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Wanda doesn't know why Pietro keeps looking at her like that. Like she's a ghost or a demon. Like she isn't quite real.
He never looked at her like that when they were younger. When they would go to the fair with their father, eat cotton candy and go on the merry-go-round over and over and over again. When he would tuck them into bed and tell them stories of Cinderella and Rose Red, of their mother and how much she loved them. Pietro claims not to know what she's talking about, but he was there, she saw him.
Did she really see him?
Toad's been acting strange lately. When he doesn't think she's looking his smile drops, his eyes narrow and he looks like he's doing all he can not to scream. Did something happen at the ski resort? Did someone do something?
Do you really remember what happened?
She looks in the mirror at her blue eyes- a gift from her mother, her father used to say. Pietro denies ever hearing him say that, he says she's made it up, that it's a fantasy.
He should know better than that.
Wanda combs through her hair, feeling an odd sense of independence and relief at the action. She always seemed to get that feeling over the oddest things. Picking what she wanted to eat, deciding what to wear, going for walks on a whim. Father never forbade her from doing any of those things- it must be a part of growing up.
You know that's not true.
She shook her head and fixed her coat collar. She was Wanda Maximoff- daughter of Erik Lehnsherr and Magda Maximoff. The Scarlet Witch.
Are you sure?