An angsty Quicksilver/Scarlet Witch oneshot set in the Marvel Noir universe (specifically X-Men Noir), where Pietro and Wanda Maximoff are Peter and Wanda Magnus, children of Eric Magnus, Chief Detective of the NYPD, in the late 1930's. Believe it or not, there is implied twincest. Plot-wise, nothing actually happens.
I definitely do not own Quicksilver and Scarlet Witch, even if like three different film studios do, or any of the other characters. They're all Marvel properties.
He walked down the stairs quickly, and came to a light stop on the dark landing as he heard her key turn in the stubborn lock. The door opened and in the light of the street lamps outside, he saw her wave at a silhouette in the cab. It didn't look familiar.
"Wanda," he said.
"Jesus, Peter!" She laughed, as he stepped towards her out of the shadow.
"Who was that?" he asked. She fluttered past him further into the hall, and he shut the heavy front door behind her. He locked it—their father wouldn't have, even she wouldn't have—like he always did.
A standing lamp turned on at Wanda's flighty touch, and diffused a soft glow that cast strange shadows on her smiling face. He stepped closer to her, searching that sly smile. She was like their father in that way: her face never gave anything away if she didn't want it to. Unlike their father though, she chose to hide little from Peter.
"You should stop waiting up for me," she said, ignoring his question and shrugging off her heavy fur coat into his waiting hands. "I'm quite alright. You worry too much."
"What was wrong with him?" he asked, hanging up her coat and ignoring her comment. She slipped off her shoes and lightly turned onto the stairs. She was right, of course. He always worried, too often. But he couldn't not stay up. He'd never see her otherwise.
"Oh, you know, he was an idiot," Wanda said with a laugh, watching him from the stairs, smiling as he came close. Standing on the step above him, she reached out with slender fingers, running them through his shock-white hair. She slowly brushed the crease between his eyebrows with her fingertips, the ghostly frown of an eternal scowler. Her gaze melted into vague melancholy, and his bright blue eyes watched her. Her fingers stopped; his breath momentarily hitched. Her eyes, bright blue, snapped back to meet his, and with a sigh, she patted his cheek and loosened his tie. "I was tired, Peter."
He reached up and brushed an unruly auburn curl out of her made-up face. "Did you find him at LeBeau's?"
Wanda laughed and grasped her brother's hand with her own, leaning her face close to his. "Are you interrogating me, Detective?"
"Don't mock me, Wanda," he complained. She grinned and pulled on his hand like they were children again, and they ran up the groaning stairs, her holding the hem of her red dress around her knees and him, the track star, at a leisurely lope behind her tripping skip, both laughing at the tortured creaking of the wood beneath their feet.
She stumbled on the last step and in an instant he was there, holding her up gently, one foot on the last step, the other on the landing. Her tense body relaxed in his embrace. She rested her head on his shoulder, her cheek pressed to the warmth of his shoulder. Her soft hair brushed his face, her muted scent and the tremulous, floral note of her perfume caressing his senses. Her hands grasped gently at his arms, the touch of her fingers hot as pokers through silk shirt sleeves on the skin beneath. The soft, rounded curves of her body rested and pressed comfortably against the support of her brother's lean, tall body, the tough, muscular body of an athlete. One of his hands stroked her long, dark hair, and the other rested ever so gently on her waist, his fingers only tentatively touching the red silk masking her skin.
"That was unlucky," she murmured, closing her eyes. Her grasp on her brother's arms tightened for a slight moment as she held herself against him, inhaling the scent she'd known much longer than she could remember, a scent that had remained steadfast, unchanging, even across seas, always there for her, there in a heartbeat and a flash. A scent undisturbed by the musky undercurrent that puberty had brought, as pure today as twenty years ago.
"Yeah," he finally said, his voice rumbling in his throat where her ear was gently pressed. His hand left its comforting strokes in her hair and touched her shoulder lightly. "Come on," he whispered, pulling away. "I think we left the light on downstairs."
"Right," she nodded, her eyes opening and shifting to the ground. Her body shivered slightly in the sudden cool, and she hugged her own bare shoulders. Still she didn't look up at him, at the bright blue eyes identical in color, if not in shape, to her own.
"I'll go get it," he said quietly, looking at her, wishing she'd look back at him. He touched her hand on her shoulder and grasped at her fingers.
"Good night, Peter," she said, letting his hand slip from hers. She brushed her hair behind her ear and smoothed her dress. She turned, and went the few steps to her room.
"I guess I won't see you in the morning, Wanda?" he asked, but her door had already clicked shut in a flurry of red silk and dark hair. She'd be asleep until long after he'd left for the station. "Goodnight, sister," he said, and went downstairs to get the light.
"Hey, your Highness! Peter!"
"What, Freddy?" said Peter, shutting the restroom door behind him. He adjusted his suspenders and strode over to his desk.
The big man, his partner, was standing over by the door. It was open a crack. "Your sister's here, Peter," Fred Dukes said.
Peter glanced at his watch; ten past five. He knew the time and he knew his sister, and he knew what she wanted now. "I'll be heading out then," he said, picking up his suit jacket from the back of his chair.
"Go ahead, your Highness," Dukes said, with a barely perceptible smirk on his fat, heavy face.
For a moment Peter looked at his partner, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. Then he looked down, the scowl undiminished. Throwing on the grey jacket and pulling straight the lapels, he walked briskly to the door. He couldn't help but hear the occasional chuckle, the mocking royal title thrown in disdainful sniggers. A muscle in his cheek twitched in a momentary grimace, but he focused on the door.
Crown prince. Junior. That floozy.
That last one was not about him. He turned and glanced over the room of coppers—two-faced bastards, sycophants, rats, the lot of them, they didn't deserve to even think of Wanda—but Dukes grabbed his arm with his pudgy fat fingers like sausage rolls and directed him to the door. Anger welled sharply for a moment, but Dukes glared warningly at him. Peter's teeth settled into an accustomed clench.
"Goodnight, Peter. Evenin', Ms. Magnus," Dukes said, tipped his bowler and pushed the door further open.
Peter looked angrily over his shoulder again, but his spiteful stare was stopped by the looming shoulder of the massive Dukes. "See you tomorrow, Freddy," Peter said sharply, the words bitter on his tongue, and turned to see his sister watching him from the corridor, the slightest of smiles on her lips. His frown deepened.
"You want me to take you to the casino again?" he said as the door shut behind him.
She waited until he came closer to take his coat and hat from the wall. She was leaning against it next to the coat rack, hand on hip, her hair spilling rebelliously over her red-clad shoulders and the notice board behind in sleek, tight curls. Longer than was strictly fashionable, but Wanda was like her hair. Untameable. Also spoiled and pampered, always their father's favorite.
He pulled on the trench coat and gloves drawn from the pockets, glancing up at her. She stepped towards him and swept her gloved hands onto his shoulders, peering up at his face with her sly smile and her head cocked slightly to the side, her eyes almost mocking. "Well, Detective, if you would be so kind?"
"You shouldn't go so often. Gives you a bad rap," Peter said, grabbing her wrists quickly with his hands, stepping closer to her.
She stepped away, her hands slipping through his loose grasp, and laughed. "Oh darling, you worry too much. Take me, Peter," she said, grasping his arm. She dragged him down the corridor, and he cast a last glance back at the musty door of the Homicide office.
Wanda hailed a cab as soon as they reached the edge of the pavement, raising her arm in the felt red coat, her long fingers in the brown leather gloves waving regally in the air. A black one stopped before them almost immediately, and Peter opened the door for his sister to slip in. He saw her long coat part as her nylon-clad legs arched, one by one, over the threshold of the car door, each red leather heel settling down comfortably in the car. She slid languorously along the leather seating and he ducked in beside her with a great deal less ceremony; he barely paused to palm his fedora from his head.
The driver looked back over his shoulder as Peter slammed shut the door; his eyes roved over Wanda as she sat distractedly looking out the window at the darkness already settling outside, and lingered on the smooth arch of neck visible between borders of hair and scarlet coat collar.
"To the Creole Club, please," said Peter. The driver nodded and turned away, but Peter could feel his gaze through the rear-view mirror, the hesitation at the white hair, the symmetrical subtle cowlicks like owl's tufts and the angular planes of a face covered with the smooth fat and naivety of youth. There was a break in the traffic, the gaze was gone, and the cab began to move.
Wanda glanced over at her brother as she crossed her legs, and watched him settle down in his seat, smoothing down his tan trench coat like a preening cat. "You should try a violet coat like father, it might suit you," she said. She smirked at his indignant smolder, and turned away to glance at her reflection in the window. Light from the traffic passed in slow horizontal blurs slicing through the curves of her face, an outline softer than her father or brother's, gentler, framed by dark hair spilling everywhere. Like her mother, she supposed. She doubted though, that her mother had smeared such bright red lipstick or lined her eyes with such smoky color to catch her father's eye.
"We're here," the driver said, gruffly. She yawned slightly as Peter stepped out and stooped to help her out. Again the nylons appeared from her heavy coat, flashing teasingly up to the knee as she gracefully stood. Peter leaned back in with a handful of bills—ever surreptitious, more like a petty thief passing a bribe than a police officer, and the son of the Chief of Detectives—while she stood on the curb under the neon glow of the Creole Club's overhead signs.
Peter ducked back out again and slammed the door. He neatly placed his fedora on his head and offered his arm to his sister, who took it. He was still scowling, and she still smirked. She patted his shoulder and leaned close to his ear as they walked towards the door. "Don't frown so, Peter, you look like father," she whispered, and flashed one of the doormen a smile.
"I'm not happy to be here, sister," he said quietly in return, not looking at her, as the doorman pulled the door open for them. In silence, he passed his coat, then his sister's, to the man at the wardrobe. Then the hat, then his gloves, then her gloves.
"Even with me, brother?" she asked, as she leaned closer to him and they passed through the entrance. "Not enough of your Princetonian prigs around, darling?" She held onto his arm and stuck close to him as he made his way straight toward the bar, navigating as far from the gambling tables as he possibly could. She smiled and smirked and smoldered at the other patron, over her shoulder, over her brother's shoulder, at every table. Perhaps Peter was right, perhaps she came here a little too often.
"Wanda, dear!" the loud exclamation turned her head, and she saw the big party at the biggest card table. She raised her free hand in a delighted wave, and let go of her brother. Peter was watching, alarm and disdain both clearly sketched on his face—she hated that about him, he hadn't a clue how to hide anything, he'd always given everything away with that painfully innocent face and those lost, dreaming eyes—and she slipped her hand free, flushed of care.
"Peter darling," she said, glancing only distractedly at her brother, "go on ahead to the bar, I'll join you in a moment."
She left him with confident strides in her red heels, and he stood still for a moment. Dazed as he was, it was only a short moment; his wits were back fast enough. He turned and went to the bar as she said. For another brief moment he looked over the drinks. "Just soda," he said, and distractedly looked back at his sister.
"Prohibition is over, sir," the bartender said. Peter turned to look at the man, who wore his best sympathetic face. He probably thought Wanda was his girl.
"Yeah," Peter nodded. He hadn't been old enough to drink during Prohibition anyway, not that he'd wanted to. He had the track then. "Scotch, then."
"I'll make you a highball then, sir," the bartender said.
"Yeah, that'll be good. Thanks," said Peter, and leaned back against the counter.
He couldn't watch her, he hated it. He hated the way she debased herself, the way she let the hem of her black dress rise to flash a calf thinly veiled in stockings, the way her slender hands touched shoulders and arms and the way she held her hand to her mouth when she laughed. That wasn't Wanda. She walked between the men at cards and giggled over their shoulders at their hands, whispered plays in their ears and complimented them on their bow ties and fanned the smoke of their cigars. Her finger traced the rim of a martini glass, then the loop of a loose curl tumbling over her shoulder.
"Here you go, sir," the bartender said, and Peter grimly turned back to the counter, his eyes fixated down. He looked at the tall glass and nodded at the barman in thanks. He held the glass up to his lips and propped his elbows on the smooth countertop, closing his eyes. He could feel the frown settled immovably in the crease between his eyebrows. He took a long, slow sip of the drink. He hated how fiery it was.
He was about to put it down when a familiar voice, dripping unpleasantly with French, caught his attention: "Oh, Monsieur Magnus le petit! What an honor to have you here, mon ami."
"Mr. LeBeau," said Peter, put down the drink, and held out his hand.
The Cajun passed a card from one hand to the other and shook Peter's with his right. "Please, call me Rémy, mon prince."
"My name is Peter," said Peter, and picked up his glass again.
"Of course, Detective," laughed the casino owner. He put down his long pipe and lighter on the counter. "I didn't know you drank, Peter."
Peter drank the Scotch and soda. It burned his throat, and he resisted the urge to cough. "I do," he said.
Rémy smiled and nodded. He picked up his lighter and turned it on, watched the red flame flicker, and turned it back off. He turned around, placing his back to the counter, and looked over at Wanda.
"Some piece of work, ta soeur, no? Trop belle," he said. "Girl acts like her she get a reputation, you understand, mon ami?"
Peter put down the tall glass with a loud clink and turned to Rémy, stepping towards the smug man in the cream suit. He felt a little flushed, but more than that he felt angry. "Don't you dare speak filth of my sister, LeBeau," he said, his voice rising. "Don't you dare."
"Now, now, monsieur, please," said Rémy gravely, but Peter could tell he was repressing laughter; his eyes seemed to flash in the light. "I meant no ill. Have another Scotch, Peter." Rémy waved at the barman and tapped Peter on the elbow. "Bon soir, Monsieur Magnus."
Again his teeth were clenched. Peter could feel them pressing. He knew it was bad for the enamel, Wanda always told him that. He glanced at her again, and looked away just as soon. The way she was leaning in over that fat mobster, how could she? How could she let herself down like that? He quickly took the highball the barman passed him and drank fast. Shaking his head, he reached down and fumbled with the knot of his tie, loosening it and opening a button of his shirt. He took another agitated drink from the glass.
He couldn't do this.
He turned, and walked back through the gaming tables to where his sister sat and played and flirted and laughed. He walked faster than he meant to, and his hand was quickly on her arm. "Let's go, Wanda," he said quietly. She looked up at him and laughed.
"Darling," she said, and smiled that infuriating sly smile, like their damned father's damn smile, her eyes laughing at him. "Darling, calm down."
"Wanda, let's go," Peter repeated. He could feel all the glances and the smirks from their audience in the room. Chief Detective Magnus' children having a public argument in the middle of the Creole Club. Fantastic. "Wanda, let's go!" He was clenching and unclenching his fists. Making a scene of themselves in public. The Magnus twins. The royal nympho and brownnose baby detective.
She could smell the whiskey on his breath, the anger in his wild wide eyes. She looked away. He reminded her a little too much of their father this way, the white eyebrows arched in anger, the bright blue eyes vague and terrifying in their shadow.
She turned to the other patrons as they watched expectantly. She saw the commentary they were holding back, the greedy impatience to see her gone. She smiled brightly, her smile composed to mask the wild alarm in her eyes, the sudden, gripping shame. "It was so lovely to see you again," she said, addressing the words to no one in particular, letting them drift on the air to ring hollow and fake. Tossing down her cards, leaving most of her winnings, she stood, turned, seized Peter's hand, and led him out of the club.
The cab ride home, stormy silence. Wanda talked to the driver this time, and paid him out of Peter's unprotesting wallet when they reached the pavement outside the big house. She saw on his watch it was just past ten; their father wouldn't be home yet. She led the way with Peter following sullenly behind her.
When she reached the door and placed her hand on the handle, she suddenly turned and looked at him, at his miserable, sulking figure. "Peter," she said sharply. "What in hell was that, Peter?"
Peter looked up at her, and he shook his head with a laugh. "Yeah, ask me what that was. Yeah, go ahead!" he said, his voice choked with exasperated laughter and disbelief. He stepped up to the door and passed her by, fumbling with the key and shoving it roughly into the lock. With a harsh turn he pushed it open, and she followed after him, picking up the key. She pushed the door behind her, letting it slam into the frame.
"What is your damn problem, Peter?" she said harshly. She took off her coat and threw it over the banister.
He slumped back against the door and shook his head. "Just give me the keys, Wanda, and go to bed," he said. He reached out his hand.
"No," she said, and stepped towards him. Still that acrid smell on his breath. Her tone softened. "Can't you handle your goddamn drink?"
Peter laughed coldly again and stared her straight in the eye. "Oh, I can handle my drink just fine, Wanda. How about you, sister, can you handle your men?"
"What?" she laughed too, and crossed her arms.
He stood up straight and walked towards her. He grabbed her shoulders in his hands. She flinched, but didn't move.
"You're above playing games in that sleazy pit with those mobsters," he said. "You're above sleeping with every damn jack that chases you."
"Oh, is that it? Is that it? Peter? Oh, you're funny, Peter. You've always been such a prig," she laughed.
"I don't care if you think I'm a prig, Wanda," he said quietly, letting his hands fall from her shoulders. "I really don't. But please, Wanda," he continued, "you don't have to do that. Do you even like it?"
The arched white eyebrows, so like their regal father's, relaxed, and Peter's face looked like his own again, his own lost, confused and worried face. The sharp edges of their father's face diffused into innocence. She couldn't be angry at him now. She couldn't be angry at him when he looked so lost. She felt bad now, she regretted screaming at him. Her baby brother. Reaching out, she touched his cheek.
"You'll hurt yourself worrying so much about me," she said softly, stroking the phantom creases of his brow with her thumb.
"I love you, sister," he said softly. "You deserve better."
"You care for me too much," she replied. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, pressing herself against his body. "I'm sorry," she whispered, closing her eyes tightly. She leaned into him and he tentatively held her, his hands so gentle and uncertain on her back and shoulders. She relaxed into him like she always did, and let her hand rest on his chest. She watched it rise and fall, steadily, as his breathing calmed down.
Then she looked up, and her eyes met his. Soft, dazed, vague, not quite all there. She stroked his cheek softly. A finger traced the plane of his cheekbone. The edges of her sight seemed to blur and fade away, and there was only Peter, holding her. Their heartbeats echoed in the heat and pressure of his strong arms around her. Her hand on his cheek, his eyes frozen on hers, his breathing quick, erratic—she reached up, shut her eyes, and kissed him.