( sitting on the floor is a choice that they've made to have this conversation. it reminds wanda vaguely of when they and a few other kids at the orphanage would lie under the beds, tell each other scary stories, or share secrets that they didn't want the sisters to know about. there is a sense of intimacy here—of something so explicitly childlike that it softens wanda's hardened expectations to whatever matt is gearing up to tell her.

the lying isn't a surprise, but the admittance of it is. some relief does relax her tense shoulders upon the realization that he wasn't ignoring her because he was over her; that it was... something else.

something quite unexpected.

(how did he know she had left the scarf in the kitchen sink?)

wanda falls back to sit down properly on the floor, legs crossed, listening now with some amount of skepticism at his words. the devil of hell's kitchen? she'd heard something about that vigilante, in one of the radio shows at the diner, heard some people talk about it. never really paying it much mind. superheroes like new york, and it wouldn't be the first time someone tried their hand at vigilantism, but the fact that it's in hell's kitchen has left the people in their neighborhood excited, hopeful for something beyond the endless violence that does terrorize them.

columbia university is also some ways away from here, so to think that matt is going out of his way to 'patrol' his home (—his loved ones, her?—) sounds exactly like something he'd do. something so selfless yet equally selfish.

not to mention that he's blind—

wanda shoves him, hands on his chest, grabbing momentarily at the hoodie as if halfway regretting pushing him the way she had at all. still, it'll be enough to knock him off balance, exacerbate that soreness he feels. )

You're an idiot, Matt.

( he's right to think that she's get angry, but her anger might not be entirely because of what he thinks. she's angry that he has lied to her, that he's kept this a secret, something that only he has to bear. all this time, trying to 'protect' this thing, this part of him, hurting her in the process, when wanda could so easily stand by him.

her anger festers in her words, in the quickening of her beating heart, but despite that, she grabs at one of his arms with surprising gentleness. pulling the sleeves back, she notices bruises, far too many for a clumsy blind guy, far worse than bumping into furniture could cause. once matt regains some of his balance, she's pulling up the hoodie, too, suspecting, and getting the confirmation, for the bruising on his chest, still-healing scars from what likely has been knife wounds, glass, stitched up poorly.

she picks herself up, letting go, and stepping forward on her knees. her hands reach for him, over his shoulders, and wanda wraps him tightly into an embrace, not caring if it sends them tumbling back on the floor or if he manages to balance them despite himself.

she mutters idiot, again, pointed and angry. )

Why would you ever feel that I'd want you to carry this load all on your own?

( parables from service that they had been forced to attend come to her mind, of the philosophical explanations of scripture that father lantom would go into, of their classes with the sisters about good and evil, of what's right and what's wrong. they'd been through so much together, why would he ever think that she'd abandon him?

over this?

wanda doesn't let him go, her embrace tightening, instead, her voice wrapped still with emotion. )

I love you — of course I wouldn't. You're still the Matt I grew up with. You're still you.