[The last thing she'd wanted was for him to feel the need to get up and serve her, but when her protestations fall on deaf ears she doesn't persist in arguing with him. It's a bowl of stew, one she accepts with murmured thanks. Wanda takes a tentative bite of the beef, half checking to make sure that it's cool enough and the other half wanting to make sure it really does taste as it ought to.

Her eyes close a moment, savoring the taste. It's too rich for him but to her, it's perfect.]

That's fair. [She doesn't ask right away, however, mulling over her phrasing briefly. It's not an especially personal question, she thinks, not one that has been picking at his background or history the way that the others have, but it's not as impersonal as she wants it to be.] I've noticed in our conversations that you don't ask very many questions of me. Especially by comparison. [It's an observation, not a judgment, and not indicative of anything deeper.] Is it simply not in your nature or are there subjects that pique your interest more that simply haven't come up?

[It's not even that she's trying to learn what his interests are, so much as she's curious if this is just how he is, to be less inquisitive than she seems to be.]