and i don't know how long we'll live this way
So lately, the household is nothing short of 'intensely awkward', and Wanda knows people beyond the two of them - Remy and Wanda herself - have started to notice. She's not sure how to fix it, and today isn't even trying; she heads upstairs when she gets home to sleep off a headache, which fortunately alleviates pretty quickly. She's in the process of waking up again - smoothing one hand over her hair, collecting her skirt but not putting it on just yet, and so on and so forth - when an ear-piercing noise slices through the air, startling her. It's unmistakeably the fire alarm downstairs, but which one she can't say for sure.
Given her past history with fires (too many, for thirty-one years, and most of them far too catastrophic), she knows time is of the essence and bolts downstairs immediately. The sound seems to be coming from the kitchen alarm, but as far as she knows no one was even using anything in there. There are flames springing up around the microwave, and more smoke than anything else, but it's not yet at a viciously lung-choking stage. Hopefully she can get it taken care of before it gets any worse.