Chapter Text
“What do you want that I should tell you, Matthew?”
The Scarlet Witch’s gravelly voice, offset by a silken pour of tea that smelled of wet earth and herbs, brought Matt back to his senses with difficulty. The faint odor of old books and wood polish joined in the fray of distractions along with the traffic from outside; a truck backing up into an alley far too small for it, to say nothing of disputes between cyclists and motorists alongside pedestrian chatter.
Dust lingered on his tongue as the lawyer awkwardly shifted in place, hands furling around the head of his cane. It was a sunny day in late March, between trials [to say nothing of the tribulations interspersed between said trials], and; directionless, here he was, somewhere he swore he’d never go.
A few blocks shy of the furthest he’d been so far, and inside the shop of a woman known for…well, for lack of a better term, witchcraft.
It went against every Catholic predisposition he had, standing here in her store. Some old-fashioned concept of belief that almost felt like it had no place in the world they currently occupied - the city alone oversaturated with unique gifts; abilities, powers. He’d been told that she; Wanda, was capable of rewriting reality with a twitch of her fingers, but -
“You’re nervous.” The hoarse, accented voice cut in gently once more. Ceramic clinked against ceramic against wood as she set down a cup and saucer, the small; round table by the window covered only in a runner of what sounded like thick velvet. “You don’t have to be.” Matt’s mouth moved; a faint and apologetic smile.
“Sorry,” he murmured, moving toward the table at last, cane sweeping gingerly out in front of himself - practiced habit. He wondered whether or not the Witch could see through him, given what she could [allegedly] do otherwise. “Force of habit. I’m not usually this far outside my ah. Chosen radius.”
“You make it sound like you have an ankle monitor,” Wanda said, and Matt caught the scent of lavender and lemon as a basket of baked goods - scones? - joined the tea on the table.
“Not anymore,” he joked, and heard the faint hum of her mirth in reply. At least she found him funny.
Usually, that was half the battle.
“Me neither,” Wanda said, and the moment sobered quickly. Of course he recalled the news - previously held on a ship far out at sea; some sort of floating prison where her powers had been suppressed. Tongue against the roof of his mouth, apology dying on his tongue, the lawyer merely nodded as he felt across the edge of the table, seating himself with care.
“It must be nice,” he said finally, folding up the cane to set it aside for the time being. “Starting over.”
“Oh, I have started over many times in my life, Matthew Murdock.” Jingling jewelry - a headdress? - and swishing fabric settled in across from him, bringing with the motion perfume of a kind; more of those herbs and spices, something like wine. He could tell her smile was wry as Wanda added, “what’s one more?”
“I’ll drink to that,” Matt offered, half-smiling in reply, and, reaching out, lifted the tea cup for emphasis. “This isn’t going to turn me into a frog, now, is it?”
“Of course not,” said the Witch, sounding affronted. “If I wanted to do that, I wouldn’t need to put a spell in your cup.” Matt swallowed the mouthful of scalding rooibos with a cough. “I’m joking. I do not transfigure my guests unless they ask me.” Wanda lifted her cup likewise, murmuring: “... usually ,” as an afterthought just before taking a sip.
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Matt huffed, setting the tea back down. Someone laid on their horn outside, followed by an angry exchange of muffled voices. Sun streaked through the window, leaving a hot line across the table between himself and the woman he’d come to see.
“I uh. Promised to not take up too much of your time,” Matt recalled, inhaling a little too sharply, one hand lifting to smooth over his tie. He listened to her heart; steady and quiet, but profoundly strong as the shopkeeper - former terrorist, former Avenger, former many things - savored her next sip of tea. “I was just told you were the person to…speak to. For something like this.”
“Something like what, exactly?” Another tinkle of music followed as Wanda lowered her cup, bangles jostling together over slim wrists. Patchouli and lavender lingered together as Matt swallowed, still tasting earthen tea and honey on his tongue, a welcome exchange for the dust that’d coated it earlier.
“There’s been - fractures, recently. In Midtown.” Wanda waited expectantly. Matt took another breath. “People reporting…nightmares; dreams coming to life. Some speculate it’s another…Blip–” his stomach somersaulted uneasily at the thought, and one hand lifted to quickly scrub at his own face, agitated. “But - different.” Still Wanda said nothing.
Sitting forward a little; undoing the button of his suit-jacket, Matt lowered his voice, adding: “they’re saying it’s like…tears in reality. A little beyond what I’m used to dealing with, but–”
“You’ve encountered one directly,” Wanda guessed, her voice flat; matter-of-fact. Matt stilled, lips pressing together; uncertain. Wanda nodded, fingers tapping pointed nails against porcelain. “I suspected as much.”
“Do you know what they are? Are they…”
“Tears in reality? Yes,” Wanda explained, still calm as ever. Before Matt could follow up, Wanda reached for him - a too-warm hand closing tenderly over his own.
“Tell me,” she said - voice overlain with… something, some vibration Matt couldn’t make heads or tails of. It felt like -
The closest his brain could conjure was when he’d stopped by the cathedral on a lunch break and heard the way a harpist plucked at their instrument. Amidst the bustle and drone of the crowd, the reverb of the string felt like it reached inside of him, pulled on the chord of his spine and drew him to attention.
In that way, Wanda had her hand on his insides, plucking; slowly, softly. It pulled his mouth open, that gesture; loosened his tongue, until -
“There’s - a man who keeps…calling out my name.” Why? Why was he telling her this? Wasn’t this why you came? “I don’t - I don’t know him, but–” it was when he was masked. When he was - Daredevil , and nobody but Foggy and Karen knew, so -
“What does he sound like? Your man,” Wanda inquired, and Matt wanted to break away from her, to tell her that this was not “his” man, but -
“His voice is - is nice.” Matt’s mouth twitched, almost smiling, feeling - wrong. “It’s…soft. Tenor; maybe baritone. Scratchy, like…yours; but - closer to the way a needle finds a vinyl groove. Just…before the music plays.” The strange sensation of tingling in his mouth returned, and Matt finally managed to twitch his fingers, recoiling back in his seat .”What’s–”
“When you hear him, what else is there?” Wanda leaned across the table, chasing after him. The sunlight felt too warm, her gaze on him almost a physical thing in kind. “Tell me.”
“It’s - cold.” Matt’s chest rose and fell; just short of frantic - short of breath. “Cold like I’ve never felt before. Not -”
“And does he sound happy to see you? Angry?” Matt thought of the last time he’d heard the voice - through that cold gash in the sky, under the stars, adjacent to the water tower on the roof where he’d lain bleeding from the latest brush with death. Joy that turned to terror. Excitement to panic.
“He sounds…” Matt stalled out, then, quite suddenly, drew back - sharp and abrupt in his seat. “What the fuck are you doing to me?”
For a moment, Wanda merely sat motionless, her hands still outstretched. Matt became aware of the fact that he could no longer hear the street. The shop had become serenely quiet. Not even the sound of Wanda’s jewelry remained. It was a total submersion of the senses. Disoriented, terrified, Matt tried to turn, but couldn’t - frozen where he was, heart still beating uncontrollably.
“I can take you to him,” Wanda offered up lightly as she withdrew - not into her seat, Matt realized, but somewhere further; away. “If you want me to. Or rather, you can take me to him. I don’t know who he is, but if we find him together–”
“I don’t want to find him,” Matt said tightly, one hand feeling around for his cane.
“Oh, I think that you do,” Wanda said, smile back in place, voice as reassured as ever. Matt’s throat tightened.
“I just came here for answers. For my neighborhood, for–”
“For other people? Yes, I know. I know all about you, Matthew.” Cold sweat prickled under the collar of his shirt. “Just like I know you want answers of your own, but think you don’t deserve them, hm? A servant of the people.” A waft of her perfume closed in around him as Wanda shifted something around, turned some metallic dial -
Or perhaps that was the sound of her abilities; given the way static suddenly sparked on his skin, prickling uneasily.
“But I think we can help each other, if you won’t help yourself. You see, I am looking for something,” Wanda said, matter-of-fact and calm. Matt placed a hand on the table, trying in vain to get a handle on his surroundings. “I have been looking for something,” the Witch continued. “Something that I think has been finding you more easily than me. So you will guide me there, and I will let you find out for yourself what all of this means.”
“You did this,” Matt said faintly, loosening the edge of his tie. “You - made all this happen?”
He felt, rather than heard, this time; the smile in her voice.
“Oh Matthew,” Wanda said softly, “
you’re
the one who answered. I only opened the door.”