1965-02-01 - Elephant in the Room
Summary: And bread theft!
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
pietro wanda 


What has the Lower East Side got that the rest of the city doesn't? A bakery that sells good sourdough bread, mostly. That's one thing that Wanda eats large amounts of, bread, and unlike Katz's Deli, she does not have to look at all the things impossible for her to devour and absorb without serious repercussions. Magic does not play nice when forcing a girl to abide by its rules, alas.

She nonetheless has her precious sliced loaf and one of those pieces vanishes, inhaled into the brunette's mouth. Mmm, bread.

It was about then when a piece of bread jut had a bite out of the corner. One. Who gives a woman a loaf wihth a missing piece?! And where did the piece of baklava manifest from!? One source. Someone stupid or confident enough to risk life and limb messing with Wanda's snack. There was no one there until there was, with a samdwi- half a sand-… a second sandwich. Someone was hungry and that someone licking the mustard off his thumb was one Pietro Maximoff. A Pietro in cableknit navy sweater, jeans, running shoes, and a scarf, and… blue earmuffs? Well there you go.

Baklava, that great honeyed treat, ever so wise to provide to Wanda. The offense of stealing a witch's food — and a partly Rom witch at that — is severe. Who dares? Really, who wants to be the one on the receiving end of the glare and the oscillating fortunosphere reacting poorly to the damaging impact done? Eyes narrow fractionally and the rolling amber shines brilliant in its dangerous abandon. Half a sandwich, a stolen bit of bread, these equate to displeasure slowly, thoroughly rising. Pietro has his own immense store of energy to keep up… and his sister does, too, without the speed of being so quick witted and quick… everything, except rational. She chews on the sourdough very, very slowly, paper-thin restraint buckling in the worst of ways. "I should bite you." Transian, of course.

The other Rom in the room is who. But not without bringing something better. Did he take the danger seriously? Oh paramount, but in stride still. He ate his sammich, pt. 2, and left her to her loaf of break and the newly procured desert answering her light for like in tongue. A shake of his head and a put-on pained look of disappointment, <"I wouldn't. You don't know where I've been but it is nice to see you missed me."> His eyes scanned and took in ever square inch of the place. He decided in the fraction of assessment he didn't hate it. <"I met Steve-o. That one huh?"> Not to quesiton her judgement, but merely expressing some curiosity at this reserving any judgements for now.

The other Rom in the street is this close to being skinned alive, at least for the reasons aforementioned. After she eats. Things may be somewhat trifling until then, and the enormity of hunger caused by her dramatic spellcasting metabolism reduced. Diminishing returns aren't a bad thing, all said and done, once she chews through the soft, doughy interior of the slice and polishes off the harder, crustier exterior. The difference requires a fair bit of jaw-jawing; not as the British could call it, but really, it's all satisfactory. Nom. She polishes the corner of her lips with her tongue, goodbye crumb. "«I do.»" The blunt assessment comes without a smile, but then when does she smile? Is laughter so common in their life? Never. "«He is mine.»" This is a statement of fact borne out by the fact her left hand bears witness to.

Pietro seemed satisfied withthe answer. His lifelong quest seeking personal entertainmentand taking little seriously came from staving off boredom, not to bring joy. They were alike in that stoic regard. He took a long time to process her answer, though he accepted its truth immediately. Woe be to those that would question the twins' competency in knowing their own mind from both they and the other. A deep breath followed. Another quarter of the sandwich was just gone. At long last the taller twin nodded «"Then… it is so."» He looked around the seemingly lazy street of New York around them and quint at it. «"We spoke."» There was a faint lift to the words chosen indicating that there may have been some amusement at Strange's expense. «"I am… confident enough he knows what he needs to understand."» Not that he understood it yet, but as calculated as the words were? He could be on board with that choice. Had Pietro had actual disagreement the world would hear of it, and certainly she.

The young woman brushes her fingertips against the bag holding her bread and, now, baklava. Mustn't look too opportunistic, right? She slowly bites the end of the dessert, allowing the flaky pastry and honey to melt together into a delightful melange of pure evil. Mmm, forbidden food. Nothing quite like savouring a whole bit of Greek sweetness, allowing the melting flakes to accumulate like so much gold dust on her tongue and evaporate with a swallow. Something powerful in that, the purely delicious alternative begs to be spared its ultimate doom for later, lengthy appreciation. Not so much at the moment, though, where the streets are far from fair. She languishes in that bliss for but a moment or two. Pietro acknowledging and identifying the simple reality that she has more jewelry is certainly something that goes with an edge to it, her stillness so contrary to his dynamic rush around the city, life itself. Yet they both throb with those particular beats of the earth, heart's blood spilled in their making and the hour now. "«What is that?»" A simple question, flung easily, a graceful inquiry that goes for a punch.

Pietro took his time with his answer, which was ironic for how very impatient he was. He knew she knew the answer he'd give her, but as she was inclined to ask he was inclined, finally, to answer simply, «"What is important. Perhaps what 'family' means? Time will show this. But, so far? He seems to hold up."» Sometimes trust was not enough and he needed to see for himself because the importance of such was paramount. Pale eyes turned back to har, eyebrow archingwith a shrug of a half shoulder that seemed to convey, yes of course I scrutinized him. Perhaps with a tone of irony, «For this? I come back from Canada.» No it was for her, chiefly for himsef, and also because of their father were he actually accurate in that statement. But now this whih sounded much cooler and with more gravitas!

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