#[chin on my hands] just fascinating how narrow and personal 'common knowledge' actually is in practice

[blujayonthewing]

sincerely I don't mean this in a mean way, it's a 'today's lucky 10,000' type of thing, but the kind of person who needs to get help on facebook to ID a luna moth in their yard is living such a vastly different life from me that I can't even wrap my head around it

[anonthenullifier]

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 6

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter Title: In which the past is left behind and the future is embraced

Chapter Summary: Wanda adjusts to her new life while also navigating how to interact with Vision outside of the manor. 

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/34942517

I hope you enjoy!

Wanda hunches her back, lifting the wrinkly palm closer to her face, the task of finding the most pertinent lines rendered more difficult by the effects of age and a lifetime of manual labor. “Is fame and fortune in my future?” The question is asked with a good-natured playfulness, a hearty laugh joining the gleam in the elderly woman’s eyes when Wanda glances up at her. This woman is a widow, not a recently made one, or so she informed Wanda the first time she sat on the stool and shoved her hand out. This is, if Wanda is recalling correctly, the sixth time she has read the woman’s palm, the only person from this tiny town that has been willing to dip their toes into mysticism, their avoidance of her more out apathy than fear, she thinks. “So,” a nudge to Wanda’s shin brings her back to the present, “fame or fortune?”

A tight, politely apologetic smile goes along with Wanda’s response, “That is beyond the scope of this reading.” If she wanted to, Wanda could easily delve into the woman’s mind, mine for information she can twist into profoundly prophetic albeit empty statements, but since the séance and its fallout, she has vowed to be slightly more judicious with her powers. “Based on the branching of your life line,” Wanda traces the line etched deep in the woman’s palm, “you have been blessed with extra vitality, some would consider that quite fortunate.”

“You know,” the tone and cadence of these two words is known by everyone, the drawn out, condescending preface of someone who believes they are better versed in a matter than the expert they’re talking to. Wanda can’t afford to lose her one client so she clamps her annoyance down and remains silent. “The readers in the city,” a term that is loosely used by the inhabitants of quiet communities to speak of any conglomeration of people larger than 200, “always tell me fame, fortune, and love are just around the corner.”

Wanda fully believes the other readers claim this, regardless of what the lines actually say, broad optimism the greatest tool of manipulation within the craft, “Well Mrs. Mesnier-”

“Miss—don’t want to scare off potential suitors.”

The wink is salacious, far more practiced than even Stark’s signature smarminess, stirring a small laugh from Wanda’s lungs as she corrects her statement. “Miss Mesnier, I refuse to interpret beyond the lines.”

A succession of four clicks comes from the woman’s mouth making her disagreement with Wanda’s refusal transparent, her interest in the reading waning as her eyes idly scan the sunlit market visible through the swooping part of the curtains over the entrance of Wanda’s makeshift stall.  “Would you mind re-examining my heart line then?”  

This is the most common request Wanda gets in such readings, though usually from tittering socialites who only recently discovered the idea of romantic attraction and courtship. “I am certain it hasn’t chang-” 

Wanda’s assurance of the uselessness of the act is cut off by Miss Meisner tugging her hand, lightly enough that it remains in Wanda’s grip, but hard enough to direct her eyes to follow along with the woman’s. “Are you certain? That dapper yard-of-pump-water* is quite intently staring at me.”   

There is, in fact, a dapper man watching them, his three-piece suit and matching hat impeccable yet jarring against the rougher fabrics of the people milling about around him. His gloved hands are occupied with a simple, unshowy wicker basket, and even from this distance, she can make out the way he nervously wrings his fingers around the handle. Wanda’s lips curve upwards at the sight of him, an antsiness spreading through her body the longer she stares. “I’m sorry, Miss Mesnier,” Wanda squeezes the woman’s hand before dropping it, “he’s here for me.” 

“Oh, well,” the distinctive clink of a coin against the table harmonizes the disappointed of her voice and the rustling of the large, high-waisted skirt, “I predict fortune and love in your future then.” 

Wanda barely registers the woman leaving, her mind far more focused on the approaching form of Vision and the tentative arc of his mouth that matches her own. “Miss Maximoff,” a slight, polite bow goes along with her name. 

“I thought,” she waits until his bow is over, “we were past Miss Maximoff.” 

Embarrassment flits across his face, a quick gaze to his left accompanying the clearing of his throat as a family walks past them. “I do not wish for anyone to perceive my behavior as untoward.”   

“I see,” it’s an unfounded concern, no one in the town will likely notice or even be aware of the norms of high class culture, but Wanda determines to play along for now, both to make him feel comfortable and as a way to channel her own nervousness. “Well, Mr. Vision,” she stands just a bit taller, chin snapping up to mimic how she’s seen women in expensive parlors act, “wouldn’t it be quite untoward if you didn’t offer me your arm?” 

The effect is instantaneous, his discomfiture falling away in time with his lips turning ever so slightly up, a sight she hopes means that he has not spent the last two weeks ruminating about her abhorrent actions and all the pain she wrought on both him and Stark. “I had been informed that such offers suggest a lack of independence and I did not wish to insult your self-sufficiency.” 

His tone is surprising, wholly welcome and exhilarating, but still contrary to what she’s come to expect from him when manners are involved. “Would Robert Robert’s approve of such cheekiness?” 

“Mr. Roberts would not condone this visit in the slightest, so I suppose,” a subdued yet what she can only describe as rebellious smirk goes along with the offer of his arm, “there is no need to strictly adhere to his rules while I am here.” 

“Fascinating.” Wanda slides her arm into the triangular gap between his torso and elbow, her fingers curving gently into the folds of his jacket, and it’s only now that she realizes his hesitation at offering his arm the night she arrived unexpectedly at the manor, even through the multiple layers of fabric she can feel the hardness of the rods, if she extends her fingers she can brush the hinge at his elbow. Shame flares beneath her cheeks, something that has been common in the dark hours of the night since she moved, her thoughts relentlessly cycling through her past actions, identifying all of the signs she missed because of her narrowed focus on revenge. But she has learned that with knowledge comes the ability to rectify past ignorance, more than that, is that she is finally at peace with all that has happened, content and proud that, though she still harbors a strong, unshakable distrust towards Stark, her hands no longer erupt with scarlet when the memories stir. “So,” but now is not the time to delve back into the depths of her regrets, her past is immutable and her hand is on the future, “what is on your list?” 

“Nothing in particular,” the nonchalance of the comment is yet another surprise for a man she assumes has lists and detailed plans for every aspect of his day, control over the environment a vital aspect of his butlering. Vision pulls her gently towards a stall, “I am simply examining the potential of the merchandise.” 

Wanda watches with interest as they move through the stalls, the precision and repetition of his examination mesmerizing, whether he is investigating lettuce, carrots, radishes, cuts of meat, or gaudy penswipers, he is always diligent in selecting the most pristine specimen. “How are things at the manor?” 

A tomato is tossed back into a bin, deemed unacceptable. “Quite hectic, actually.” They move towards a cabbage stall, his lips pursing as he forms his next statement, “Mr. Stark and I are in the midst of preparing for several demonstrations and he seems to prefer completing the work in the middle of the night.” Vision’s distaste for such antics is clear, the shedding of his butler persona more pronounced the more the distance between himself and the manor increases. 

“What are you-” she stops her question, a deep vexation building at the sight of Vision paying the mustached man at their current stop, “Did you just pay forty cents** for that?” 

“I-” Vision’s eyes move between the incredulity on her face and the head of cabbage in his hand, “yes.” 

Wanda shakes her head, lips fighting against showing the mirth bubbling up at the guilty look on his face.  “You’re being swindled.” The comment is loud enough to reach the farmer at the stall, his attention quickly moving on to the next customer as he shoves the money farther into his pocket, but Wanda isn’t going to insist on rectifying the con, if she’s being wholly honest, she has, quite unapologetically, overcharged poshly dressed gentlemen for palm readings before. “I think it’s the hat.” 

Vision’s eyes rotate up to study the brim of his simple, yet elegant top hat, “I believe the absence of my hat would do little to negate the dissimilitude of my clothing.” A fact that is irrefutable, Normanskill is a labor community of roughly sixty people, almost all of whom work at the lumber mill and none of them likely own a three-piece suit, much less one near the quality of Vision’s.   

“It might be worth losing it anyway.” They both know the suggestion is ridiculous, or so she presumes his raised eyebrows indicate, but Wanda uses it as a small redirection meant exclusively to goad a more relaxed quality of conversation from the butler. The absence of any obligation to serve creates a striking difference in Vision’s demeanor, subtle enough she doubts anyone else would describe his precise movements and polite words as casual, but she finds herself growing even more enamored and fascinated with him in this setting. 

Vision gently removes his arm from hers, bending to place the overpriced cabbage into his basket before reaching up and lifting the hat from his head. “Better?” 

He is still overdressed, and will no doubt continue to be taken advantage of, yet it does create a marginally less moneyed persona. Wanda gives an affirming nod, “Much better, you should get lower prices now.” 

“I personally,” a tiny, likely-improper-for-a-butler shrug accompanies his words, “see no reason to argue over cost. Mr. Stark will not care if I pay two cents or forty, so the affront to my dignity is worthwhile if it means giving money to someone who will notice it.” 

The mindset of limitless money is foreign to her, to everyone around them, her own pockets practically empty, the people here are sensible, practical, and have relatively low levels of superstition, a fact that is both an issue for her income but also a boon for her ability to not be chased from town or have her tools thrown into a river. “That’s very noble of you.” 

Vision picks the basket back up, his top hat perched on its lid, and offers her his arm once more, ignoring the sardonic drip of her comment, “Shall we?” They stroll casually along the dirt road, occasionally stopping for Vision to buy more produce, a companionable silence between them that matches the serenity of the cloudless day. “Wanda?” She tilts her head up to look at the budding question on his face, “Are you happy here?” 

It’s a multifaceted question, happiness determined by far too many things to provide a simple but truthful answer. “No one has thrown me into a river or destroyed my belongings, so...” 

“That is good.” 

If Wanda thinks about the question deeper, however, it’s been almost thirteen years since she has experienced a moment like this—her hands calm, mind clear and unworried, and her heart palpitating at a casual, mostly even pace. When she fled to the wilder parts of New York, traveling far from the city that had first welcomed her to this new life, she believed she had left her past behind and with it the turmoil of obsessive vengeance, clearly, however, she was mistaken. Yet now that she’s in this moment, arm linked with Vision and the sun overhead, surrounded by people who are not outwardly staring or crossing themselves, she’s at peace. She squeezes his arm, relishing the small smile he gives her, “It is.” 

They stop walking eventually, the stalls behind them and a small, intricately crafted and easily recognizable carriage in front of them, “I-” the reality of the situation only becomes apparent when Vision eases his arm away, opening the door of the carriage to place the basket inside before turning back to her, hands clasped at his waist, “thank you for joining me today.” 

Wanda almost succeeds at not rolling her eyes at the supposition that she wouldn’t have spent the afternoon with him, “Of course, Vision. When-,” they had not spoken of anything beyond this first meeting, a tentative agreement to explore whether or not this would become a regular occurrence, and now that he’s leaving, Wanda knows what she hopes will be the conclusion of the experiment.  Regardless of her wants, there are two people involved, her powers snaking through her body, tempting her with the offer of an easy way to establish if he feels the same, but she clenches her fingers, determined not to resort to such measures. Wanda proceeds with what she hopes is a casual, unconcerned tone, “Do you think you’ll be frequenting this market?” 

Vision allows his eyes to roam over the small cluster of people and haphazardly built wooden stalls filled with vibrant fare. “I believe it has some merit,” words that send her heart into a maddening rhythm, one that increases at an alarming rate when he looks at her. “Unfortunately,” Wanda’s eyes narrow at the term, defeat harshly pulling her heart back into place, “the carrots are much better up in Schenectady, though,” the twisting of his sentence is dragging her through far too many emotions, the one most prevalent now is hope, anchored both on his word and the shy upturn of his mouth, “the company here is far preferable.” 

“Well there is more to see here than the market,” a fairly empty comment as there is the market, the lumber mill, one tavern, and the ravine, none of which are particularly out of the ordinary. 

Vision glances back towards the market, “I was thinking,” his uncertain gaze slides back to her, “instead, that perhaps I might make good on my promise to teach you paille maille.” 

“I believe that is an acceptable alternative.” 

Elation threatens to break the seam of his polite lips, “Then I will see you next week.”   

Wanda steps back, watching him climb into the carriage and waving as he pulls away. It’s only once he is out of view that a full-bodied grin erupts on her face, her mind already lost in the future.

The sun glints off the metal hoop half buried in the ground, it is idle, nothing changing about its position or size and yet it taunts her.  Wanda squints, readjusting her feet to be just a tad farther apart, knees bent slightly, hands wrapped firmly, but not too firmly, around the handle of her mallet. Off to the side, just barely in her periphery, she can sense an underlying flicker of cockiness in Vision’s silence, two games already down and she has not once gotten close to the hoop before him, something he keeps reassuring her is nothing to be upset about, a sentiment that would be more believable if his thrill at being victorious was not so loudly pouring from his mind. The last game she hit the ball too hard, sending it careening into the tall grass beyond their makeshift alley.  This time she is utilizing a strategy of incremental, easy hops. Her arms lift back as the head of the mallet rises behind her and then it falls with a swish through the grass, sending the ball in a small arc before it bounces and rolls to lay about a foot in front of the hoop. Satisfaction fills her arms as she swings the mallet up in front of her, bringing the head to rest proudly on her shoulder.

“That was a respectable hit.”

The satisfaction crumbles into a glare, “You can stop gloating.”

It is late in the morning and yet it is stifling, not even the shade from the tree providing a reprieve from the summer’s attack, a day that would be perfect for a dip in the lake, a thought that instantly leads to a sharp guilt as she watches Vision frown at her comment. “I am being sincere,” the surest sign of the heat is the sight of Vision sans coat and hat, though he is still in a waistcoat and shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cinched shut with a bow tie. His mallet hovers in the air, directing her attention towards the two charcoal colored balls in the grass, “You have utilized a classic block to ensure a win is not feasible on my next turn.”

“Well that was definitely the intent,” Wanda finds her entertainment at discovering his latent competitiveness outweighing her annoyance at the thinly veiled dubiousness on his face. What does not surprise her is the utter seriousness of his gameplay, every turn he walks around his ball at least three times, scrutinizing its position relative to the hoop, currently he is using his mallet to steady himself as he lowers into a squat, torso moving left and then right as he studies the predicament of her block. “You can concede my victory, if you want.”

“I believe,” he stands with a deliberate slowness, a wince occurring as he straightens his legs, “I shall attempt to persevere for a bit longer.”  One last assessment of the area and Vision nods, strolling up to his ball, mallet lining up just right of the sphere, a couple of practice swings confirm the strength and angle of his shot, and then he moves slightly, body crouching, fingers opening and then closing until his grip is perfect, and with ease he sends his ball rolling across the ground and straight into hers, sending it flying into the trunk of a tree.

“What was that, you hornswoggler***?”

A breathy laugh meets her words, his unabashed amusement in the face of dirty actions threatening to consume her own irritation. “Nothing in the rules prohibits such actions.”

The only rules she was made aware of were that they each get one hit per turn, must stay (as best they can) within the bounds of the course, and that the ball must enter the hoop from the front to win. “How convenient to leave that out.”

“It is far more important to develop the basic skills,” his face attempts to remain serious in light of his surging glee at continued domination in the game, “before introducing the intricacies of the gameplay.”

This development radically changes her perceptions of the sport and her own strategy, a wicked smirk forming on her face as she pokes the tip of her pole against the top button of his waistcoat. “Pride goeth before destruction, Vision.” Despite his face remaining neutral, even tipping towards good-natured, she does not miss the ripple of worry from his mind nor the intrigue as he watches her saunter towards the tree.

Her elbow rubs against the rough bark of the oak, one foot on a protruding root and the other on the ground. It seems impossible to recover from such a disadvantaged spot, but she reasons if interference is allowed then a small utilization of her own unique skills could fall under that rule. She notes the way Vision squints at her, the sun peaking above the tree to obscure his sight, another advantage as she sends a mist of scarlet into the ball. A hard swing and a flick of her wrist and her ball soars through the air, thudding into the dry soil just to the left of the crisscrossed surface of Vision’s ball.

There is no respectable hit this time, just a glower, a suspicious stare, and his brow wrinkling at the turn in gameplay. “Interference,” he explains, feet uncertain where to go with her ball directly in his path, “during the other player’s turn is prohibited.”

“Understood.”

An ungentlemanly sigh accompanies his decision to switch sides, hands rearranging along the mallet to adjust to the change in approach, his stance significantly less confident than before. Wanda is prepared for a conveniently strong wind to knock his ball off its path, but finds such interference unneeded, his shot too weak to reach the hoop. Vision waves his mallet towards her, a silent, somewhat sour invitation to finish the game.

The path to victory is unobscured, a bit farther of a distance than she would like, her accuracy still a work in progress, but it is likely the only chance she’ll get.  Wanda lines up, striving to ignore the intensely focused stare of her opponent, her powers surging through her arms in preparation if things go poorly, and smacks the mallet against the ball, watching it hop with each bump in the ground, its course going exactly as planned until it unexpectedly hits a particularly large rock sending it in the opposite direction of the metal hoop. Anger boils in her chest at her slow reaction, knowing if she uses her powers now it will be too obvious. “I guess you’ll be victorious yet again.”

Vision frowns, eyes flicking down at the sure victory. The moral thing to do is end the torment quickly and painlessly, something he has done quite willingly in the other matches. This time, however, he seems less ecstatic in his movements, still taking the same conscientious assessment and body position as his other turns, but he hesitates. “Vision.” It does not take a mind reader or a soothsayer to predict his considered action, her voice stern in redirecting him away from such perceived chivalry, “I don’t need your charity.” An understanding nod precedes his hit, the ball easily rolling through the hoop. “Congratulations.”

“Wanda, wait,” Wanda pauses mid-bend, her hand hovering over the etched surface of her ball, “I think it would be beneficial for you to continue, your long game is quite commendable,” there is no underlying sarcasm here, a fact that makes the day feel just a touch hotter, “but your short game is absent finesse.”

“Oh? What would you suggest?”

“Please,” he waves towards her ball, “set yourself up as you have been doing.” Wanda plays along, feet out wide and elbows bent, eyes focused on him as she waits for feedback. “This is excellent for a long range shot but for a shorter distance your feet need to be closer,” her boots shuffle towards each other while Vision hovers several feet away, gesticulating with his mallet to emphasize his instructions, “Your right foot should be a bit more forward,” she adjusts her foot, “good, now your right shoulder needs to rotate roughly,” he swivels his own shoulders, assessing the amount of movement and positioning, before providing her directions, “fifteen degrees to match your foot.”  

Wanda relaxes her body as she follows his instructions, “Better?”

“A bit more,” she acquiesces, “too much,” she brings her shoulder back, “no I—” she can sense the division in his mind, whether to remain at a respectable distance (despite the lack of onlookers) or come closer. It’s been a battle he’s been waging all day, the lack of socially acceptable reasons to be close always infuriatingly pulling him away. This time she decides to determine the outcome for him by purposely over-rotating her shoulders. Vision grimaces at her correction, “Not quite—”

Wanda strives to remain outwardly attentive yet aloof, laying the final steps of her war plan. “You can come closer, if that would help.”

Discreetly he scans their surroundings for an audience before placing his mallet on the ground, stepping forward, and puncturing the bubble of propriety, his body a foot away now, hands timidly held in the air, acting as if they have never touched, that she has not held his hand, nor run her fingers along his skin, that he himself did not wrap his hands around her waist and pull her close. But to acknowledge those moments would require them to rip open barely healed wounds, and there has been a silent contract between them to simply enjoy these meetings, pushing back any reckoning and unanswered questions for another time. “May I?”

As much as she wishes to act like he is alone in this nervousness, the question causes her heart to betray her attempt at self-control, face growing hotter as if the temperature of the day is controlled by the nearness of his hands. “Of course.”

His fingers curl around her upper arms, applying a slight pressure to turn her body. Wanda tries to remain relaxed in his grip despite the fluttering tingle overtaking her being while her eyes scan his features, mesmerized at the wind stirring the hairs just above his ears. “There,” the comfort of his touch vanishes and Wanda considers ruining her stance to bring him back but he moves away from her too quickly. “Now you should be focusing on a point just beyond the hoop.” Advice he gave her at the very beginning of their time together, a task that should be easy yet the rustle of his clothing behind her and the proximity of his person is distracting. “I have-Wanda remember to keep your eyes beyond the hoop.”

“Sorry.”

“I have my hand up behind you,” a statement that tempts her eyes but she resists, keeping her attention on the ground while his voice fills the air around her, “on your backswing go until you’ve touched my palm and then let the mallet fall naturally, like a pendulum.”

She doesn’t want to potentially hurt him and so she uses a painstakingly slow pace to lift the mallet, each slight increase in its ascent feels enormous until she finally meets resistance. “So just let it go?”

“Yes, and let your body follow.” She does, arms falling along the arc of the mallet and her hips swiveling slightly at the momentum and they both watch as the ball rolls into the hoop. “Soon,” Wanda turns excitedly towards him, surprised to find him directly behind her, the right side of his mouth wistfully tilted up, “you will be unstoppable and I will need to retire.”

Wanda returns the smile while bringing the handle of the mallet between them, offering it to him, “So would you like to test that prediction?”

“A very tempting offer.” 

“But?” 

“But,” he dips his hand into the small pocket of his waistcoat, thumb clicking open his pocket watch, “I promised Mr. Stark I would be back by sundown and I need to go to Rensselaer before returning.” 

A cloud of scarlet forms in her hands, fingers directing strands to engulf the equipment, drawing the objects to levitate next to them. She is acutely aware of his undivided attention and the way his eyes move with the sway of her powers—intrigued and unafraid, no trace of hesitation as he reaches into the red mist to grab the mallets in one hand and the balls in the other, leaving the hoop for her. There is a tiny smile on his face, the quality of which is different from his others, it is still polite, but almost, if she were to allow a small flight of fancy, adoring. “What?” 

Vision’s shoulders inch up and then drop, the smile disappearing as he talks, though the tone of his voice maintains its effervescent character, “I have found myself contemplating” now he slides back into his typical reserved staccato, “almost daily the efficiency your abilities would add to my work, it’s um,” and now the confession falters, his eyes desperately searching her face for some sign he has not offended her, “not to diminish the—” 

Her powers are a curse, a reminder of all she has experienced, the death of her parents, of her brother, her descent into an unforgivable life, and yet here is someone who sees none of that, considers her powers fascinating and efficient whilst glossing over the horror they have caused to his own life. The scarlet rescinds into her palms, sparking lightly at her fingers. Perhaps it is time to consider reorienting her own views, embracing instead of fearing what is inside her. “It is quite useful,” she closes her hands around the hoop, fully extinguishing her powers and with them the conversation as she parts from him, guiding him down the path back to his carriage, “You are very good at paille maille.” 

“Yes, only because I have the advantage of experience. Mr. Stark and I,” Vision keeps his eyes forward as he answers, “play at least three times a week and I also,” now the surety of his voice lessens, gaze never leaving the gentle slope of the mountains ahead of them, “played competitively while at university.” 

The image of this other version of him is hazy in her mind, a specter of a lost time she has no expectations of ever knowing. “You know you don’t have to tell me about,” she’s not sure what to say, if she means the person he was or the life he had, “if you’d rather not dwell on the past, you aren’t obligated to share.” 

He finally glances at her, his pace slowing moderately, a contemplative silence descending around them. “I truly appreciate that, Wanda.” A tight, painfully mannered smile follows along with the statement. “But I feel disingenuous, given your knowledge, to not share when the information is pertinent.” 

“Thank you for sharing,” the persistent downturn of his features is enough motivation to offer a slightly new focus, “now that I know your expertise, I think it will be my mission to best you next week.” 

Vision doesn’t smile but his lips do return to the equilibrium of neutrality, “I suppose I should leave these,” he holds his hands out to show her the equipment, “for you to practice and, in your favor, Mr. Stark and I will actually be out of town for several weeks, thus you will have ample time to improve.” 

Her feet stop moving as she turns towards him, “You’re leaving?” 

“Yes,” when her stare does not move, Vision swivels to face her, an apologetic, apprehensive slant to his features, “Mr. Stark and I are traveling to New York City next week for the Exhibition of Industry-” 

His admittance from the market floats up from her memories. “Is that why you’ve been working late at night?” 

“Yes, and all the traversing,” something she wondered about as well, each time they’ve met he’s he mentioned numerous towns in the area, but nothing in all the time she has known him indicated his job required much traveling beyond the closest market. “We,” he shifts his arms to counteract the awkward grip he has on the mallets and balls, “well, Mr. Stark, will be bringing three inventions, he is even tasked with performing the opening demonstration for the Exhibition.” 

Wanda can’t contain her scoff at this information, “As if he is not self-absorbed enough.” 

A commiserate and exasperated chuckle meets her words, “Yes, he has required me to watch his performance numerous times, it is unnecessarily showy, in my opinion.” 

It seems wrong for Vision to go, though why, exactly is beyond her grasp of comprehension, or at least, a reason beyond her own selfish desire to spend time with him. If she recalls correctly, Stark returned from the city while she was at the manor, a seemingly clear precedent of traveling alone, a fact that feels pertinent and separate from her own reasons for being upset at the journey. “Why is he forcing you to go?” 

Vision’s face falls at her choice of words. “Mr. Stark wishes to have my expertise in case any of the circuitry malfunctions.” A reasonable explanation, though she would expect no less from the man in front of her.  “I was hoping,” he shifts his body along with the movement of the conversation, eyes glancing towards his carriage down the path, an apparent discomfort at leaving with her annoyed, “if you were amenable, that I might visit before I leave.” 

Wanda scrutinizes him, taking in the slight hunch of his shoulders and the crystalline blue of his eyes in the sun, “Yes,” the effect of assent on his features is rapid, body straightening out while becoming slightly less rigid and a softness overtaking his eyes, “Vision, you are always welcome.”  

Wanda rushes between the lines of laundry hanging behind the house, hands plucking sheets and shoving them into a bag while her powers yank down the few skirts and blouses she has amassed to form a new, measly wardrobe, which is why she’ll be damned if they are ruined in this storm.  She has never lived on a homestead like this, her meager earnings from fortune telling typically affording her a bed in a shared room, at most a single room in a larger tenement, but now she finds herself with space, a small wooden home, sparsely furnished with an actual bedroom, a one stall stable, and a coop she has yet to fill. It is too much, or should be, no one has come to collect payments and Vision tactfully avoids the topic each time it is raised. She doesn’t push him too much though, worried the truth may force her to give this up and the freedom of solitude is far too exquisite, waking to the whisper of the earth each morning a wonderful influence on her mental tranquility. The only downside, so far, to her separation from people, is during moments like now, the sky growing dark, grumbling in the distance as the wind picks up, sending the trees into a shiver. 

She finishes her task, rushing to the porch as a peel of thunder rattles the wooden posts holding up the roof and the sky opens. Her breathing evens out now that she’s protected, heart returning to a normal level that brings it to be just slower than the beat of the raindrops. 

A faint rumble rises from just beyond the hill, too rhythmic and hurried to be from the sky, the likely culprit a carriage, but that seems ludicrous in such weather. Wanda walks to the end of the porch, her hands wrapping tightly around the bag at her hip as her eyes strain to make out any movement through the curtain of water.  No one ever approaches from this direction, the town of Normanskill itself a quarter of a mile south of her, and there are other, better roads to travel for traders who wish to go to the town center. A scowl drags her mouth down, eyes widening when the idiotic traveler crests the hill. She drops the bag immediately, marching to the center of the porch as the carriage pulls up, her voice loud and failing utterly at keeping her worried fury contained, “Vision, are you an imbecile?” 

“Yes,” the tremble in his voice is clear even above the thunder, “may I please use your stable?” 

How he insists on remaining socially respectable confounds and infuriates her, scarlet oozing from her hands as she points at him, “Get down and come inside,” he begins to gesture towards the stable, “now!” 

Hurriedly, and quite uncivilly, he scrambles down from the carriage, four loping steps bring him onto the porch. “Wanda, I—” 

Her hands connect with his back, shoving him towards the open doorway and away from the rain starting to blow sideways into the porch, “Inside.” Thankfully the horse is docile as Wanda leads it through the rain, whinnying softly in what she assumes is contentment once it is safely inside the stable. She turns towards the downpour, fists clenched and pulsing with red.

Wanda stomps through the collecting puddles, the edge of her skirt soaking up the water almost as fast as her blouse, but she doesn’t care, her attention honed in on the worried fluctuations of Vision’s mind. He is standing in the middle of the room, hat rotating in an uneasy circle between his fingers, far enough from the door to escape the stray drops coming in but still close enough to watch her approach. A polite host (or so she’s gathered from watching people at her séances) always offers to free a guest of unnecessary clothing, doubtfully, however, by sheathing a hat in scarlet, roughly tearing it from his hands, and tossing it on the table. “What were you thinking?” 

“In my defense,” statements starting as such are not what she wants to hear as she circles around him, not caring if he views her actions as untoward when she runs her hands along his jacket to assess its saturation, “it was a pleasant day when I left this morning.” 

“Your jacket is soaking.” 

Vision is already unbuttoning his jacket before she finishes the sentence, hands moving automatically as he continues to explain his abhorrent decision making, “I had to go to Clarksville to collect a number of custom welded parts,” he slips his arms out of the jacket and Wanda grabs it with her powers, sending it to hang on a hook in the wall, “it was not until I was several miles from the town that the weather grew menacing.” She walks around him, palms skimming the silk back of his waistcoat before transitioning to the textured brocade of the front, the cloth only mildly damp in some places, “By then I had three options, I could return to Clarksville, I could pull off to the side of the road and sit inside the carriage with the machinery, or I knew you were equidistant to me as was Clarksville.” The explanation, of course, makes sense, his rationale fairly seamless and lacking any sign of illogic despite still being foolish, “Miss Maximoff.” 

“What?” 

There is a gorgeous smile on his face, one so at odds with the anxiety strangling her mind that it holds her body in stasis, “Are you done undressing me yet?” 

“I—” Wanda looks down, somewhat horrified at catching her fingers actively undoing the last button of his waistcoat, a blush searing along her neck at the realization, but she collects herself, sliding the button confidently through its hole while adjusting her tone to match the merriment in his eyes, “Depends, do your gas pipes**** need to come off too?” 

Her forwardness seems to stun him, eyes widening, brows arching, and what might even be a pinkish tinge forming on his cheekbones as he stutters out a weak retort, “I do not believe that is necessary, I was barely in the rain.” He steps back, breaking her contact with him, regaining some semblance of control and rigor over his voice, and finishes removing the vest, his eyes never leaving her. “If it is acceptable to be concerned about clothing, then might I suggest you change as well.” 

“What...” Now that he seems fine, not a trace of concern or fear left in his mind, all wet articles of clothing removed (at least the ones he is willing to part with), Wanda becomes keenly aware of her own dripping garments and the feel of wet hair falling out of her usually tight bun. “I’ll be right back, please um, get comfortable.” 

When she returns to him, clothing blissfully dry and her damp hair loose, he is still standing in the center of the room, absentmindedly plucking his gloves off while his eyes roam over the minimal decor—a table with three chairs, a small cabinet where she keeps her dry food and cookery, a hearth, and a two-seat settee. What she had considered spacious now feels dreadfully inadequate under his inspection. “It’s not a manor.” 

Vision turns to her, confusion marring his forehead at her apologetic tone, “It is perfectly adequate. I apologize for imposing on you, I am certain you had other things—” 

“Vision,” one cycle of apologies is already too many, whatever her afternoon was going to entail, this is far preferable, “I told you, you are always welcome.” Vision is not her first guest, that honor went to Clint and his eldest son, Cooper, the other week, but where that visit felt easy with little expectation of cordial etiquette, Wanda now realizes she has no notion at how, precisely, to host someone who knows every last rule for such things. She is, however, fairly sure that standing in the middle of a room staring at one another is not considered acceptable. “Would you like to sit?” 

The options are limited, his eyes first moving to the couch but that, she has already reckoned, would require their legs to touch, and thus she isn’t surprised, maybe a touch disappointed, when he takes a seat at the table. “Will you join me?” 

“Of course,” Wanda is aware the appropriate seat to take is the one across from him, an innocuous distance for respectable interactions, which is why she bypasses the chair, settling herself at the head of the table, her feet knocking lightly against his as she adjusts to be comfortable. Now that they’re close, the threat of the weather kept at bay by the walls around them, she can see the exhaustion manifesting in darkening circles beneath his eyes, even his body is less poised, leaning forward with his hands on the table. “So,” his hands are actually on the table, no gloves present nor is he shoving them in his pockets, and it sends a thrill down her spine to know he feels this level of comfort around her.

“My apologies.” 

Vision’s hands begin to retreat, but she reaches out, trapping them in a tentative embrace. “No,” the fact he has not flinched nor attempted to remove himself from her grip encourages her to remain touching him, a firm, earnest squeeze hopefully conveying her gratitude at his openness, “I’m sorry for staring.” 

Vision nods, a perceptive smile on his lips as he returns the squeeze, absolving her misstep.  “It is fine.” 

 “Tell me,” Wanda sits back, reluctantly pulling her hand from his, not wanting to cause him too much social discomfort at the onset of their gathering, “what is so important about this exhibition that Stark is fine putting you in danger?” 

The light jab at Stark is artfully sidestepped with a raised eyebrow of dissent, nothing more. “It is an event to showcase the industrial advancements from around the world. Mr. Stark attended the Great Exhibition two years ago in London.” 

“Did you go as well?” 

Vision threads his fingers together, a melancholic air instilling his actions, “I journeyed with him, otherwise I would have had to forgo my treatments and, well, at that point I had finally managed to walk properly and,” the pause in his thought is deafening and she desperately wants to find something to say, yet her own tongue is silent. Vision shakes his head, a small movement not even strong enough to stir his hair, “but I did not attend the actual exhibition, thankfully, as Mr. Stark was approached by several of my prior contemporaries. It sounded marvelous, however, so much so that once we returned Mr. Stark immediately formed a coalition amongst several private businesses and now,” he waves his hands much like she’s seen mesmerists do when the finale has concluded in their show, though Vision’s is less expressive and showy, “the Exhibition starts on the 14th, even President Pierce will be there.” 

“I don’t view that as a selling point.” 

This receives a deep laugh, one she knows would never occur outside the freedom of their current privacy just as the unfettered delight in his voice would be silenced if just one more person were present, “Mr. Stark is actually hosting a private soirée at the same time as the President’s in protest of his tacit support for the anti-abolitionists.” 

An entertaining fact, one that won’t change her view of Stark, only reaffirming the extraordinary protection of wealth. People will no doubt laugh at Stark, roll their eyes and whisper about the eccentric millionaire whereas if she were seen at such an event, her deportation would be imminent, a concern that shifts to the man next to her, “Are you attending that?” 

“No,” the strength and immediacy of his answer is reassuring, “I purposefully remain at a distance from such topics in public. My only occupational requirements for this trip are Mr. Stark’s inventions and upkeep of Stark Tower.” An imposing structure, one of the only buildings in the city over five stories and one she has possibly cursed at several times in passing. “I have also been ordered,” a word she loathes and almost comments on until he smiles broadly, “to take personal time and enjoy the Exhibition.” 

“Good,” she matches his grin, fighting the temptation to reach out and touch his hand again, “You work too hard for that man.” 

Another avoidance of her commentary changes the focus of their conversation, “How is your business?” A topic they have danced around, for the most part, one that veers them awfully close to thoughts they’ve kept prohibited from their time together. 

“Um,” the easiest tactic is to mirror Vision, avoid it with a wave of a hand or a subtle shift back to him, yet that would only continue them down a road of leaving things that might need to be said unsaid and she doesn’t want that as a cornerstone of their relationship, whatever that relationship may be. “Poorly, actually,” Vision sits up straighter, concern overtaking every inch of his face, “they don’t seem terribly interested in palm readings.” 

His mouth opens, then shuts, a finger raised to ask for a moment’s patience and she watches him stand, walk to where his coat is hanging and rifle through the inside pockets until he pulls out a box and a small, leather bound notebook. “Would it help,” apprehension fills his movements as he returns to his seat, laying the easily recognizable box on the table, “if you could expand your offerings?” 

“How long have you been carrying those around?”

Carefully he opens the lid of the box, removing the cards in two stacks before placing them on the table, his eyes never quite meeting hers, “Since you refused to take them, I, um,” he fiddles with the notebook now, flipping the pages back and forth, showing her the meticulous lines of his writing, “have been transcribing the cards during my downtime and thought you or we—” 

When he first offered her this gift it instilled in her an anger, her refusal predicated on not wanting to think of him whenever she used the tarot cards, of needing to throw away all memory of her time at the manor. Perceptions can shift, however, quite swiftly and strongly, a burgeoning excitement now racing through her body at the thoughtfulness of the action. “You want me to write the Sokovian next to each one.” 

“Yes.” The syllable is drawn out as both a statement and a question, his plan predicated on her agreement and also her ability to write, something that is not a guarantee for individuals of their backgrounds. Luckily her parents were strong advocates of education, insisting she and Pietro spend extra time at the synagogue each week to learn all they could. 

Wanda reaches out, drawing the notebook towards her, “Do you have anything to write with?” Another raised finger and another journey to his coat concludes in her holding an intricate metal fountain pen*****, “Okay,” she tests the pen on the paper, impressed at the smoothness of the writing, “what’s first?” 

Slowly he turns each card, reading her the words at the bottom and then showing her where on the sheet he has it written, his face remaining close to hers as he watches her, an inquisitiveness filling his mind at the translations. The whole activity is calming, diversions peppered throughout as he asks her some interpretations. Apparently, he has been reading about the practice of tarot, finding the disproportionate numbers of alternative meanings alarming. It’s as they move from the major arcana to the cups, that his next line of questioning begins, “Wanda.” 

“Yes?” 

Vision stares at a card, lips pursed and eyes distant in thought, “Did you know English, before immigrating?” 

She’d been expecting another spirited debate on whether a reversed card should be interpreted differently from its usual meaning, not a step into her past, but she obliges, not wanting to be disingenuous, as Vision himself argued the other day, by denying such information. “None, I learned it to survive once I got here.” Amazement bursts from his mind, procuring a small half smile from her, encouraging her to share a bit more. “I actually,” at the time she found the method demoralizing, only in retrospect is she able to accept the somewhat humorous methods of her early months in the city, “I would have to mime what I wanted, sometimes I would resort to clucking to buy chicken.” 

“I never,” he pauses, words escaping him as he looks at her, admiration clear in his features, one she doesn’t particularly feel she deserves, “It must have been quite difficult.” 

Wanda nods at the understatement, “It was, fortunately after several months I ended up renting a room from a couple who were kind enough to teach me.” 

The information is factual, surface level, which means the deep contemplation on his face spurs the nervousness growing in her stomach, she has no issue being truthful, but she is worried that too much truth might lead to an irreparable judgment of her.  Wanda stands, channeling her nerves into ambling towards the window to confirm the rain is still falling. When she turns back he is watching her, head cocked to the side and his face serious, “Why did you leave Sokovia?” 

The tapestry of her life is stitched in a complicated pattern, not one thread able to tell the entire story, yet all it might take to unravel the deeply buried secrets of her life is a tug of gentle, earnest curiosity in a tantalizing accent. She needs time to determine what to say, her mind having been consumed with how he would view her simply based on the séance that she devoted little of her cogitation to explaining the rest, justifying the unjustifiable so as not to scare him away. This, she realizes, is a weakness she had avoided since Pietro died, a strong and unwavering commitment to never grow attached or settle roots. How she allowed it to happen is concerning, but not enough to run just yet, the promise of something more buried in his eyes incredibly alluring.  “Are you hungry?”

Vision blinks rapidly, half rising out of his chair as he responds, “I suppose I could eat, may I help with anything?” 

“You can sit,” he’s too kind, too honest, too genuine for her, “I only have bread and cheese inside, not much to prepare.” The cabinet door blocks her from his sight, his attention stifling in a way that is both desirable and terrifying, her heart torn between celebrating his interest and fleeing into the night. The latter option is not actually considered because she knows he’d follow and she won’t do that to him twice. Wanda returns to the table with two tin plates, no ornate designs or even shiny surfaces to compare to what she used at the manor. She lights a lantern, turning the knob to illuminate the tabletop as the sun sets. “So why Vision?” 

“Pardon?” 

Wanda nibbles on her bread, the diversion faltering already, “Why did you choose Vision for your name?” 

His gaze is wary, a flash of hurt at her redirection, but unlike her he answers, keeping it brief yet informative. “Whenever Mr. Stark was explaining the procedures and the results of my surgeries, the one thing he kept saying to me as reassurance whenever I wanted to give up, was that I was a vision of the future of medicine. If this worked for me, think of how many others could be helped by the same procedure.” He shrugs, eyes turned down towards the plate. “It felt appropriate to assume that as my identity, merely a vision, nothing more.” 

“You are far more than that.” 

A small smile dismisses the affirmation, leaving them to eat in silence, the air around them growing more humid as the rain continues, even the small movement of eating a piece of bread meeting resistance. It is not the weather, however, that Wanda finds most uncomfortable, that causes her lungs to malfunction and her breathing to be labored, no it is that his question hangs in the air despite his politeness to not repeat it. If she wants to lose him, to return to a life of no ties then she should remain silent. “I left Sokovia because I literally had nothing left there.” Empathy curves his mouth down, his food forgotten as he stares at her. “After my parents died, my brother,” she corrects herself, deciding it isn’t worth minimizing the uniqueness of the experience nor the striking pain of losing the other half of her soul, “My twin, Pietro, we survived for many years, odd jobs and some stealing,” she pauses, gauging his response to the minor crime of survival but nothing changes, his gaze unmoving and his mind is calm with openness to hear her experience. “I told you that I volunteered for the procedure for,” Wanda sets her hand ablaze. 

“Yes, you did.” 

“Pietro was with me, he went through it too.” 

The first crack in his visage occurs, a wrinkle protruding from his forehead. “Why?” 

Wanda has asked herself this question numerous times, both with Pietro and after, nothing ever feeling wholly right but that assumes all behavior makes perfect sense. “It paid well,” so well that it wasn’t until she moved to upstate New York that she ran out of the money saved from their trials, “really well, on purpose, I assume, to tempt vulnerable people into the program.” The next part of their motivation is stronger than the money, a firmer, more, in her mind, logical reason for their willingness to be turned into monsters, “They also promised employment if you made it through the experiments,” but she can’t bring herself to tell him the whole truth of this employment, of the guarantee of revenge instilled in their duties. 

“Did they tell you beforehand what they were doing?” 

“No.” 

The empathy fades into an irritation, one that keeps descending into anger, his voice hardened, “That is despicable, that is malign manipulation.” 

There is no denying his statement, his anger mirrored in herself as well. “It was,” she and Pietro almost left after the first round of surgeries, the pain immense, debilitating, but with each procedure and each advancement in the program, with each person that died instead of them, the money increased. “But that’s not the worst of it.” She takes his horrified silence as acquiescence to continue, “After they were done we moved back to Novi Grad, were able to afford an apartment, could eat full meals every meal.” 

“Wanda, what happened?” It’s whispered, tentative, almost regretful, but he won’t look away, desperate to show her he is listening. 

She already told him of Stark’s swift removal from Sokovia, the lasting impact it had on the economy which became a major factor in the way their country responded to other regional events, “There was unrest, rumors of revolutions in the other territories of the Empire*****,” she remembers Pietro’s face when they heard of the German resistance and then of the uprisings in Prague, his heart drumming even faster than his feet at the notion of leading a revolt in their own collapsing city. “Hungary had just changed laws, restricted our language, our trade abilities, our religion.” As the tensions rose in the city, they were instructed to keep a low profile while in public, use of their abilities prohibited unless they were on official business for the Baron, but Pietro started pushing back, questioning why he could not use his speed to help his country. “People were angry and superstitious and ready to fight.” It was a fire in a hospital, people whispered that the Austrian army started it, others said it was Sokovian rebels, regardless of the arsonist, she and Pietro determined they had to help. “Someone saw me use my powers to save a woman from a fire.” Wanda can feel tears on her cheeks, a shaky inhale doing nothing to steady the quiver of her voice, and she finds she can’t look at him any longer, can’t handle the sadness and fear in his eyes. “They accused me of being a witch, they started throwing rocks, bricks, whatever was near, and they were screaming, the crowd just kept growing. Then someone tried to shoot me. Pietro, he,” the image of his body stiffening and then folding in on itself as he fell to the ground is forever burned into her memory, the hollowness of his eyes haunt her almost as much as the fact she never got to cradle him or say goodbye, a supposedly well-meaning man yanking her from the crowd before she died too. “I couldn’t stay there without him.” She can’t hold in the sob, feels her own body crumple, mild confusion cutting through her tears when she lands against a shirt and not the table. 

Vision wraps his arms around her, hugging her close while whispering apologies into her hair, his heart pounding beneath her cheek, the metallic waft of his body bringing her gradually back to the present. She weakly attempts to break from his embrace, palms pressed against his chest as she pushes just far enough away to see his dampened eyes. “Wanda,” her name breaks in half as he says it, his arms rearranging from hugging her to tucking his elbows into his sides, his hands cupping her face, thumbs wicking away the tears crashing down her cheeks. “You,” he strokes her skin with each word, “are extraordinary.” 

The barrier of his hands makes it hard for her to vehemently shake her head, “No, I’m not.” 

A smile cracks under his tears, “You are the single most extraordinary person I have ever met.” 

“No,” he doesn’t know what he’s condoning, his basis of her character relying on partial truths that glance over the most unsavory bits of her life, “you should be terrified of me.” 

He shakes his head, denying her statement without reservation, “I have no reason to be fearful of you, Wanda.” 

“I don’t believe that.” 

“If you truly doubt the veracity of my statement,” it is almost painful, the loss of his hands on her face until he reaches down and grabs her shaking hand, guiding it to his cheek, “you are always welcome to look for yourself.” 

Only Pietro ever gave such a statement, this level of trust unwarranted, misguided, and exceptionally foolish. It is possible he misunderstands the breadth of his offer. “You’re aware you are giving me permission to access your thoughts at any time?” 

“Yes,” his eyes light up, beckoning her into her head. “I have faith you will do so judiciously.” 

It is very tempting to dive in, feel the soothing rhythm of his orderly thoughts, but she can’t, not without confirming he truly understands his offer. “How?” 

He repeats his earlier sentiment, as if it should be readily assumed and unquestionable, “There is no reason for me to distrust your intentions towards me.” 

“You have every reason to distrust me.” 

“No,” the joy fades from his eyes, replaced by a steadfast certainty and strength that stirs a fire in her chest at how seamlessly his devotion and single-mindedness transfers to her. “I will concede that Mr. Stark has every reason to distrust you,” truer words have possibly never been spoken, “but, I do not.” 

“Vision.” 

He does not allow her to counter him yet, “Did you harm me? Yes, immensely,” an admission that causes her to wince, “but it was done inadvertently. I understand and respect your disdain towards Stark though I do not condone your actions,” a fact he has made clear in his avoidance of her demeaning remarks towards the man. “Yet I also believe that relying only on the worst aspects of behavior and negating the good can lead to illogically prejudiced beliefs. Thus,” Vision bends his head to make sure their eyes are level, the brilliant blue of his eyes sparkling in the light of the lantern, “it seems reasonable to separate your treatment and beliefs of Stark from your view of me. Or am I wrong in my assumption?” 

How she found this man must involve sorcery or kismet—kindness, understanding, and a propensity to forgive an uncommon match. “You are nothing like Stark.” 

He places his hand over hers, his face almost as confident as it was during paille maille except for a tenderness in his eyes, one that seems to melt her resolve and give in to the sensation of being two souls swirling together by the flickering light of a dying lantern. “That only confirms my point, you have never harbored animosity towards me. Even after you learned my own secrets, nothing changed. You treat me with the same respect and you still insist on challenging my views instead of reaffirming my place in this world.” 

“Some of your views are terribly askew.” 

His laughter is joyous, twining through her being, igniting her soul, “Yes, I have discovered my ignorance now.” 

Wanda wiggles her thumb free from the cocoon of his hand, running it along his cheek, enthralled at the effect it has, his eyes closing and she realizes how close they are, how all it would take is to lean forward and shatter the last boundary of propriety.  It is immensely tempting, not just to test the waters of mutual affection but to also eschew sleep, stay wrapped in his honeyed voice, allow his subdued laughter and intense gaze to consume her body, but she knows he has barely slept, worries this closeness is a mixture of empathy, exhaustion, and politeness.  “It is quite late.” 

Vision’s mouth dips at her statement, the disappointment in his eyes is painful, but far more excruciating is the moment he leans back, severing their connection as he pats his hands against his chest. A tendril of scarlet leaves her hand retrieving the pocket watch from his discarded waistcoat. His frown deepens when he clicks open the lid. “It is very late.” He tries hard to make the statement sound authoritative, yet his own remorse at confirming the undeniable truth causes a quivering hesitation to shake the words.  A moment later Vision stands, slightly uneven strides bringing him to the door where he examines the pitch black night that no longer rings with rain. “The tavern has beds, correct?" 

“You can’t seriously think it's a good idea to travel now.” 

Despite the gradual easing of his behaviors and the loosening of his resolve to remain proper at all times, the overall influence of his deeply ingrained manners is still strong. “I do not wish to impose further.” 

“You can stay.” 

Her words draw him two steps back into the room, though his face is still not wholly convinced of accepting the offer. “What will people think, if I stay?” The concern in his voice isn’t for him, but for the flimsy social code that polices behavior, particularly against women if there is any blame to be had. 

Wanda shrugs, “No one knows you’re here, Vision. And if they find out,” she channels her own fluttering nervousness at the possibility of staying with him longer into a feigned nonchalance, hoping not only to convince him to remain but to also, perhaps, decipher the true meaning of his intentions, “They will simply assume it was a bundling******”. 

“I-um, I,” 

The fact he does not outright deny it or question it, that he doesn’t ask why they would think such a thing or deem it a preposterous statement enlivens her confidence, a wry smile growing on her lips as she pushes the notion more, “I mean ever since your first visit there’s been a flurry of gossip about my handsome suitor,” a mostly accurate statement, there have been many pointed looks and some bawdy inquiries from Mrs. Meisner and the other bored ladies of a dizzy age******* “No one would mind, they might even expect it.” 

The flabbergasted expression on his face shifts, moving first to denial, then consideration, waltzing briefly with confusion, until it settles on a deeply invested gaze of scrutiny. “Does it trouble you that such prurient******** assumptions may be made?” 

The question brings her to the precipice of her wants for the future, to remain independent, alone, unattached which is safer, or to forge ahead with something new, that carries with it a high price of potential pain if it crumbles. “No.” 

He takes three more steps into the room, the door shutting behind him with an echoing thud and her heart sings at the victory. “I suppose I can stay but I insist on sleeping on the settee.” 

Wanda tamps down the rebellious urge to jostle him further by suggesting her bed, an option he’d in the best scenario laugh nervously at but decline and in the worst, say no and flee into the night. “Of course.”  They find themselves back at the beginning of his visit, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, staring and waiting for the other to set the course of what comes next. Honestly, Wanda doesn’t know what should occur, how far she can interpret his responses, whether he actually wants the people to think they are in a courtship or if he is simply falling back on politeness as he is wont to do. She gives him a curt nod and a “Goodnight, Vision,” turning towards the bedroom to place the decision in his hands. 

“Wanda?” 

The whisper of her name ties itself around her heart and pivots her back towards him, “Vision?” 

“I wanted to thank you for allowing me to stay. I-” the words are ushered out by the restless waving of his fingers and another step towards her, his eyes seemingly torn between her face and watching his hands betray his nerves, “thoroughly enjoyed your company.” 

The emphasis he puts on the thoroughly seems to shrink the room around them, increasing her own awareness of how close they are standing, his even breaths echoing around her and she fears he might be able to hear the rampant drumming of her heart. Wants are dangerous things, unnecessary diversions that can only complicate life, and yet her decision earlier is only strengthened in this moment, staring up into the confused yet curious gaze of this man, of how very much she wants to be closer to him, in numerous literal and figurative ways. Wanda takes a step forward and the room shrinks even more, the space around them narrowing so much any movement, even a simple inhale, would cause them to touch. So Wanda continues, a half step forward brings her chest to brush his and a stream of scarlet from the hand at her hip helps steady her as she rises onto her toes, other hand coming to lay on his shoulder. “Me too.” The cessation of his breath and the crumbling of his calm and orderly thoughts as she presses her lips to his cheek confirms what she had hoped, that perhaps it isn’t merely civility influencing his actions. 

Wanda flashes him a demure smirk as she lowers herself back to the ground, her tongue preparing to say another good night before she sneaks away to privately relish her bravery, but the intensity of his stare gives her pause. “Vision?” His continued silence is disconcerting and a quick, hopefully unnoticed brush of his mind uncovers a fascinating phenomenon as his thoughts seem to collapse into a tight bundle of single-minded ideation. Earlier he had offered her access to his mind whenever she pleased, and now her curiosity, her desire to know his thoughts, gives her the courage to accept that offer, his breath hitching as she lays her palm to his jaw, “May I?” A silent nod grants her permission and she enters his mind.  A broad, goading grin shoves her cheeks up at what he allows her to read. “I’d very much like that.” 

It takes a moment for him to translate her consent and piece it together with her presence in his mind, but once the puzzle is complete, Vision smiles softly, bringing his hands to her face in a purposefully lazy pace, his fingertips skimming along her skin until her cheeks are cupped by his palms.  Wanda’s own smile has to defy the laws of anatomical possibility by growing wider, expanding from her mouth to fill her entire body, her hands wrapping excitedly around his wrists, the contrast between his skin and the metal captivating, and she uses her grip on him to pull herself up just as he bends down. The kiss is tender yet chaste, polite but not devoid of passion, an unspoken, ineffable rightness in the way his lips move ever so slightly against hers. Much too soon he pulls back, his thumb brushing her cheek as he stares into her eyes, flashing her a charming, spoony******** smile that she immediately reciprocates. “You know,” she grips his wrists a bit tighter, “If they believe we’re bundling already…” 

A self-conscious, though charmed, laugh meets her words; if the light was just a bit brighter she knows there’d be a blush on his face to match the one in his mind. “Goodnight, Wanda.” 

“Goodnight, Vision.”  

Victorian Language Decoder:

* yard-of-pumpwater: tall and lanky man

**In 1853, in a small town with steady jobs, the average daily wage was between $1-$1.50

***hornswaggler: cheater

****gas-pipes: Pants, typically particularly tight ones, though I doubt Vision wears tight pants. I just liked the term

*****The fountain pen with an ink reservoir was first available in the 1700s but didn’t meet mass production until around the 1830s in England and the 1850s in the US.

******During the 1840s a series of revolts started where the countries ruled under the Austrian Empire (including Germany, Austria, and most of Eastern Europe) were beginning to demand autonomy, largely encouraged by economic depression and food shortages. The first big revolts were in Poland and Germany in 1846 and then from 1846-1848 there were major uprisings in Slovakia, Romania, and Croatia (there were others but those are closest to where Sokovia would be located).

*******Bundling: a practice in courtship where the two people are wrapped/bundled together in bed (apparently, they were given separate blankets) and were expected to spend the evening talking (I’m sure there was lots of “talking”). It was not super common in the 1800s, but was still practiced in many places in upper NY and Pennsylvania into the late 1800s. There was actually a NY court case (Graham v. Smith, 1846) about the seduction of a 19-year-old woman, but the court was like – “What did you expect to happen when you had them bundle?!” (not a direct quote)

******* Dizzy age: elderly

********prurient: having or encouraging an excessive interest in sexual matters

*********spoony: foolishly amorous/stupid with love