Stephen jolts. Almost knocks over his stack of books, and his chair scrapes against the stone floor as he moves a couple inches away. It’s uncomfortably skittish, like a deer about to bolt in the woods at the sight of her — but after what they’ve been through, can you blame him?
He’s been sitting on that knowledge for weeks now, mouth pressed into a thin line, biting down on that hideous recent twist to their personal history. Like walking around a bomb and hoping it won’t go off again. There’s quite a few reasons why he hasn’t told Tony yet — one of them being, the Scarlet Witch isn’t as indescribably powerful here as she would’ve been back home — but that ugly fear is still there, humming beneath his skin.
But they had gotten through to her by the end, Stephen thinks. He hopes.
His blue-green eyes drift down to Wanda’s sleeves, the turn of her wrist, her hands, instinctively looking for those burnt-black fingertips. The grip of the Darkhold is gone, of course it’s gone, it hadn’t even been there when she’d been jettisoned out of that rift, but looking for it is still like a tic.
“Of course. It’s just like home,” he says, lightly, an attempt at a joke. But there’s still a tightness to his jaw and a rigid set to his spine, watching her like he’s keeping an eye on a predator, looking for quick movements. He wishes he didn’t have to.
And then, because he’s not exactly above being curt and blunt when he needs to be, ripping off the band-aid:
“Are we finally done pretending the other person doesn’t exist?”
rubs hands together!! ds2 spoilers all over this thread
He’s been sitting on that knowledge for weeks now, mouth pressed into a thin line, biting down on that hideous recent twist to their personal history. Like walking around a bomb and hoping it won’t go off again. There’s quite a few reasons why he hasn’t told Tony yet — one of them being, the Scarlet Witch isn’t as indescribably powerful here as she would’ve been back home — but that ugly fear is still there, humming beneath his skin.
But they had gotten through to her by the end, Stephen thinks. He hopes.
His blue-green eyes drift down to Wanda’s sleeves, the turn of her wrist, her hands, instinctively looking for those burnt-black fingertips. The grip of the Darkhold is gone, of course it’s gone, it hadn’t even been there when she’d been jettisoned out of that rift, but looking for it is still like a tic.
“Of course. It’s just like home,” he says, lightly, an attempt at a joke. But there’s still a tightness to his jaw and a rigid set to his spine, watching her like he’s keeping an eye on a predator, looking for quick movements. He wishes he didn’t have to.
And then, because he’s not exactly above being curt and blunt when he needs to be, ripping off the band-aid:
“Are we finally done pretending the other person doesn’t exist?”