The man does look at home here. Mage robes aren’t so far off from the sorcerer robes she’s used to seeing on him, and there’s a comfortable, broken-in look to his Thedosian outfit; it’s been adjusted and tailored to fit by steadier hands than his. As Wanda gestures, his blue-green gaze predictably drops to her hands and lodges on her fingertips, and he stares a little too openly, searching for that tell-tale charcoal-black smudge. It’s not there, but that might not be a guarantee. Rifting is an inexact science.

There’s always the chance, too, that their experiences don’t dovetail. Perhaps she’s another Wanda from another timeline, a universe where they never crossed paths to begin with. (Would she better or worse off if that were the case? He truly can’t tell.) His expression is guarded, body language tight and closed-off, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop: searching for that recognition in her face, looking for what that recognition means when it does land. If she came from earlier on their road, maybe it’s not—

There’s no use speculating. He might as well just ask.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Stephen asks. It is, perhaps, blunt and indelicate; but he doesn’t like to waste time when there’s an unknown variable to unravel. The last time they took the indulgent time to amble and meander companionably along, she’d trapped him in an illusion.

So this time he’ll be direct.