The atmosphere within the mansion was shifting. The static tension of survival that the twins had carried with them from Sokovia was slowly giving way to a living rhythm. Aryan noticed it first in the small things.
Wanda smiled more now, and it was a genuine expression that bloomed when she was buried in a complex logistics file, her brow furrowed in concentration, or when she was quietly observing the silent life of the garden.
And Pietro noticed it too. He didn't say anything, but he had become a permanent fixture in doorways. He would lean against the frames with his arms crossed, his silver hair a slash of light in the shadows, his eyes tracking Wanda's every movement with a protective intensity. Every time she laughed at something Aryan said, Pietro's jaw would tighten with an audible click that Aryan could pick up from across the room. He was just a man realizing the borders of his small world were expanding beyond his control.
Wanda's mind was like dry soil drinking in a long overdue rain. She absorbed the complex systems of Umbrella with a startling grace. Corporate structures, data flow, the intricate, amoral dance of international finance and things that made seasoned executives stutter and sweat barely slowed her down.
Aryan had once walked past a glass walled conference room and seen her explaining a critical supply-chain bottleneck to a senior logistics engineer, a man with twenty years of experience. The engineer was scribbling notes as if she were a visiting professor from MIT. Pietro had been standing in the corner of the room, pretending to be fascinated by the mechanics of a fire extinguisher, but his eyes were fixed on Wanda. When she finished her explanation and a confident smile flashed across her face, Pietro had immediately looked at the floor, the tips of his ears tingeing red.
Meanwhile, Sharon had been doing her homework. She entered Aryan's office that afternoon, the data tablet in her hand held like a weapon she had finally decided not to use. Her posture had shifted from the rigid "Watchful Agent" to something more human.
"I ran the background checks," she said, her voice quiet.
"I assumed you would," Aryan replied, not looking up from the glowing analytics of Google's nascent crawlers.
"They're clean," she said. "They lost their parents to a mortar shell while they were eating dinner. Ten years old, trapped in a collapsed building for two days with an unexploded Stark Industries shell three feet from their faces. Statistically, they shouldn't have survived, Aryan."
"They are survivors, Sharon," he said, finally looking up. "That is why they are here."
She exhaled a shaky breath, the sterile facts of the report clearly having affected her. "They're just... kids who never got to be kids." She looked through the glass wall of his office, where Wanda was currently laughing at a joke Pietro had muttered under his breath. "It's good for them. Being here. Being normal." She paused, her gaze returning to him. "And it's good for you, too."
He didn't respond, turning his attention back to the screen.
"Why do I feel like you're just waiting for me to betray you?" she asked, her brow furrowed with genuine frustration.
Because in my world, and in the one before it, loyalty is a currency that devalues with every sunrise, he thought. But he only said, "Habit."
"You're lonely," she said simply, the observation landing with the quiet finality of a closing door. She left before he could offer a rebuttal.
———
Pietro's POV
Something was wrong.
Not "the world is ending in fire and screaming" wrong. This was something much more terrifying. Wanda was happy. Suspiciously happy.
She was waking up early. She was humming in the kitchen. Hummed! His sister, the woman who for the last decade had communicated primarily through grimaces, world-weary sighs and the occasional death glare, was now making musical noises before breakfast.
He began tracking the data points like a paranoid scientist.
Day Three: She laughed at something Aryan said. It wasn't even a joke. He had just said something about "market volatility," and she had reacted like he was a world class comedian. Then she turned red. End of the world: Confirmed.
Tactical Positioning: At breakfast, she was always two seats away from him. In meetings, she was angled toward him at exactly forty-five degrees, optimal for eye contact. In the garden, she was always within "conversational intercept range." This was a military grade social maneuver.
And the smiles. Before, she had rationed smiles like they were bread crusts in a famine. Now? She was handing them out like flyers for a cheap concert. He hated that he noticed. He hated that he liked seeing her looking healthy and rested. And he especially hated that Aryan was the one causing it.
He tried to find the catch. Was he flirting with her? No. And that was the most annoying part. He didn't use lines or cheap charm. He just listened. He asked her questions about her day and actually waited for the answer, his full attention on her. Once, he had brought her tea. The specific herbal blend from the Sokovian highlands that their mother used to make. Pietro had almost thrown a priceless Ming dynasty chair through the glass wall.
One night, he had watched them from the balcony. They weren't touching or whispering secrets. They were just talking, a comfortable silence stretching between them. And for some reason, that felt more dangerous than a kiss. He realized then that he had been so busy being her shield that he had forgotten she might want to put the shield down and just... be Wanda.
Then, from the garden below, Wanda laughed again, a genuine sound that carried on the night air. Against his will, Pietro felt his own mouth twitch into a smile. Just a little one.
———
That evening, Aryan sat alone in the silent library, the glow of a muted television flickering against the dark wood panelling. His mind occupied with the next phase of his digital conquest, until a single name sliced through the silence like a blade.
"...and in technology news, billionaire industrialist Tony Stark has been nominated for the prestigious Apogee Award. The star studded gala will be held this weekend at Caesars Palace, Las Vegas."
The screen showed the golden boy of a world built on gunpowder and circuit boards. He looked like a confident man at the absolute peak of his own self made mountain.
Aryan leaned forward, the remote in his hand forgotten. A slow smile spread across his face. "So," he murmured to the empty room."The first ripple has reached the surface."