( wanda leans away from the railing when she feels him moving about to offer her one of the bottles. she's not too keen on beer, but when in rome— so, she grabs at it, welcoming the cool condensation on it. it clearly was warming up inside the fridge now that the power was off, but it's cold enough.

the questions are born out of curiosity, not out of any kind of implication. wanda bolsters through them with her usual ease of an angry knot caught in her throat mixed with resentment. )

My home used to be quiet, and then the war started. Quiet nights were a luxury.

( and terrifying; long pauses in the civil unrest in sokovia sometimes just was the quiet before the storm. the loud sound of explosions—like a car's muffler going off here—could be enough to startle her, bringing forth a lot of her childhood-made ptsd.

(then there's that bit about being able to read into other's emotions and thoughts, and how a cramped populace tends to be loud despite her best efforts.)

she glances at him, tipping her beer towards him, because maybe he'll help her open it up.

more so than silence— )

I prefer being able to hear my thoughts.

( maybe she just gets distracted easily... )