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The Sanctum did not look the way Wanda had imagined.
There were no looming shadows or arcane symbols etched into every surface, no sense of spectacle waiting to unfold. Instead, the space felt… lived in. Warm wood, worn rugs, shelves lined with books that looked well loved rather than for display only. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, catching speckles of dust in its path and giving the room a domestic softness.
The mug of tea was warm in the redhead’s hands, comfortably hot - the kind of warmth that seeped slowly into her bones and stayed there. She wrapped her fingers around the ceramic and let herself focus on that sensation, on the weight of it, and the faint texture beneath her thumbs. Steam curled upward in lazy spirals, carrying the faint scent of herbs she couldn’t immediately name. She breathed it in, steadying herself. It was ordinary in a way that felt almost disorienting after everything that had led them here.
Across from her, Pietro’s mug sat untouched on the table, steam thinning as he watched Strange, one elbow hooked casually over the arm of the chair, body angled just enough to keep his twin in his peripheral vision.
“You don’t have to drink it,” Strange said mildly, lifting his own cup to his lips. “It’s just tea.” Pietro’s jaw tightened.
“You invited us into your magical house. Forgive me if I don’t trust the refreshments.”
A corner of Strange’s mouth twitched, seemingly stopping himself from smirking.
“Healthy skepticism. Keep that.” He took a sip. “But the tea is exactly what it appears to be.”
Wanda hesitated, but nonetheless raised the mug to her mouth after watching the older man drink from his own cup. The tea was a mild chamomile, soothing, and her shoulders lowered by a fraction.
“You’re less tense,” He said, not unkindly, simply just taking notice of her change in demeanor, how she had settled. She peered over the rim of her mug at him, only noticing how she was feeling after he had called attention to it.
“It’s quiet.” The redhead stated, glancing down at her hands, half-expecting to see that faint red shimmer curling between her fingers, but there was nothing. Just skin, steady and unmarked. “Maybe it’s the tea.” Strange set his cup down carefully on the table beside him.
“The Sanctum dampens magical resonance. Think of it like insulation. Magic still exists, but it doesn’t echo the way it does out there.” He nodded toward the window, toward the city beyond. “Here, it’s contained.” Wanda’s grip tightened around the mug.
“Contained like… trapped?” Strange met her gaze, understanding instantly that he had struck a nerve. “You said this place was a choice,” Wanda stated, almost accusatory.
“It is. No wards are holding you here. No spells binding you. You walked in. You can walk out.” He reassured, before continuing his previous statement. “Contained like a storm behind glass. You can see it, study it, learn its patterns - without it tearing everything in its path apart.” Pietro leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees.
“So this place is a leash on her powers.”
“A seatbelt,” Strange corrected calmly. “You can still crash without one. You just don’t survive it as often.”
“You’re very blunt,” He said, scowling.
“I’m very tired of euphemisms,” The older man replied. “They get people hurt.”
The room settled into a brief, weighted silence after that.
Wanda stared into her tea, watching the surface ripple faintly as her grip shifted. A storm behind glass. The image lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable, uninvited. She didn’t know whether it made her feel safer or smaller.
“And what happens,” she asked quietly, “If the glass breaks?”
Strange didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled loosely, considering her with the same careful attention he’d shown since the moment they’d met. He was choosing his next words wisely.
“Then we deal with it,” He said at last. “Together. But it won’t if you learn how to reinforce it.”
“That’s a very calm thing to say when you’re not the one living it.”
The sorcerer’s gaze shifted to him, steady and unoffended.
“You’re right. I’m not.” A beat. “But I am the one who’s cleaned up what happens when people with power like hers are left alone with it.”
Wanda’s hands tightened around the mug again, heat pressing into her palms. “You keep saying learn,” she said. “What does that actually mean?”
“It means taking note of what your magic is responding to,” Strange replied. “Fear. Anger. Loss. You’ve been forcing it down, trying to smother it. That only makes it push back harder.”
She swallowed. That felt uncomfortably close to the truth.
“And if she can’t?” Pietro asked. “If it’s too much?”
Strange didn’t dodge the question. “Then we slow down. Or we stop. This isn’t about turning her into something useful. It’s about making sure she stays herself.”
The word lingered in the air longer than anything else he’d said. If she were being honest, she couldn’t remember the last time she had truly felt like herself. She rested her mug on the table, the warmth still lingering on her skin.
“I don’t even know where to start,” she said softly. “It feels… too much sometimes. Like it’s slipping away from me.”
“Then we begin with small things. Recognizing patterns. Learning what triggers it, and what calms it. Not forcing it, not hiding it, just noticing.”
Wanda’s fingers flexed, no longer anchored to the ceramic. She felt the pull of her own magic beneath the surface, faint but steady, contained in this space. It didn’t tremble, it didn’t lash out. For the first time in months, it simply was.
“Noticing,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “That… I can do.” Strange inclined his head, as though satisfied with the quiet resolve that had settled over the room. Wanda lifted her mug again, inhaling the gentle scent, letting the warmth seep fully into her palms and through her chest. She could see Pietro out of the corner of her eye finally taking a tentative sip of his own tea, the tension in his posture slightly eased.
“Good. Then we’ll start with where you are, not where you think you should be.” Strange took one last sip of his tea before rising to his feet, the quiet authority in his movements signaling the end of the small reprieve.
“Come,” he said. “I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”
Setting down their mugs, the twins followed the older man up the winding staircase and through corridors lined with shelves crammed with books, jars of herbs, and small artifacts that glittered faintly in the sunlight. The mundane comfort of it all - the soft light, the quiet order - was disorienting after weeks of running, hiding, and surviving.
Strange paused outside a door, gesturing, and Wanda stepped inside. The room was modest - a neatly made bed rested in the center, a small desk by the window held a single chair tucked neatly beneath it, and another door suggested a private bathroom just beyond. Sunlight poured in through the window, scattering across the floor in gentle, warm patterns.
“I know it’s not much,” Strange stated, lingering at the threshold. “But I hope you’ll find it comfortable,” Wanda’s fingers brushed along the quilt as she approached the bed, and she paused, taking it in, before looking up at Strange.
“It’s… nice,” She replied, her voice soft, almost disbelieving.
“You may ward it if you like, it’s yours.” Wanda blinked, caught off guard by the quiet weight behind his words.
“I’ve never had one before,” She confessed, almost to herself. Strange tilted his head, studying her expression, uncertain of what she was referring to.
“An ensuite?”
“My own room.” Wanda clarified, letting the words hang in the sunlit space. For a moment, the concept felt foreign. She could feel the contrast between this modest room and the cramped, shared spaces she and Pietro had been forced to occupy for so long. She’d never had something to call her own - not when she and her brother had shared a room under Sinister’s watchful eye, not when survival demanded constant vigilance. The realization made her chest tighten, a mixture of awe and something fragile she didn’t want to name.
The walls didn’t close in, the floor didn’t creak under hidden dangers, and no one had the right to tell her where she could or couldn’t be.
Strange’s gaze softened, as if he could sense the depth of that realization. Only now, seeing her sit on the bed in quiet wonder, did he remember just how young she actually was - and how much the pair had been forced to carry alone up until this point. He cleared his throat softly, breaking the silence that had fallen over them.
“I’m going to show Pietro to his room - he won’t be far, only a few doors down.” He explained, nodding toward the hallway. His tone carried the same calm authority he’d maintained all morning, but also something gentler, patient, almost protective.
Wanda looked up at him, and for the first time since they’d arrived, she allowed herself a faint, grateful smile. The simple gesture felt heavier than she expected, carrying a sense of relief she hadn’t realized she’d been holding at bay.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice soft but earnest.
Strange inclined his head, acknowledging her words with quiet solemnity. For a moment, he remained in the doorway, as if checking one last time that she was truly alright, before turning. His coat brushed lightly against the floorboards, the sound unusually loud in the stillness, and he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Wanda alone with the warmth of the sunlight, the quiet of her new room, and a strange, delicate sense of safety she hadn’t felt in years.
There were no looming shadows or arcane symbols etched into every surface, no sense of spectacle waiting to unfold. Instead, the space felt… lived in. Warm wood, worn rugs, shelves lined with books that looked well loved rather than for display only. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, catching speckles of dust in its path and giving the room a domestic softness.
The mug of tea was warm in the redhead’s hands, comfortably hot - the kind of warmth that seeped slowly into her bones and stayed there. She wrapped her fingers around the ceramic and let herself focus on that sensation, on the weight of it, and the faint texture beneath her thumbs. Steam curled upward in lazy spirals, carrying the faint scent of herbs she couldn’t immediately name. She breathed it in, steadying herself. It was ordinary in a way that felt almost disorienting after everything that had led them here.
Across from her, Pietro’s mug sat untouched on the table, steam thinning as he watched Strange, one elbow hooked casually over the arm of the chair, body angled just enough to keep his twin in his peripheral vision.
“You don’t have to drink it,” Strange said mildly, lifting his own cup to his lips. “It’s just tea.” Pietro’s jaw tightened.
“You invited us into your magical house. Forgive me if I don’t trust the refreshments.”
A corner of Strange’s mouth twitched, seemingly stopping himself from smirking.
“Healthy skepticism. Keep that.” He took a sip. “But the tea is exactly what it appears to be.”
Wanda hesitated, but nonetheless raised the mug to her mouth after watching the older man drink from his own cup. The tea was a mild chamomile, soothing, and her shoulders lowered by a fraction.
“You’re less tense,” He said, not unkindly, simply just taking notice of her change in demeanor, how she had settled. She peered over the rim of her mug at him, only noticing how she was feeling after he had called attention to it.
“It’s quiet.” The redhead stated, glancing down at her hands, half-expecting to see that faint red shimmer curling between her fingers, but there was nothing. Just skin, steady and unmarked. “Maybe it’s the tea.” Strange set his cup down carefully on the table beside him.
“The Sanctum dampens magical resonance. Think of it like insulation. Magic still exists, but it doesn’t echo the way it does out there.” He nodded toward the window, toward the city beyond. “Here, it’s contained.” Wanda’s grip tightened around the mug.
“Contained like… trapped?” Strange met her gaze, understanding instantly that he had struck a nerve. “You said this place was a choice,” Wanda stated, almost accusatory.
“It is. No wards are holding you here. No spells binding you. You walked in. You can walk out.” He reassured, before continuing his previous statement. “Contained like a storm behind glass. You can see it, study it, learn its patterns - without it tearing everything in its path apart.” Pietro leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees.
“So this place is a leash on her powers.”
“A seatbelt,” Strange corrected calmly. “You can still crash without one. You just don’t survive it as often.”
“You’re very blunt,” He said, scowling.
“I’m very tired of euphemisms,” The older man replied. “They get people hurt.”
The room settled into a brief, weighted silence after that.
Wanda stared into her tea, watching the surface ripple faintly as her grip shifted. A storm behind glass. The image lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable, uninvited. She didn’t know whether it made her feel safer or smaller.
“And what happens,” she asked quietly, “If the glass breaks?”
Strange didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled loosely, considering her with the same careful attention he’d shown since the moment they’d met. He was choosing his next words wisely.
“Then we deal with it,” He said at last. “Together. But it won’t if you learn how to reinforce it.”
“That’s a very calm thing to say when you’re not the one living it.”
The sorcerer’s gaze shifted to him, steady and unoffended.
“You’re right. I’m not.” A beat. “But I am the one who’s cleaned up what happens when people with power like hers are left alone with it.”
Wanda’s hands tightened around the mug again, heat pressing into her palms. “You keep saying learn,” she said. “What does that actually mean?”
“It means taking note of what your magic is responding to,” Strange replied. “Fear. Anger. Loss. You’ve been forcing it down, trying to smother it. That only makes it push back harder.”
She swallowed. That felt uncomfortably close to the truth.
“And if she can’t?” Pietro asked. “If it’s too much?”
Strange didn’t dodge the question. “Then we slow down. Or we stop. This isn’t about turning her into something useful. It’s about making sure she stays herself.”
The word lingered in the air longer than anything else he’d said. If she were being honest, she couldn’t remember the last time she had truly felt like herself. She rested her mug on the table, the warmth still lingering on her skin.
“I don’t even know where to start,” she said softly. “It feels… too much sometimes. Like it’s slipping away from me.”
“Then we begin with small things. Recognizing patterns. Learning what triggers it, and what calms it. Not forcing it, not hiding it, just noticing.”
Wanda’s fingers flexed, no longer anchored to the ceramic. She felt the pull of her own magic beneath the surface, faint but steady, contained in this space. It didn’t tremble, it didn’t lash out. For the first time in months, it simply was.
“Noticing,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “That… I can do.” Strange inclined his head, as though satisfied with the quiet resolve that had settled over the room. Wanda lifted her mug again, inhaling the gentle scent, letting the warmth seep fully into her palms and through her chest. She could see Pietro out of the corner of her eye finally taking a tentative sip of his own tea, the tension in his posture slightly eased.
“Good. Then we’ll start with where you are, not where you think you should be.” Strange took one last sip of his tea before rising to his feet, the quiet authority in his movements signaling the end of the small reprieve.
“Come,” he said. “I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”
Setting down their mugs, the twins followed the older man up the winding staircase and through corridors lined with shelves crammed with books, jars of herbs, and small artifacts that glittered faintly in the sunlight. The mundane comfort of it all - the soft light, the quiet order - was disorienting after weeks of running, hiding, and surviving.
Strange paused outside a door, gesturing, and Wanda stepped inside. The room was modest - a neatly made bed rested in the center, a small desk by the window held a single chair tucked neatly beneath it, and another door suggested a private bathroom just beyond. Sunlight poured in through the window, scattering across the floor in gentle, warm patterns.
“I know it’s not much,” Strange stated, lingering at the threshold. “But I hope you’ll find it comfortable,” Wanda’s fingers brushed along the quilt as she approached the bed, and she paused, taking it in, before looking up at Strange.
“It’s… nice,” She replied, her voice soft, almost disbelieving.
“You may ward it if you like, it’s yours.” Wanda blinked, caught off guard by the quiet weight behind his words.
“I’ve never had one before,” She confessed, almost to herself. Strange tilted his head, studying her expression, uncertain of what she was referring to.
“An ensuite?”
“My own room.” Wanda clarified, letting the words hang in the sunlit space. For a moment, the concept felt foreign. She could feel the contrast between this modest room and the cramped, shared spaces she and Pietro had been forced to occupy for so long. She’d never had something to call her own - not when she and her brother had shared a room under Sinister’s watchful eye, not when survival demanded constant vigilance. The realization made her chest tighten, a mixture of awe and something fragile she didn’t want to name.
The walls didn’t close in, the floor didn’t creak under hidden dangers, and no one had the right to tell her where she could or couldn’t be.
Strange’s gaze softened, as if he could sense the depth of that realization. Only now, seeing her sit on the bed in quiet wonder, did he remember just how young she actually was - and how much the pair had been forced to carry alone up until this point. He cleared his throat softly, breaking the silence that had fallen over them.
“I’m going to show Pietro to his room - he won’t be far, only a few doors down.” He explained, nodding toward the hallway. His tone carried the same calm authority he’d maintained all morning, but also something gentler, patient, almost protective.
Wanda looked up at him, and for the first time since they’d arrived, she allowed herself a faint, grateful smile. The simple gesture felt heavier than she expected, carrying a sense of relief she hadn’t realized she’d been holding at bay.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice soft but earnest.
Strange inclined his head, acknowledging her words with quiet solemnity. For a moment, he remained in the doorway, as if checking one last time that she was truly alright, before turning. His coat brushed lightly against the floorboards, the sound unusually loud in the stillness, and he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Wanda alone with the warmth of the sunlight, the quiet of her new room, and a strange, delicate sense of safety she hadn’t felt in years.
