[no, he posits, and wanda can see the machinations of his thoughts streamlining as he considers thingsβhis thoughts not entirely hidden from her as she catches hints of his wariness.
worry or not, she will always be a source of external concernβnot for how she is. not entirely, anyway. there will always be a concern of whether wanda maximoff is a threat to those around her, if the remnants of dark magic will spill forth from her at the smallest show of potential broken delusion.
how could stephen understand, anyway? to lose so much, to want so much, and every step towards success leading to nothing but sacrifice. she had been patient, she had been kind, she had kept her own grief to herself, but the universe, it seemed, held less than pleasant designs for her life.]
You have a life to return to, Stephen. Should I be grateful to be here, knowing what I will never have?
[βan ordinary life, where her biggest problem is worrying about the pile of laundry that's been sitting in the dryer. but no β wanda doesn't want an answer from him. it would be futile, to try and encompass this emptiness inside her that's reached further limits she didn't know existed; like claws scratching on chalkboard, it's just the calcified outer layer of skeleton gnashing in a never ending thrum, no shields, no defenses, nothing to cushion the pain.
she breathes shallowly for a moment, the world around them stilling entirely with every breath she takes.]
I want to ask a favor of you.
[stepping forward, she walks up to the sorcerer, the separation with them so minimal that wanda could whisper her words and he would be able to hear them nonetheless.]
You may think I don't deserve itβand perhaps I don't. But don't talk down to me anymore, Stephen. [her powers, as they are, she knows they could overwhelm him. but this isn'tβ it isn't about thatβ so it's not a threat.] I am at least owed that decency.
no subject
worry or not, she will always be a source of external concernβnot for how she is. not entirely, anyway. there will always be a concern of whether wanda maximoff is a threat to those around her, if the remnants of dark magic will spill forth from her at the smallest show of potential broken delusion.
how could stephen understand, anyway? to lose so much, to want so much, and every step towards success leading to nothing but sacrifice. she had been patient, she had been kind, she had kept her own grief to herself, but the universe, it seemed, held less than pleasant designs for her life.]
You have a life to return to, Stephen. Should I be grateful to be here, knowing what I will never have?
[βan ordinary life, where her biggest problem is worrying about the pile of laundry that's been sitting in the dryer. but no β wanda doesn't want an answer from him. it would be futile, to try and encompass this emptiness inside her that's reached further limits she didn't know existed; like claws scratching on chalkboard, it's just the calcified outer layer of skeleton gnashing in a never ending thrum, no shields, no defenses, nothing to cushion the pain.
she breathes shallowly for a moment, the world around them stilling entirely with every breath she takes.]
I want to ask a favor of you.
[stepping forward, she walks up to the sorcerer, the separation with them so minimal that wanda could whisper her words and he would be able to hear them nonetheless.]
You may think I don't deserve itβand perhaps I don't. But don't talk down to me anymore, Stephen. [her powers, as they are, she knows they could overwhelm him. but this isn'tβ it isn't about thatβ so it's not a threat.] I am at least owed that decency.
Even if you've lost all respect for me.