[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
I pulled her back up from the dip, my arm firmly wrapped around the narrow curve of her waist.
My lips lingered against hers for a long second, savoring the plush softness, the heat of the Italian sun that had baked into her skin and the lingering sweetness of our shared dessert.
I drew back just an inch, keeping my face so close that our breath mingled.
"It's tasty," I murmured, a slow grin spreading across my mouth as I looked into her emerald eyes. "It tastes exactly like stracciatella gelato, but significantly warmer and infinitely more addictive."
Wanda's cheeks flushed a radiant crimson that competed with the late afternoon sun.
She blinked, her gaze darting around the packed stone bridge for a fraction of a second before she reached up and smacked the center of my chest with the flat of her palm.
"Aryan!" she hissed, her voice a whisper, though she didn't make any move to step out of my embrace. "Do not say such things aloud! There are people everywhere. They can hear you."
"Let them hear," I laughed, catching the hand that had just assaulted my chest and lacing my fingers through hers. I brought her knuckles to my lips, pressing a kiss against her skin. "I want everyone to know, especially the tourists from Ohio. I am a man deeply in love with the taste of my girlfriend's gelato."
"You are shameless," she muttered, hiding a smile by ducking her head so the brim of her straw hat shielded her face from the sun and the crowds.
"I am a man who knows what he likes," I corrected, pulling her against my side and tucking her hand securely into the crook of my arm.
I looked over the top of her straw hat, letting my gaze drift across the panoramic expanse of the Grand Canal.
The ancient palazzos lined the waterway, their faded pink and ochre facades glowing in the late afternoon light.
But as I looked, I felt the buzzing static of foreign energy. It was a high frequency hum that didn't belong in the saltwater and stone of Venice.
I let my consciousness expand, pushing past the physical limitations of my retinas, extending my perception down beneath the murky surface of the canal and up toward the tiled rooftops of the surrounding buildings.
I grabbed the concept of the drones' internal circuitry… the delicate motherboards, the lithium ion power cells, the holographic projection arrays and I gave them a mental pinch.
SNIP.
Deep beneath the water, hundreds of highly advanced combat drones simultaneously suffered catastrophic electromagnetic failures.
Their optics went dark.
Their rotors locked.
Their motherboards turned into useless slag.
They became nothing more than extremely expensive pieces of scrap metal resting quietly on the muddy floor of the Venetian lagoon.
"There," I whispered to myself, a satisfied smirk touching my lips. "The weather forecast remains clear."
"Did you say something?" Wanda asked, looking up at me from beneath her hat.
"Just admiring the view," I lied effortlessly, pointing down the crowded span of the bridge. "Let's go meet that little guy."
Wanda followed my pointing finger.
"The boy who looks like he is about to be physically sick?" she asked, her gaze landing on a teenager with messy brown hair who was nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot, clutching a small box in his hands.
"That's the one," I grinned, guiding her through the throng of people.
"Do you know him, Aryan?" she asked, her tone laced with mild confusion. "How would you know a teenager in the middle of Italy?"
"I've seen him around," I lied, keeping my voice casual. "I did a guest lecture on advanced cellular regeneration at the Midtown School of Science and Technology back in New York. A few years ago, before the Snap. He was one of the students. Brilliant kid, but severely lacking in the romance department. Let's go say hi."
"Aryan, he looks very busy panicking," Wanda pointed out, though she let me lead her forward. "We should not interrupt him."
"Interrupting panic is a public service," I insisted.
We weaved through a tour group following a man holding a bright yellow umbrella, closing the distance until we were standing directly behind the kid.
He was wearing a brightly colored tourist t-shirt and muttering to himself under his breath, completely oblivious to his surroundings.
I reached out and tapped him firmly on the shoulder.
Peter Parker jumped so high his sneakers actually left the stone pavement. He spun around, his hands instinctively coming up in a defensive posture, dropping the small velvet box he was holding.
He scrambled, catching it with lightning fast reflexes before it could hit the ground.
"Whoa! Hey, sorry, I didn't… " Peter started to babble.
He blinked, his gaze darting from my face to Wanda's and then back to mine.
"Dr... Dr. Aryan Spencer?" Peter stammered, his eyes bulging as he looked at my face, then immediately snapping to Wanda. "And... and Miss Maximoff? Oh my god."
"Keep your voice down, kid," I cautioned, stepping forward and clapping a hand on his shoulder, lowering my tone to a whisper. "We are here in secret to enjoy life, eat carbohydrates and avoid the paparazzi. Haha. So let's keep the yelling to a minimum, alright?"
Peter nodded furiously. He looked at Wanda, his expression morphing from shock into a kind of star struck reverence.
"Hi," Peter squeaked, giving an awkward wave. "I'm... I'm a really big fan, Miss Maximoff. It's an honor to meet you. Like, a massive honor."
Wanda smiled, a gentle warmth softening her features. She clearly found his nervous energy endearing.
"Hello," she said softly. "It is nice to meet you too. But have we met before? You look... familiar."
Peter's eyes darted around the crowded bridge. He took a step closer to us, leaning in and cupping a hand over his mouth as if he were passing state secrets.
"We actually met at the airport," Peter whispered, his voice barely audible over the chatter of the tourists. "In Germany. And then again in upstate New York."
He paused, tapping his chest proudly.
"I'm... I'm Spider Man."
Wanda's eyes widened in genuine surprise. She looked the teenager up and down, taking in his scrawny frame, his tourist t-shirt and his messy hair.
"Oh," she breathed, a spark of recognition lighting up her face. "You are that little spider. The one with the webs who talked very much during the battle."
"Yeah, that's me," Peter chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "I tend to babble when my adrenaline spikes. It's a coping mechanism."
"Well, it is very good to see you without the mask, Peter," Wanda said warmly.
"Likewise," Peter beamed. He looked back at me, his expression shifting into a look of awe. "Dr. Spencer, man, that CPR technique you used in the video was textbook perfect. I showed it to my aunt and she was crying. You guys are like, the coolest couple ever."
"I try my best, Peter," I said, leaning casually against the stone balustrade of the bridge, crossing my ankles. "But enough about my heroic medical interventions. Let's talk about you. Specifically, why you look like you're about to face a firing squad instead of enjoying a European vacation."
I pointed a finger at the small velvet box he was clutching in a death grip.
"That looks like a piece of jewelry, Parker," I noted, raising a knowing eyebrow. "And given the way you were sweating bullets a minute ago, I am going to assume there is a girl involved. Do you need my help? Because you know, I am somewhat of an expert in these matters."