turns then, and there it is, that familiar look, equal parts admiration and trouble. wanda has always been a variable he refused to solve, not because he couldnāt, but because some equations are better leftā¦ interesting. ā you picked one hell of a glow-down, ā he adds, eyes flicking over her like a habit he never bothered breaking. ā press secretary to national ghost. the captain's close to losing it. ā but the joke doesnāt land clean. it never does with her, because beneath the banter is the truth humming between them, electric and unresolved. ā you shouldnāt be here, ā he says, not a warning : a confession. ā you could get hurt. someone could see you. ā he steps closer, close enough to feel the heat of her magic like a held breath, close enough that the mask slips just a little. ā they think i buried you, wanda, that i kept you tidied up and neat, professional even. ā a crooked smile, dangerous in its sincerity. ā what they donāt know is i never could stand unfinished business. ā his gaze holds hers now, steady, unflinching. ā so tell me, why are you back? did you think you could get away with your little mistake? ā a beat, deliberate. ā or did you just miss arguing with me at two in the morning like this was foreplay? ā @nexusbeing
