[Wanda telegraphs her anxiety so obviously in her hands, nervous movements of her fingers, grabbing at his shirt. There's no confidence in it that Pietro can read, and he can picture her almost hiding behind him while she concentrate. They've left the facility, but it still angers him when he's reminded of how Wanda came out of it. How they'd broken her down with callous words and no empathy, while all she'd done was try to control and master something completely foreign to her without enough time to do it. HYDRA needed them, they were the last ones left, and they'd only managed to discourage Wanda from reaching her potential, making her too apprehensive of retaliation for mistakes that she keeps holding back even now that they're home. Her continued hesitancy frustrates him, but Pietro understands it, even if he still wishes she'd push past it, that it was easier for her to.
They'd tried the same approach with Pietro, but none of it worked on him. He'd reacted too violently to it, on one occasion impulsively rushing one of Strucker's men and slamming him into the wall with such velocity he'd heard something crack. He's not sure what happened to that man after the rest of them dragged his unconscious body out of the cell. But they never spoke that way to Pietro again. Not when he couldn't stop his hands from shaking, not when he'd had difficulty with spatial awareness and tripped over his own feet, or when he'd used too much force and run into a wall for the twelfth time in one day. He'd figured his own shit out without any further 'encouragement'.
The bread flops sadly to the counter, and Pietro sighs to himself. He doesn't speak right away, because the things he says sometimes - most of the time - are rude and snappy and inconsiderate, and the last thing he wants is to inadvertently nudge Wanda further into her shell. He turns away from the toaster, cracks the egg and lets it fall into the pan with a sizzling noise. Slowly, he rubs his thumb over the back of Wanda's hand.]
If you want. I thought you were doing very well.
[As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows they sound wrong. Maybe placating. Too soft. Something that isn't him. But he tried.]
no subject
They'd tried the same approach with Pietro, but none of it worked on him. He'd reacted too violently to it, on one occasion impulsively rushing one of Strucker's men and slamming him into the wall with such velocity he'd heard something crack. He's not sure what happened to that man after the rest of them dragged his unconscious body out of the cell. But they never spoke that way to Pietro again. Not when he couldn't stop his hands from shaking, not when he'd had difficulty with spatial awareness and tripped over his own feet, or when he'd used too much force and run into a wall for the twelfth time in one day. He'd figured his own shit out without any further 'encouragement'.
The bread flops sadly to the counter, and Pietro sighs to himself. He doesn't speak right away, because the things he says sometimes - most of the time - are rude and snappy and inconsiderate, and the last thing he wants is to inadvertently nudge Wanda further into her shell. He turns away from the toaster, cracks the egg and lets it fall into the pan with a sizzling noise. Slowly, he rubs his thumb over the back of Wanda's hand.]
If you want. I thought you were doing very well.
[As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows they sound wrong. Maybe placating. Too soft. Something that isn't him. But he tried.]