gizkasparadise:

“You really don’t need to do this anymore,” she mutters. Her fingers flex and fidget under his light grip. Her hand is much smaller in his. He doesn’t know why he finds the ratio endearing.

“Allow me my precautions.” He lifts up the bandage carefully. There’s nothing underneath it but the slightest of pinkened skin.

Wanda isn’t looking at her injury (and yes, he can admit now that the cry of pain from her had startled him horribly as she was pouring coffee–made him nearly anxious), but her lips are pursed in amusement. As if she can sense validation.

Vision clears his throat. “The Neosporin will prevent possible infection. Give me a moment and I’ll grab some from downstairs-”

“Vishz, it’s been four days.” She wriggles her fingers once more, stopping him as he sinks up to his knees into the floorboards. Wanda looks at him, his partial phase putting them at eye-level for once.

Her eyes…are quite green.

“If you want to hold my hand, next time just ask,” she finishes, squeezing his fingers before withdrawing her grip. 

He stares as she walks into her room. And then he stares at his hand, not bothering to rise out of the floor.