#Dream finally being able to shift into a mermaids after prison… | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

anonthenullifier · 6 years ago

Text

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 11

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter Title: In which an olive branch is offered and the witch discovers the truth

Chapter summary: The occupants of the tower strategize how to handle the threat of Ultron and Wanda is presented with new information about her past.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/43265102

The wall of the room is ordinary. Not the ordinary of her own bare walls in Normanskill but of the framed portraits and gorgeous landscapes hung on the embellished wallpaper typical of houses owned by wealth. Yet this specific wall is different. Wanda replays in her mind the way it looked opened two nights ago and then tries to remember how it shut. If she can recall its movement then she should be able to recreate it. Her fingers skim the seams of the wallpaper, inspecting every indent and raised portion, swiping underneath each picture frame as she searches for the solution. Nothing happens.

Wanda steadies her fingers by balling them into fists and inhaling deeply. There hasn’t been any sign of Vision all day, not even a conversation to be overheard about his well-being. That itself has acted like a splinter under her nails, a steady, just below the surface anxiety gripping her the longer she goes without feeling his mind. Foolishly she thought his need for order would prevail, that at eight he’d bring her tea and at ten he’d stop by for last checks before the tower retired into the oblivion of dreams. Instead she was met with Happy’s discombobulated apologies at roughly 8:30 and 10:15, a hurried, rambling exchange of items that underscored the clear differential in discipline between the butlers.

Cold tea or receiving a finger towel instead of a hand towel doesn’t matter to her. What does matter is the slow drip of dread submerging her in the running narrative of her life and the role she seems destined to play, even when she vows to change. Wherever there is order she always tips it into chaos.

Wanda shakes the thoughts away, refusing to become mired in self-loathing, and concentrates on the wall. There’s a sconce to the right—a shapely bronze mermaid. If she were to wade into the terrifying depths of Stark’s reasoning, this seems right up his alley for a switch to a secret door. Wanda grips the waist of the mermaid and pulls down, victory racing through her veins as the wall opens.

The passageway is dimly lit, though still brighter than the tunnel this morning. A solitary gaslamp, spitting out its last breaths, and the residual light of the hallway ahead of her are doing their best to break the darkness. Wanda trails her fingertips along the wall as she approaches the corridor, hoping to anchor her nerves to the sensation of the rough panels so that once she reaches Vision she can form coherent thoughts. All she needs is his ear for three seconds, at the least, just long enough to apologize and stare into his eyes to confirm he’ll be okay.

When she reaches the brighter path of the servants’ wing, she turns left and freezes.

“You lost?” Tony disembarks from his casual lean against the wall.

“No.” The man’s arms cross as he faces her, a challenge etched into his wide stance, one she meets head on. “I wanted to check on Vision.”

Derision rocks his chest with an exaggerated snort, “You sure like to make stuffed birds laugh.” Hardened amusement shifts into an unflinching seriousness. “That’s not happening.”

Wanda accepts the statement, any challenge sure to be met with more hostility if their past interactions are any indication. “Okay, then how is he doing?”

“You hurt him, Wanda.” Her quiet, “I know” is shoved aside by Stark’s overly enunciated, “Again.” He steps towards her and it takes every ounce of her resolve to not be pressured into moving, “We had an understanding about this. You aren’t getting close to him again.”

Anger is to be expected, hatred is not surprising, and unfortunately, she can’t even bemoan him this decision, even if she’ll challenge it in the future. All she needs right now is just some confirmation Vision is okay. “How is he doing?”

“Go back to your room.”

Wanda can feel the bile rising up her throat and the scarlet dancing beneath her skin, both of which she keeps in check in case any ill-will from her lessens her chance at getting an answer. “Is he awake?”

This only hardens Stark’s face more, his feet stepping out wider, physically expanding to bar her from even seeing the door to Vision’s room. “I really don’t see why it matters to you. Vision’s not out here right now, no need to keep pretending to care.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“And I’m the King of England.”

Stark digs his feet in and it seems the only way she will get to Vision tonight is through mental force, an option she discards immediately. This means what she should do is walk away, allow another night to pass and Vision to recover, hopefully once he is fully cogent he can convince Stark to let her talk to him, like he did the last time she hurt him, though this requires the presumption he’ll want to see her. But staring at the thin, slimy smirk on Stark’s face presents her an opportunity to needle back, channel her heightened anxiety into acrimony at someone other than herself and possibly get answers along the way. Without the risk of compromising her chance to see Vision there’s no requirement she tiptoe around her disdain, so she switches topics, making sure her voice is as serious and emboldened as Stark’s. “How long have you known Ultron?”

The corner of his mouth drops, eyes attempting to bore a hole into her or cause her to combust, but she stands tall, matching the angles of his body to put them on equal footing. Stark doesn’t dismiss the question, head bobbing side to side until he shrugs, sending the whole world off his shoulders as if he’s got nothing better to do than begrudgingly deal with her, “I could really use a drink, care to join?”

The offer catches her off guard until she realizes that the most successful way to keep her from Vision is if she’s with Stark instead. It’s not a bad strategy, for either of their goals. “A drink sounds good.” Never in all the long nights since she lost her parents, did she ever think the idea of sitting down over a glass of spirits with Tony Stark would be considered appealing more than tortuous.

“Perfect, just give me a second.” She watches Stark walk to the only door in the hallway, is tempted to move closer to look inside, but the man isn’t at the door for long, just enough time to peek his head in, and then he shuts it and starts walking. “Come on.” Nothing more is said between them, Tony purposefully staying three steps ahead of her the entire journey, even when they enter the study (every inch of which is covered in mahogany with accents of forest green paisley), all he provides her for direction is a grunt and nod towards a chair while he fills up two glasses from a crystal carafe.

Wanda accepts the drink, sniffing the liquid and waiting until Stark takes a sip before she follows suit. It burns in the best way, coating her throat and chest with a medicinal warmth that feels almost like an atonement, or at least the first step in searing away the guilt suffocating her.

The question has been asked and based on the way Stark is inspecting his drink so studiously, rotating his wrist to send the liquid sloshing, it is unlikely he has forgotten the topic of their nightcap discussion. Within the crystal prison of Tony’s glass, amber spirits swirl into a cyclone. “What do you know about Ultron’s past?” The raging storm is mesmerizing, never slowing, his wrist absentmindedly maintaining the perfect rhythm as he waits for her to answer his counter-question.

The image of Ultron during their first meeting is crystal clear, the way his prosthetic hands rested so openly, the way his eyes always had a sheen of sorrow when he probed her on her own tragic past. He’d been refreshingly unreserved in allowing the sharp corners of his life to stab at her heart, forgoing the socially accepted method of sanding down the edges to make it more palatable. If only she’d seen through his disguise that day. “He was a businessman, fairly small company. There was a riot near his office,” the details are still fuzzy to her, social issues and financial nuances that never seemed necessary to understand the aspects of his story he deemed important, “something about bread, I think.”

The liquid keeps its spiral even while Stark responds. “FlourA.”

“Sure.” Briefly she loses the thread of the story, distracted at Stark’s knowledge of Ultron’s past and why he wants her to tell him what he already appears to know. “He went into a shop to try and stop some men from killing the owner but the crowd grew too frenzied and someone threw an incendiary through the window.” Ultron had given her graphic details of his injury, described the way it felt to be torn apart by the red-hot ball of fury, ��lost his arms, injured his leg, had glass shards embedded in his face.”

“Yeah,” the tornado dies as Tony takes a sip of the drink, lips smacking at the strong taste. “We’re definitely dealing with the same person. That’s what he told me too.” Tony breathes in, places the glass down, and releases an audible, worn out breath, his body slouching into the chair as he finally begins to answer her question. “My first contract, after assuming ownership of Stark Industries, was for the War DepartmentB. Apparently, they’d received a gift of a rare precious metal from some jungle kingdom.” The tone suggests the metal may not have been freely given. “Wanted me to develop some sort of an exoskeleton meant to help wounded soldiers get back to war. I had hoped to then bring it to the public once it worked.” No doubt for the sake of profit and not because of some charitable need to help the less fortunate of society. “We decided that we’d choose our test subject based on physical need and mental functioning,” he picks up his glass and tips it towards his chest, studying the liquid, “you know, no lunatics or anything.”

“Ultron was your subject?”

Tony nods at her supposition. “When we sent out feelers for subjects, over twenty people recommended this guy named,” the glass clings against the table as he tries to conjure up the name, “MarkC or something like that, touted him as a community hero for how he’d responded to the riots.” A long sip empties his glass. “Want another?” Her own is only half empty, but she hands it to him anyway, eyes following as he fills up both glasses. “We were torn, you know,” the carafe swings in his hand, sending the liquor into a frenzy, “should we choose an actual soldier or choose someone we could make into a solider?” Tony hands her the now brimming glass and plops back into the chair across from her, facial muscles loosening the more he imbibes. “Mark always rose to the top of our list— intelligent, even-keeled, persuasive, promised us everything we could want with his willingness to undergo our tests. I didn’t even think of checking his story.” His lips clasp into a thin line, eyes never leaving the steady swirl of his drink. “It’s not an excuse,” which means it is going to be offered as one and she will promptly reject it, “but my parents had died only months before, I was overwhelmed with the company and dealing with their estate, all I wanted was to protect people, to feel like I-”

“Like you had control.”

Tony’s nod is in slow-motion, her words being weighed with each dip of his chin, “And then I lost it. Two days before we were going to start building the vibranium exoskeleton on his body, some high-level, hoity toity government guy discovered glaring inconsistencies in his story.” This is information she has never heard nor gathered from Ultron, his version always maintaining the exact same details and heroically tragic overtones. “He was at the riots that day. Not as a bystander but as an organizer. Gave a speech and everything.” Ultron does love public oration and manipulation so this fits her knowledge of him as a person. “Turns out he was the one that suggested they all march over to Hart’s business to make their demands known and that if Hart refused their offer of less money for flour then they should take it by whatever force was necessary.”

This sounds far more in line with what she knows of Ultron, what she has seen him do simply with words, offer subtle suggestions to turn the tide of individuals and crowds. “He started the riots?”

“He did. Apparently, he was also the one trying to kill Hart, not stop it.”

Another behavioral consistency with the true man but this still doesn’t explain Ultron’s fury and need for vengeance. For some reason she never inquired of Ultron why he hated Stark, the mere fact his hatred matched her own was enough to assume Stark was the nexus of all Ultron’s pain and anger. Now it seems vital to understand the origins of his motivation. “What did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do anything to him,” defensiveness enters his voice, body bristling and ready to fight.

It causes her to rethink what she said and acknowledge it could have been phrased better. “I’m sorry, I meant, what happened next?”

Stark’s annoyance lessens slightly, though his knuckles remain white from gripping his drink. “I literally did nothing to him. We released him from the program, the War Department locked up the vibranium and started brokering deals of who they might sell it to, and my contract was done, project U.L.T.R.O.N. was forgotten and frankly I haven’t thought of Mark, or whatever his name was, for some time.”

There is a disconnect in how Stark views harm, one that seems to demarcate around the intricacies of commission versus omission. “Doing nothing isn’t the same as not harming.”

“Oh, well, since you seem to be the expert,” how easily they always return to this state, the push and pull of their relationship requiring tension and sarcasm, “please tell me how I ruined his life by merely releasing him.”

Wanda proceeds with a caveat, an olive branch to soften his negativity to what is coming, “Nothing excuses what he has become or what he is planning to do.” Stark’s crystal tumbler sways to the side in acceptance of her preemptive placating, encouraging her to proceed. “You gave him hope,” just like Stark Industries had done in Novi Grad, a promise of something just a bit better than what they’d had before, “a path forward after he’d lost so much. My guess is you had fitted everything and tested it out.”

“We had created functional versions in less resilient material.”

Sokovia had tasted the fruit of their labor, an economy that at least provided what was needed—food on the table and a roof overhead for everyone. The success of Stark’s factory was already bringing other businesses into negotiations to establish a presence in the city. “Then you just took it away, did you even let him have a prototype or offer anything to help his injuries?” Tony’s silence speaks volumes, eyes distant and mouth set in a stern line, as if he’s possibly looking in a mirror for the first time in his life and realizes the blemishes in skin. “He’s a horrible man, a monster, and he likely didn’t deserve anything, but I imagine, in his mind, you abandoned him when you knew he needed help, just like you did Sokovia after the factory.”

His voice is quiet and forcefully even, “I left Sokovia because I thought my continued presence would only be a reminder of what happened.”

“You helped send us into a depression. No one else wanted to come to the city with the skeleton of your failure still standing.” There’s no counter argument or biting remark, only his unnerving stare, “Had you just done something, anything, it would have hurt less than the abandonment.”

Tony glances down, morosely watching the ebb and flow of his drink, wrist endlessly in motion. “All he was to me was the lunatic who caused a year of my work to be for nothing.” A sip breaks the sentence, followed by a grimace and he continues, “Then again all Sokovia was to me was an ill-handled disaster I could forget about by just turning away.” Frustrated tears threaten to fall from the corners of her eyes at finally getting an honest admission from him. “But you can’t forget it,” it seems the tears are mutual, glistening in his own eyes, “and neither can he.”

“He wants to obliterate you and everyone around you.”

Tony’s wrist stops, the ripples of his drink calming into a placid lake, “Do you still want that?”

Whether the answer she gives is the one meant to get her back to Vision or the truth, it is the same, “No.”

Briefly he snaps out of the melancholy, lifting the glass in solute to solving one problem at hand, “Cheers to that.”

“Cheers.” Their glasses clink and the feeling in the air is unburdened, almost peaceful, though that is strongly influenced by the alcohol. She considers keeping him in this mood, not currently annoyed at his company, but there are still more answers she needs. “How did you get the vibranium back for Vision?”

Stark sobers, putting the glass down and leaning forward, elbows coming to rest on his knees while he lowers his voice as if the heads of the War Department are in the hidden passageways surrounding them. “It was an amazing material, actually tried to buy it from them myself, but I didn’t succeed at that. So I kept an eye on it, tracked it as they sold it and turned my interests more towards finishing the arc reactor. Conveniently, they sold it to Queen Victoria a year before I went over to do some work, give some speeches to aspiring engineers like myself.” Like Victor Williams.

Vision told her he’d never asked or wanted details about the acquisition of the vibranium, his control over curiosity and morality impressive, something she doesn’t consider a vital trait in her own life. “Did you steal it?”

“I did,” mischief alights on his face as he picks up his drink again, “don’t tell Vision though.” His jovial pride slips backwards into somberness as he continues, “Vision was the perfect candidate. He needed it to survive, he had a clean past, a bright future, clearly had heroic qualities.” And Tony’s guilt at being the cause for the injuries no doubt played into his (not wrong) perceptions of Vision’s fit for the program. “The design was going to need an update given the difference in injuries, which wasn’t a big deal, but project U.L.T.R.O.N was done and they said I couldn’t re-up the contract. I did try,” the glass waves through the air as he attempts to resolve the dissonance created by breaking the law, “to use official,” he pauses, “somewhat official channels and when they didn’t respond in a timely manner, what else did they expect to happen?”

Wanda weighs the words, a little perturbed at finding she believes Stark so easily. “How did they never realize you took it?”

“Oh, they knew.” The trademark cocky grin he uses in public saunters into their conversation. “They could never find it though,” his voice grows conspiratorial, inviting her into a dark web even Vision is ignorant of, “I convinced them Vision had the plague, so they never went into his room and that also made them want him out of the country. All of that, plus being the preeminent businessman of my country,” this is the Stark she knows far better than the vulnerable one of before, “made it easier for Polk to convince the Queen to let me return to the States instead of facing prosecution.”

Belief in his veracity and the cunning of his actions, however, can’t change the truth of what Ultron wants or what he has planned, the past cannot save the present. “Ultron is looking for the vibranium.”

“Of course he is.” A beat and the uneasy comfort they have descends into mistrust, “You didn’t tell him about-”

Wanda makes sure her, “No,” is forceful and irrefutable before easing into the uncomfortable truths of Ultron’s knowledge. “But Ultron suspects Vision has it.”

“Fuck.” A hand to his face muffles the second part of his comment, “Don’t tell Vision I just said that in front of you.” An alien, surprisingly hopeful smile forms on her lips at the now two implicit suggestions of speaking to Vision at some point in the future. “Wanda,” then it flees at the way Stark is eying her, “since I’ve been so open to your questions, mind if I ask some of my own?”

The only way they will successfully take down Ultron is if an alliance is formed, if the line between sides is thoroughly and unmistakably carved into the ground. Wanda does her best to mimic the way Stark tilted his glass towards her earlier, “Go ahead.”

His fingers tap against his mouth as he sorts through whatever questions he has, pausing several times to raise a finger and then seemingly deciding that question is not the best. Finally, he seems to hone in on a strategy, settling himself back comfortably into his chair, and proceeds, “How’d you get involved with Ultron?”

Unlike Tony, Wanda doesn’t feel compelled to share long narratives, no matter how much alcohol she’s consumed. “We had the same goal, to destroy you, it seemed an ideal partnership.”

“That’s honest.” Typically he’d say it sarcastically, yet in this moment it seems a refreshing observation to him. “You know, I always kind of fantasized about underground crime networks out to get me, shunned scientists or jealous business partners who realized they could never reach my intellectual potential.” Of course he has, no doubt he’s even given them snarky and Stark-centric names. “It’s really not fun, now that I know it exists.” He finishes his second glass as he transitions to a new topic, “I’m still having a hard time with one minor—actually major thing. I get you wanted to destroy me.”

“Yes.”

“And you maintain you’ve never wanted to harm Vision?”

“Yes.”

Tony scrunches his face as she confirms what she’s already told him on numerous occasions. “So how does he keep ending up like this?”

The full explanation involves going all the way back to Sokovia, to the baron, the emergence of her powers and the winding path that brought her to Stark’s mansion. Each step of that journey will no doubt be crudely questioned, her intentions and her motivation never truthful enough for Stark. Even with the aid of bourbon, she has no desire to go through that, so she tries to find a way to summarize all of it as succinctly as possible. “My best guess,” Wanda can’t look at the man across from her and actually say this, so she keeps her eyes locked onto the checkered pattern of the tabletop between them, “is that everyone I’ve ever loved in my life, I’ve lost. And the deeper I care about Vision, the more I want to protect him, the more hurt he gets because of my past associations. I think it’s my fate or something.”

Silence isn’t what she expects, Tony Stark not a man capable of more than a second of stillness before he feels the need to fill it, yet he hasn’t spoken, hasn’t even placed his glass down or suggested another drink, the only sound in the room is her own heart beating in her throat. “He’s doing okay, Wanda. Not great by any means, but okay.” The tiniest weight lifts from her chest. “Been sleeping pretty much all day, like he is now. The one time he was awake, well that’s a bit dicier.” This isn’t comforting, though she waits to see if Stark elaborates on his definition of dicey. “At first he seemed himself, logical and quiet, and then,” her fingers grip the glass tighter as Stark elongates the pause in his sentence, “Then he went off the rails.” Stark laughs, it’s one note, brief, and borderline manic, “Like when I asked him what happened he tried to tell me you have powers that come out of your hands.”

Wanda bends forward to place her drink down, using enough force that the clink of the crystal on wood is loud enough to pull Stark’s attention solely to her. “You mean like this?” Scarlet engulfs her hand, pulsing in even rhythms, growing brighter the longer he stares, and then she steals his glass with a whip of scarlet.

“Huh.” She’d expected him to be gobsmacked, maybe a bit terrified because fear is still a welcome look on his face, and it’s possible his lack of words is the way this manifests, but it is not nearly as satisfying. “I suppose him saying you read minds is not a whole hogD either?” Wanda shakes her head, not particularly interested in entering the millionaire’s mind to prove it. “Huh.”

This would be the point where she should bring back the séance, help him understand she’s being truthful, yet she feels perhaps it is best for him to come to that conclusion alone or possibly even go back to Vision, a source he trusts far more than her. “Anything else?”

His face is full of questions, ideas treading together just beneath the surface until he tamps it down. “I think I’ve reached my weird quotient for the night, so maybe tomorrow.” The atmosphere cracks around them as he stands, stretching his arms out to shoo away the ghosts of their past before he glues on an unconvincing disinterest to his close-lipped smile. “I should check on Vision.” Stark hesitates, mulling over something in his mind, “I’ll let you know when he wakes up.”

“Thank you.” The door shuts behind Stark and she’s left alone once more.

“This room’s too small.” Clint paces through the empty rows of chairs, eyes taking in every angle of the room. “There’s no clear shots in case we need to shake a flanninE.”

Over breakfast they all discussed how to prepare for Ultron, a conversation that was illuminating and helpful, though uncomfortably absent the one person Wanda wanted to see the most. The path forward is structured along two branches - technological and tactical. Stark, Rhodes, and Vision (once he stops, according to Stark, sleeping away his responsibilities) are experimenting with what was labeled a failsafe option in case Ultron gets ahold of the arc reactor, though Stark maintained an infuriatingly tight-lipped policy on the device stating it was too soon in development to divulge more. This left Wanda and her chaperones to determine the defensive strategy for the demonstration, and Wanda can’t help but wonder if the insistence they check on the set-up at the Crystal Palace is an elaborate way Stark is keeping her from Vision.

Natasha follows in Clint’s path, face devoid of all emotion or sign of her thoughts. The room itself is on the third floor, deep in the west nave with a small stage at the front and enough room for about twenty people to sit and watch. It’s exactly what would be needed for an intimate demonstration meant only for experts in the field. But, considering Ultron’s intentions, it is also perfect for an ambush as there is nowhere to hide, or run, and little room to fight back once control is lost. Natasha seems in concurrence as she steps onto the stage and stares out at the seats, “It’s not ideal.”

“Not ideal?” Clint flails his arms, turning to emphasize the space around them. “Nat, this is the reincarnation of Budapest.”

Whatever event he references casts a dangerous cloud over Natasha’s mind. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

“I do, actually, thanks for asking.” Clint marches out of the room, his steps confidently leading them down the semi-crowded hall and to the railing overlooking the main floor under the dome. “Right there,” he points to the stage still constructed from Stark’s opening demonstration, “I could stand up here and,” with realistic sound effects he pantomimes notching an arrow and letting it loose, “have actual control of the situation.”

Wanda was rarely included in the intricacies of tactical planning in Sokovia and with Ultron, only being brought on once her own part had been cast, making her feel practically useless right now as the two bicker. “You’d have ten times the people to watch.”

“They didn’t call me Hawkeye for nothing, Nat. I can hit anyone from any distance.”

Natasha’s remains on task, uninterested in joining his competition. “We open the demonstration to the public it means more people are being put in harm’s way.”

It’s a fair point, a large portion of their breakfast revolved around the need to reduce collateral, the reminder of Vision’s torture still too fresh. Except the size of the room won’t matter if Ultron succeeds fully with what he wants. When she dove into the abyss of his mind, she found a similar, monstrous plan to the time before, a bait and switch where a personal attack on Stark sits at the epicenter of wider destruction. Wanda glances over her shoulder, an action she’s been doing constantly since they left the tower, before hesitantly adding to the conversation. “He wants to use the arc reactor attack as a way to steer people deeper into the building,” the images still float in her mind and the harrowing glee he felt when thinking about it tingles on her palms, “where they can’t escape as easily.”

The rest is left hanging, too unbearable to utter in the open like this. Both of her companions seem to understand her concern. Natasha’s stoic and calculating stare sweeps across the open and majestic room before them. “How many minds can you control at once?”

“It depends.”

“On?”

The list is long and not at all exhaustive, this very line of inquiry of great interest to the scientists and the baron. Wanda narrows it down to the three most prominently featured in this setting. “I’m better in smaller rooms,” this allows her quicker access to everyone, “I’m better the closer I am, and if they are all thinking of the same thing.”

Clint leans against the rail to get a better view below them, “It’s pretty spacious compared to the other room.”

An eye roll betrays Nat’s feeling on the uselessness of his obvious observation. “If we could get you close and have everyone paying attention to one thing, how many?”

Wanda flexes her powers, hand buried in her skirt in case of curious onlookers, and presses gently against the crowd below. It’s difficult, hundreds of minds bouncing in hundreds of directions, no two the same, though she can locate pockets of similarities based on the displays. This isn’t how it would be if Stark moved his display here, that man, for better or worse, demands attention and during the Iron Man presentation almost every thought coalesced around him. When she recalls that feeling, the onslaught of hundreds of minds in unison, her powers flow a bit easier. “Two hundred, at best, and it couldn’t be anything complicated and I’d need to be protected, I can’t focus on all those people and defend myself.”

“I’ll cover you,” these words from anyone other than Natasha would be viewed as a polite yet empty promise, from the spy, however, it’s a binding oath.

“Then I think it could work.”

Clint surveys the ground floor again with an appreciative nod, “We should mosey on back to the tower to update everyone, plus,” the blacksmith’s pocket watch isn't on a shiny chain but it is a well-crafted and durable device, the solid silver face popping open to confirm his thought, “we need to get ready for the shindig tonight.”

Stark’s lavish party, the one Vision informed her was in protest to the President’s own event, is occurring on the Virginia in a few hours. Wanda wasn’t invited, not a single person inquired if she had clothes or if she intended to go, which is fine, because she’d have declined anyway. It does create a barrier on their reconnaissance efforts, “We should head back,” Natasha’s open displeasure lies at the crossroads of inadequate time to prepare for a mission and the unenviable option of crossing Pepper’s sternly reiterated timeline for the evening. “On the way out look for anything that obscures sightlines, evacuation paths, or might be trouble for us.”

What two days ago was a wonderland of unique, enthusiastically narrated innovations, turns into a nightmare. The Fresnel lensF is stripped of its structural beauty and revealed to be a monolith blocking the closest route of escape. Each statue rises to block sight lines and cage in the eager crowd likely to form, Wanda even pushes her powers against the base of scene frozen in struggle—a hunter attempting to strike down the snake poised to attack. The pedestal shakes and Wanda adds it as a potential concern. They walk past the cord pyramid and it is a fire hazard, the Colt display becomes either an armory for themselves or a garden of death in Ultron’s possession. For a moment, Wanda stops and stares at herself in the enormous mirror, a fuzzy recollection of its history only heightening her attention to the empty space beside her. She begins to turn away and then stops, feet slowly rotating her back to her reflection where over her shoulder she can see the woman in white in the distance, staring directly into the glass. The woman moves on, apparently gaining all she needed.

When they return to the tower, it’s abuzz with activity. Numerous nameless, nigh identical socialites lounge in the front parlor awaiting the scheduled ride to the Virginia. The women are experts at looking at ease even in their intricate structured and lavishly decorated dresses, and the men, being chivalrous, lean against walls and tables and the backs of couches as they cheerily chat. Pepper flits between groups, the polite and gracious smile of a host affixed to her face. There's an entire fleet of butlers and maids, faces she has never seen before and assumes are employees of the invasive species of wealth in the room. Natasha guides them through the crowd, deep into the secondary parlor reserved only for long-term house guests. It’s here they find Rhodes and Tony locked in debate. “Are you really turn coating now?”

“I’m just saying,” Rhodes’ manner is similar to how she’s seen parents acting while defusing the bomb that is a sassing adolescent in public, “For the sake of time, go with the other one.”

“Tony,” Natasha, who has a built-in clock and believes in wasting none of that time, intervenes, “we have some ideas for your demonstration.”

The millionaire whisks around, a toothy, slightly disordered grin on his face. “Great, you can tell me at the gala, but more importantly, do you like this one,” a garish gold laced monstrosity is held to his neck, “or this one?” a subtler maroon cravat with flecks of gold ascends. Most people would allow feedback at this point, but they instead get the backstory. “Without spoiling anything, Rhodes and I prefer one of them and then, in an act of utter betrayal, Vision has sided with Pepper.”

Natasha’s inhale isn’t audible, but the disapproval and annoyance at this being the crisis is palpable in the air around her. “It really seems Vision is the only intelligent man in this scenario. Like him, I will always side with Pepper.”

“I like the gold one,” Clint’s selection isn’t as sincere as it is devious, a smirk on his face belying his need to cause more drama.

“Thank you!” Tony now turns to her, “Okay Wanda, you’re the literal tie breaker now.” This she takes as a promising sign, the act of asking her opinion perhaps indicating there is some level of understanding and possibly (though unlikely) forgiveness. “This cunning gold one,” a dramatic flourish brings the eyesore to his throat, “or,” limply he displays the other one, “this one that probably twenty other people will also be wearing tonight.”

Due to the breakneck pace of Stark’s mouth, her mind took far too long to connect all of the information being lobbed around the room. “Did you say Vision is awake?”

Tony piggybacks on her question with a bribe, “He is, side with me,” the gold cravat rises to his neck and does a little dance, “and maybe I can tell you where he is.”

“He’s in the study,” Rhodes states it matter-of-factly, ignoring the daggers sent his way via Stark, “asked us to inform you he’d find you as soon as he’s done.”

Tony’s “Traitor” occurs simultaneously with her, “Thank you.”

Patience being an aggravating virtue, Wanda locates an available seat on the other end of the couch from Rhodes, settling in to wait for Vision to finish whatever he’s doing, certain if she tried to disengage from the conversation and slip out the back door in search of the butler, she would be immediately apprehended. “Wanda,” she looks up at Tony, his voice lacking its usual layer of acidity while maintaining its cocky authority, “you didn’t choose.”

The cravats shimmy in the air as he waits for her. “The gold one,” Tony perks up, shoving the supposedly boring one away, “is hideous.”

“You know what,” the majority opinion is shoved deeper into his trouser pocket, a seething shrug undermining his attempt at nonchalance, “clearly none of you understand fashion,” Rhodes’ Hey! isn’t acknowledged in the mini tirade, “and this room doesn’t have to be a democracy.”

Wanda startles when the door to the parlor opens, heart frantically tapping against her rib cage until she sees it is Pepper, not Vision, entering the space. “Tony, we need to go,” there is no leeway offered in the statement, her austerity shackling Stark’s usual flippancy as he silently obeys and heads towards her with a smile. The woman glances at the cravat being tied around his neck and her lips purse into disapproval, “You are not wearing that thing.”

This seems to be the key to releasing any control she had, Stark leaning in to kiss her cheek while offering her a waggish, “We need to go, Pepper, can’t be late to our own party.”

Tony struts out of the room, leaving Pepper to share a commiserate and silent stare with the room. “Natasha are you-”

“Clint and I will meet up with you at the boat.” This seems the only concern left, Pepper exiting towards the main parlor and Clint and Natasha out the back door towards the living quarters.

Only Rhodes remains, sitting with his legs crossed and book in hand, fingers tapping out a spirited rhythm to whatever tune seems to be in his head. “Are you not going?”

The tapping stops, “I don’t particularly feel like being surrounded by Brown Stone FrontsG tonight.”

Having witnessed how the wealthy and hoping-to-be-wealthy treated the man on the journey down river, Wanda can’t fault him his decision even if she knows it is more likely to be a pretext to the real reason. “And I’m guessing Stark doesn’t want me alone with Vision.”

“That is the ancillary purpose.” The book closes over his finger, saving his place as he angles his legs towards her. “Based on everything that’s happened, figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea for a third person to be around in case there’s trouble.” If the comment had come from Tony she would immediately internalize it about herself, but there is something in Rhodes’ nonjudgmental cadence that implies the trouble is external, that he is thinking more of an ambush from without instead of from within, and this trust, as misplaced as it is, soothes a fraction of her anxiety.

Wanda smiles at the man and they lapse into silence, his book opening up as his legs swing back into comfort, swaying with the song of his mind. Typically companionable silence is welcomed, something Wanda doesn’t mind on good days, but on days where her mind is firing like an out of control piston, it puts her on edge. “Do you know what Vision is doing in the study?”

“Tony called in some doctors. Wanted someone other than Vision to tell him everything was fine.” A fair decision to make, one Rhodes seems unconcerned with, his attention returning to the book.

Her fingers twist together, each second that passes urges her powers on, and it’s when the scarlet threatens to break that she stands up and moves to the window, where she can hide her fidgeting hands from Rhodes. Scarlet twines between her fingers in an orderly, focused fashion as she counts each person who gets into the carriages outside, every flouncy dress or four-piece suit that disappears into the rod iron and wood vehicles being one less potential source of interference once Vision is done. Instead of helping to pass the time, the procession into the three carriages is agonizingly slow, each hand gently cupped to help up the large-skirted women, or pat to the back as the men speak, is another reminder of how long it has been since she’s seen Vision.

Wanda watches as Tony bows low, hat clasped in his hand, when Pepper (the last of the train of guests) approaches the carriage. A detachment of sorts exists, her feelings towards the man still lurking in the background, but she is able to watch the seemingly flirtatious banter, the brazen way Stark kisses Pepper’s cheek in public, the sheer exuberance on both their faces, and accept how wonderful their love seems. She even finds herself caring that it not be ruined by Ultron. It’s a bit disquieting to wish good will to Stark. Tony pauses as he follows his lover into the carriage, his face turning towards the tower, and Wanda fights the impulse to duck out of view, instead remaining at the window in full sight, hoping it serves to further extend the peace treaty between them.

Once the doors are shut and the horses trot away, Wanda leaves her observation point, pacing back and forth behind the couch, getting occasional glances from Rhodes, her mind going over each word she intends to say to Vision. She has at least five variations, all depending on what she thinks he may (or may not) say upon seeing her. Each one starts with his name and an apology, from there it diverges into additional apologies or inquiries as to his well-being, or promises it won’t happen again, or explanations as to why he should never talk to her again, or, her current preferred route, simply wrapping her arms around his waist and refusing to let go.

The sound of voices, particularly the gentle lull of Vision’s, renders her motionless, her feet stuck mid-stride and her hands finding each other. Two women dressed in rational costumesH enter the room, one of them (her jet-black hair secured in a serious bun just above the equally serious knot of her apron) is walking backwards as she speaks. “You are certain this can wait until after the demonstration?”

“I am certain.” Wanda’s breath catches once Vision enters, his voice matching the relaxed clothing he wears, his shirt loosely tucked into dark linen pants she knows he would never wear in public, even if they are still nicer than what Clint wears on a daily basis.

The other woman mirrors the concern from her companion, “We can do it tonight.”

“I cannot afford to be quiescent right now.” Whatever their discussion concerns, it is one that feels as if it is the third time it is happening, an obstinacy to Vision’s refusal that is common when people feel their limits are being unduly challenged. “Mr. Stark is expecting a great deal from me in the next two days.”

“Three days then,” the second woman, auburn hair braided and draped over the shoulder strap of her stiff white apron, makes the decision.

Vision gives in with a somewhat strained, “Very well.” It’s only at the conclusion that the three people realize they aren’t alone, Vision’s face turning up to survey the room and then freezing when he sees her. All her planned words flee at the timid concern in his eyes and his tentative, soft, “Wanda.”

“Vision.”

She’s upset she can’t muster more, doesn’t provide him guidance or any sort of question, despite her careful plan. But he fills the silence by taking up the mantle of pleasantries. “How are you doing?”

If not for the entreaty on his face and the tension of his body as he waits for her response, she’d label this as default politeness. Except this is genuine, perhaps not the actual question he has, but all of his concern, his worry, his rumination on what happened is stuffed into the one phrase. Wanda offers him a small smile and watching his own anxiety be sloughed away by the action eases the weight on her chest. “I’m fine, Vision. How are you?”

“I have felt better,” perhaps he’s finally moving away from the socially expected dampening of his pain, “a lot better, actually, yet it is still a vast improvement over yesterday.”

Wanda’s relieved, “Good,” barely reaches the midpoint of the chasm between them.

“Vision,” the black-haired woman, her back still to Wanda, places a hand on his arm, a touch that is friendly and not unwelcomed, or at least he doesn’t pull away or deflect the invasion of his typically well-guarded personal space. “We’ll be back in a few days.”

Vision’s face slips into embarrassed congeniality and Wanda takes it to heart that her presence made him forget, for a moment, what was happening around him. “Of course, thank you for all of your help,” he steps back and opens his shoulders up to both women, “both of your help.” Even Rhodes joins Wanda’s interested stare at the group, his book forgotten as they watch Vision’s eyes widen in horror, “My sincerest apologies.” His placation is leveled at every person in the room. “Miss Maximoff, Officer Rhodes, please let me introduce you to Dr. Helen Cho,” he angles his body a bit to the right to indicate the black-haired woman, who turns around and offers Wanda and Rhodes a small bow, “and Dr. Christine Palmer,” the other woman smiles and the honorifics are what Wanda focuses on, not certain she’s ever heard a woman, much less two with that title. “They both have been instrumental in my well-being for many years now,” this is said with a pointed weightiness typically absent his voice, one that insinuates for those in the know (currently everyone but Rhodes) that the re-construction of Vision’s body lays in the hands of these women, “and, fortuitously, are both in town for the Exhibition.”

“I am here for you,” Wanda decides she likes Dr. Cho, the woman’s assertion of Vision’s importance is unshakeable and a bit of a challenge, even if she has a bright joy on her face, “The Exhibition is secondary.”

“And it is enormously appreciated.”

The conversation lulls and etiquette binds them all to remain in place, even Vision appears uncertain how to proceed in juggling his two guests in conjunction with how to respond to Wanda and how to also bring Rhodes in, his eyes discreetly bouncing between all their faces. Rhodes rises from the couch, lays the book on the cherry coffee table, and fastens a friendly grin to his face. “Allow me to show you two out so Vision can get back to resting.”

Vision’s face falls at the excuse, mouth already opening to provide a counterpoint at the suggestion he cannot complete his duties, but Dr. Palmer accepts the offer, striking down any dissent with an impressively firm and multifaceted, “Thank you.” Both women give goodbyes to the butler before following Rhodes out of the room.

The subtle swishing of the door fills the charged yet silent air between them, Wanda still stationed behind the couch while Vision stays near the doorway, their eyes locked and both of them waiting for the other to move. They should reconcile over Ultron, at the very least establish enough of an understanding to finish planning for the demonstration. But that’s an ugly conversation to have when she’s only just gotten him back. His continued silence suggests he may be struggling with the same battle, so she detracts from the Ultron tainted space between them. “You know, I’ve never met women who were doctors before.”

“Oh,” Vision’s eyes veer to the side, mind needing a few seconds of adjustment before he irons out the confusion contorting his features, “Yes, unfortunately society deems women incapable of such a job despite compelling evidence otherwise.”

Wanda braces her hands along the back of the couch in what she hopes is a casual lean that lightens the atmosphere of the room. “So how did you end up with two then?”

His face relaxes, whatever else had been on his mind abandoned as his voice takes on a hint of the enthusiasm it had at the Exhibition. “From my understanding, which is based on Mr. Stark’s explanation,” a look is shared between them that acknowledges the grain of skepticism required, “due to the experimental and controversial nature of his proposed procedure, no surgeons were willing to risk their reputations on,” now the corners of his mouth droop and she can practically feel his thoughts muddle, “what they deemed Mr. Stark’s Frankensteinian endeavor.” She only understands the reference based on what he told Ultron and it is not one that sounds generous towards himself.

“So how did he find someone?” Wanda laces her question with encouragement, fingers digging into the leather upholstery to tamp down her temptation to walk closer to him, deciding now that he’s fully alert, she needs him to make the first move, that he should tip them into whatever momentum seems best. Ideally it would be returning to what they had developed over their time together, what culminated between them on the steamboat.

However there is no sign of him moving, a rod shoved down his spine and into the ground keeping him tense and still. “A surgeon by the name of Stephen Strange contacted Mr. Stark and explained that, though he could not perform the procedure due to a recent injury, he had a very talented colleague, Dr. Palmer, who was interested.”

Wanda carefully considers his words. Even within the spiritualist community there are gender divides, the mesmerists are the reputable face of the movement, the men who meld science and mysticism into dramatics, and they are almost all that, men. The worst, most unconvincing mesmerist will still be believed over herself. She imagines the medical community is just as dismissive towards women. When you are denied visibility, then even the most egregious or controversial procedure can’t really harm a reputation that isn’t allowed to exist. “And Dr. Cho?”

Bemusement crinkles along the outer corners of his eyes, “She happened to be on a research fellowship, though we were not aware she was a woman for over half a year.”

“How is that even possible?”

A nervous, self-effacing laugh proceeds the explanation, “Dr. Cho subverted societal limits by hiring a man to act as one Amadeus Cho, famed JoesenI biologist, and she accompanied him as his interpreter. When Mr. Stark first heard of her, well his, I suppose, work it was at a consortium on physiology where she was presenting the translated talk on counteracting malignant bodily responses to surgical procedures.” Vision’s shoulders relax, slightly, pride at Dr. Cho’s bluff evident in his voice, “It was a cunning ruse, she could answer all questions asked at the presentation without drawing suspicion or derision.” For a moment Wanda wonders how many men have any idea the exhaustion that imbues your life when the only way to be considered seriously in your field is to have to be a completely different person.

“How did you finally figure it out?”

“Once I was conscious and conversant enough to handle my own communications,” something that took over half a year, far longer than even she imagined, “I thanked her for her integral role in facilitating the development of my medicine and constructing the infusion pump. Though she was ostensibly just an interpreter, she played a surprisingly hands on role which led me to inquire if she had ever considered pursuing the field itself.” Politeness isn’t a tool she ever believed needed to be honed, it was always just something people used to remain civil and distant, yet Vision utilizes it just as efficiently as she imagines Natasha can garner information with a pistol. “She informed me of the truth and then returned to Seoul soon after,” he pauses, assessing her face for recognition of the name. Wanda has heard of it once, from Tony, she thinks. Based on the woman’s appearance she can reach an educated guess the city is in what she has heard people refer to as the Orient. “We communicate monthly via letter or telegraph on my progress and she continues to synthesize all of my medication.”

Wanda isn’t sure how to respond, awed at the drive and ingenuity of the people surrounding Vision while realizing she isn’t ever going to reach such levels. “They both sound amazing.”

This draws his right foot forward, face growing severe at her tone despite his voice maintaining its even keel, “I am incredibly fortunate to know such remarkable women.” Another step towards her and her heart pounds against her ribs, “That includes you, Wanda.”

Her half-formed, disbelieving, “Vizh...” is enough to finally propel him to a decision. Wordlessly he crosses the room and envelops her in his arms, draws her tight against his chest and she collapses into him, returning the embrace, anchoring herself to his waist, her cheek resting firmly against the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Wanda,” her name is muffled, his lips pressed to her scalp as he offers an unnecessary, “I am so sorry.”

“No,” half her mind tells her to step back and say it to his face while the other half commands her to stay in the safety of his embrace where she can hear the familiar and remarkable rhythm of his heart. The latter half wins out, her sentence soaked up by his shirt, “Don’t apologize.”

Thankfully his own mind seems in concordance with hers concerning their closeness, his arms snug around her and his lips laying another kiss to her hair to help transmit his response, “I should have come sooner, but Mr. Stark-”

Without connecting with his mind, she can’t be sure of the rest of the sentence, but it probably would have been about confining him to his room or being too devoted in caring for the butler to allow space for others. Both of which are true. “Was only trying to protect you. I’m not angry at him.” Which is also true, annoyed, upset, disheartened, yes, but she can’t fault Stark his need to protect family. “Or you.”

The feel of his arms pulling back incites in her a need to cling to him, yet he still manages to pry himself away enough to stare at her, his unerring attention tugging her own eyes to meet his. “Wanda,” his bare hand molds to her cheek, “there is no reason I need to be protected from you and I have informed Mr. Stark that, though I appreciate his concern on the matter of my safety around you, it is wholly and completely misplaced.”

He is wrong to put his faith in her, she knows this based on sifting over and over again through her own past and what occurred with Ultron, revealing numerous fine points of contention to his argument. Only one is needed, however. “I hurt you.”

“Against your will.”

Wanda shakes her head, her movements dampened by his hand still holding her face, “What if it happens again?” Ultron is only one of the faces from her past and not the only one with a grudge against Stark, if they all find out who Vision is, how many others will manipulate their bond? “Vision, I-”

“I suppose if it becomes a regular ordeal, absent sadistic third parties, then perhaps we be concerned.” This is not at all how she envisioned their conversation going, him being the comforter, the foundation of calm, immutable optimism that somehow brightens the room around them, even managing to coax a laugh from her. His smile encourages her lips to maintain their upward arc. “I,” his free hand finds her own, sliding over it in a snug embrace, and then he brings it to his face, “I trust you, Wanda.”

The offer hangs in the air, her palm laying against his freshly shaved jaw, temptation and desire warring with the memory of watching him flinch from her and the weight of his body in her hands, of the fear still residing in herself at what she is capable of doing. For now she stays out of his mind, needing more time to trust herself again, but she needs him to understand how much the offer means. “Thank you.” She lays a hand to his chest and lifts onto her toes to press a questioning kiss to his cheek, seeking permission that this level of intimacy is fine. Strong, slightly trembling hands, cup her face and draw her in, their lips meeting and it doesn’t matter that she’s not delving into his mind, everything he is thinking is channeled into the kiss. The scrunch of his fingers against her cheek, the half step forward to eliminate all space between them, and the unerring, desperate pressure of his mouth asks her to accept his pardon, begs her to understand that what she has done against him has been weighed judiciously and he’s acquitting her of wrongdoing. Even if she has yet to agree, she accepts his judgment, hoping it can help her stay strong against what is on the horizon.

An uncertain, “Hello,” edges itself between their chests, forcing them apart as they turn towards Rhodes’ body leaning halfway through the doorway, “sorry for intruding,” he truly looks apologetic, “just wanted to let you know I’ll be in the lab.” Wanda doubts this was Stark’s intent of having a chaperone on hand, not that she will challenge Rhodes’ decision. “They should be back sometime around eleven, so you should probably mosey on down before then to make yourself look at home, okay?”

Vision seems just as surprised at the freedom offered them, a confused, “Of course,” falling limply from his lips as the sailor leaves the room again.

Perturbation is etched into the wrinkles forming on his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

“I have never parsed him out,” it’s a confession that bothers him, the role of a good butler hinging on accurately reading the room and understanding individual preferences. “I always assume, due to his military background, a strong adherence to orders, for which he is often a voice of reason against some of Mr. Stark’s more outrageous ideas. On the other hand, he is often just as enthusiastic of breaking rules as Mr. Stark. They can be a terrifyingly roguish duo when their thoughts align.”

Wanda admits she never imagined their prime confidant and gooseberry picker to be Stark’s closest friend. “Maybe he sees the line between morality and rules as more fluid than you.”

“That is possible.” A possibility that seems to send his mind diving deep into thought, his lips parted slightly in anticipation of speaking. “Wanda?” The seriousness is back on his face, a dreadful portentousness oozing from his very slow, very cautious suggestion, “If you are amenable, I wanted to show you a project I have been working on.”

Whether this is about Ultron or Tony or the Exhibition, it honestly doesn’t matter, she would say yes to anything he asked of her right now. “Of course.”

A precise nod joins his unconvincing, “Wonderful. It is in,” his voice falters, just a slight break in the words, “my quarters.” This isn’t offensive to her even if he hastily attempts to assuage her nonexistent concerns, “If you are more comfortable here, I can bring it down.”

“I’ve been in your other room before and you snuck into mine not too long ago.” And they have shared a bed.

“Yes, this is true.” He steps away and offers her his arm, an action she almost declines, out of principle. Instead she accepts, willing to conform to any societal expectation that dictates she be closer to him.

They walk through hallways, up several stairs, through secret doors, a path that is either the fastest (even if the most complicated) or meant to disorient her. With each turn in their journey Vision’s overall calm dissolves, the jitteriness in his steps and his politely distant directions send prickles along Wanda’s spine. The only promising sign of his nerves being unrelated to her is the fact he practically clings to her. When they walk they are arm in arm, when he has to find the switch for a secret passage he laces their fingers, and each time he waves her through a doorway ahead of him his hand moves from her arm to her back. It reminds her of the tunnel, of how her fingertips dragged through the roots and dirt of the wall to tether her to physical reality and away from spiraling thoughts.

“After you,” Vision motions her through the door and into his room. Like the manor, it is far bigger than any butler usually has, this space even more luxurious with two separate rooms, the main one housing his bed, a mirror, a wash basin, walls that are not busy but still display exquisitely realistic paintings of trees and mountainsides, and a table piled with books and covered in papers, a sight that would be surprising, given his usual cleanliness, if not for the general feel that he had been working on something prior to being interrupted. “It is back here,” his hand rests on her lower back as he guides her into the second room, a small laboratory filled with metal parts (organized in piles based on size and shape) and even more scribbled-on parchment.

“I thought you said you weren’t an engineer anymore,” she says it lightly, a gentle prod with a wide smile and he, thankfully, responds how she hopes, with a mild shrug and marginally sheepish tilt to his mouth.

“Mr. Stark included in my contract that, as his butler, I had to be well versed in mechanics and machinery to be an overall help in the household.” Sometimes (usually in weaker mental moments) she thinks that if Stark didn’t have that name, she may actually like him. “I only have a working space here, however, as I do not want to be involved in this aspect of the job too frequently.”

Wanda stands in the middle of the metal menagerie watching Vision wring his hands with distant eyes. “Vizh?”

This snaps him back to attention, determination filling his movements even if his, “Over here,” is a tad shaky. On the table is an array of devices, all almost identical—a metal plate (with a rivet in each corner) holding what appears to be a long cylinder that is flanked by metal rods sticking up from the plate. “These are some of the electromagnetic coils recovered from Mr. Stark’s factories.” Suddenly his jitters make sense and her heart sinks at the knowledge of what these small, harmless looking devices have wrought in their lives. “I,” Vision pauses, his fingers twining through her own, pulling her gaze to his face, one that is steeped in guilt and only sends her heart careening down towards her feet, “For years I had been attempting to figure out what caused the malfunctions.”

She doesn’t miss his roundabout acknowledgment of success, “What was it?”

The desk chair creaks as Vision pushes it out of the way and her body recoils into numbness when he lets go of her hand and picks up one of the coils. “This is the one from Mr. Stark’s London factory,” it’s horrifying to see the contrast of his scarred skin next to the charred remains of the very thing that changed his life, but it is even worse to see him turn it so casually through the air, “it had a small dent just under the primary interrupter leading the rhythm to be off just enough to build up too much energy. And this one, from his Brussels factory,” the prior one is placed down and another is picked up, no sign of hesitation or worry about it, and she has to imagine it is due to some sort of mental detachment he has formed, a dissociation from the past that allows him to do this. “It was in the coil itself, one of the inner wires appears to have been frayed upon the initial manufacturing.”

He stops the explanation and allows the suggestion to gestate in her mind. “Are you saying it was purposeful?”

“Based on the available evidence, it does suggest someone sabotaged the parts during their assembly.”

Fire flashes before her eyes, the screams of that day, of Stark’s memory of Vision’s own fate, echoing in her ears. “Who?”

The coil descends onto the table and the way he so gently grips both her hands is the opposite of comforting. “I am not sure,” anger boils up at his ignorance, at why he is telling her this if there isn’t even an answer, at how he could decide now, of all times, is the best to broach the topic, “but I think you may be able to help me.”

“How?” She spits it out, yanking her hands away and crossing her arms, recognizing he is not the one that deserves her ire and yet she's incapable of pushing her emotions aside.

Vision, in return, is overbearingly calm in response, his movements slow and words careful as if she is the damaged coil ready to burst into flames. “I saw an engraving on Ultron’s hand, when I shook it.”

Growing up she and Pietro played a game where one of them would draw a picture, sitting close enough to make out the general swoops of the pen but far enough that the image was obscured.

“It is the same mark that is etched into each of the defective coils and only on the defective ones, even Sokovia."

The entirety of winning or losing balanced on correctly guessing what was drawn. After the wager was placed, the piece of parchment was flipped over. Wanda almost always won, her attention to detail and ability to read her twin’s body language trumped Pietro’s quickness of guessing. He never slowed down long enough to consider what they’d seen that day or the day before, never thought about the conversations they’d just had as sources of inspiration.

“This is it.” Wanda barely registers grabbing the palm-sized piece of paper he offers, her eyes honed in on the unmistakable lines drawn in black ink.

Since she was ten, the broad brush strokes of her life all indicated that when the picture was finally revealed it would only be Tony Stark’s cocky face.

It’s not.

The paper flutters to the ground, her lungs collapsing in on themselves and bursts of light pop into her periphery from holding her breath. “Wanda?” Her name is said from far away, years stretching out in front of her as she stumbles backwards in her mind. “Wanda?” She tries to speak but her lips are parched, her tongue a useless, dried out thing in her mouth. By his third, very imploring, “Wanda?” her hands manage to act, pulling the hem of her blouse from her skirt and lifting it up and over her head, ignoring his startled, “Wanda!”

Wanda shoves the band of her chemiseJ off her shoulder and angles her back towards Vision, pointing him where to look. Thankfully he understands without requiring more from her. His touch is tender, skimming forward over the indented scar on her shoulder and then backwards, as if the first time was a lie. It’s unnecessary for him to bend and retrieve the paper, to hold it to her back and compare, because it’s obvious he memorized the interconnected initials well enough to recognize it on Ultron’s hand during a brief handshake. “Who did this?” The mournful fury of his voice is so foreign, so ill-fitting to his demeanor that she almost laughs, but she doesn’t, worried the action is too close to sobbing and she refuses to break down now.

“His,” the word comes out in a croak, her tongue working poorly at wetting her lips, “name is,” the first part doesn’t even come out as noise, only “von Strucker” surfacing. That’s all she can get out, the wave of self-loathing far too strong as she wrestles with the converging image of yet another misstep at seeing the truth. Years after Stark left, a baron from Prussia entered Novi Grad armed with a promise of revitalization to the ailing city, a well-laid out plan to rebuild its legacy, establish it as a leading center for scientific inquiry and innovation. All of it was meant to allow them steps towards autonomy. She and Pietro soaked up his words, years of living in squalor and nursing their anger made them revel in the condemnation leveled against capitalistic experimentalists such as Stark. They were blinded by hatred, a flaw she can’t ever seem to shake, believing Baron von Strucker when he said he had a way for them to finally show the world the true might of Sokovians. Even after he branded them, making them his scientific property, they rationalized it as simply part of the process, a necessary pain towards their role in the new Sokovia. “He did,” Wanda lights her hand with scarlet flames and watches the reflection of her torment in Vision’s eyes, “this to me.”

Vision cups her hand confidently, not flinching or rescinding his touch even when the red inferno crawls up his wrists, “Wanda I-”

The content of his question is lost as her mind reels, all the pieces cascading around her in random patterns, but if she can just grab a hold of them, one at a time, she can finally fit them together. Pride has to be swallowed for her to accept the clear, well-researched proof Vision has that Stark, though not blameless or pure by any means, was himself not fully in control of the disaster. That the death of her parents and all the others lost in the factory fire were enmeshed in a larger, longitudinal scheme for power, one directed by the man who stepped in as their savior. All the minds she ruined, all the lives that crumbled before her, the families and relationships torn asunder by her need for vengeance, were for nothing other than removing obstacles that happened to be pestering von Strucker or threatening his standing. But she recognized the malevolence and the mistreatment in Sokovia, she and Pietro had been drifting away from the von Strucker's hold, and Pietro’s death finally motivated her to carry out their plan to run, to start a new life. Then Ultron found her and the cycle repeated.

This is where her puzzle begins to turn from easily connected tabs and slots to wavy, indiscernible edges that seem to fit with any number of other pieces. Ultron groomed her, called her his miracle, his gift, a happenstance meeting that brought him in contact with a like-minded soul. Eventually she told him about von Strucker, the mutual goal they shared and Ultron’s lack of sufficient financial resources was enough to convince her to briefly reinstate her connection with the operation, all with the intent of righting the wrongs wrought by Stark.

Arms wrap around her and she feels her body moving, can hear her name in the distance and ignores it, mind working to shove the last bit in place, the thing that changes the entirety of the image she thought she’d been making.

Ultron already had the prosthetic when she met him.

“Wanda…” hands cup her face and she finally opens her eyes. Scarlet pulsates wildly around her, her emotions thrown out and in amongst the tempest of red is Vision, his face pale and lips moving with a frantic, “Wanda.” Words fail her still, her mouth opening and only a guttural breath conveying any information. Vision leans his forehead against hers, the fog of her powers fleeing from his path only to reform around his head in an eerie halo. It doesn’t faze him, his hands sure against her face and his voice beseeching. “Please let me help you.” There isn’t anything he can do about her past, her story written, her life painted and the colors are dried, ready to be hung on the wall next to his trees and mountains. He grabs her hand and puts it to his face, repeating his plea, “Please, Wanda, let me help.”

The scarlet coiling around his body becomes less chaotic as she accepts his offer and anchors herself to his mind. Immediately she is met with the sound of rain, a gentle patter so soft she can count each drop pooling into the empty bucket of her sanity. But then she remembers the symbol, the hand, the implications of what it means that Ultron knew von Strucker before she ever arrived in New York and she begins to unconsciously change Vision’s mind, the drizzle escalating into a storm, lightning crashing and thunder shaking the foundation of their connection. Somehow he pushes back, his hands firm without hurting her and his head pressing closer to her forehead, forcing their noses to touch. The storm dies down to the type of weather that is comfortable to watch from the window and this is when she begins to leeches his calm, packaging it into a bundle and moving it into her own mind, their breathing synchronizing until she is no longer shaking. Only then does she open her eyes and meet his doleful stare and unnecessarily remorseful, “I am so sorry, Wanda.”

It’s not his fault, he knows this, she knows this, his apologies can’t change anything, can’t go back in time and convince her to walk away after the first experiment, can’t bring Pietro back, can’t stop her from falling into Ultron’s honeyed promises of vengeance. Nothing can change what has happened and for the first time she accepts it, bottles up her anger and her fear and directs it at the future, the only thing she has left that is under her control. It’s fortunate that her future is tangible, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath hot against her cheek, the waft of metal finally associated with something pleasant, and she realizes there is only one way to guarantee her past can no longer haunt them. “I’m going to kill Ultron.” It’s not a perfect remedy but it is expedient and final and arguably a horrible idea, one she needs him to counter. Vision remains deathly still, even his mind shutting down and presenting merely an empty field. SO she pushes him, “Why aren’t you telling me not to?”

“Because I cannot decide if morally it is worse to kill him or to allow him to live on to do it again.” The torture of the dilemma makes his voice crack, his eyelids dropping as he directs his stare down and he whispers, “There could be one other option.”

Wanda lifts his chin until their faces are even, “What?”

“Mr. Stark and I have been designing a failsafe.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it mentioned like ten times,” she doesn’t try to temper her annoyance, too tired and emotionally exhausted to be polite. “What is it?”

An apologetic purse of his lips is his only acknowledgment of her frustration. He leans back, hands traveling from her face down to her hands, which he clasps between his. It’s only now she realizes he relocated them during her mental crisis to sit on his bed, out of sight of the coils. “We have been designing a mechanism that will only be activated if the arc reactor is removed from the pump. It,” he hesitates, a deep exhale sending a scurry of agitation along her arms, “would destroy the reactor, something we believe is necessary to eliminate the possibility of Ultron harnessing its power and it will," his voice shifts into what is almost tipping into optimism, a morbid one and one he seems to reticent to share, "in the process, severely maim the individual who grabs it, that was Mr. Stark’s addition. But-”

Wanda can’t be passive on this, ice freezing her veins and stopping her heart, imbuing her voice with a frigidness she hopes he feels bodily. “Absolutely not.”

“Wanda-”

“No, Vision,” red seeps out of her hands, engulfing his arms once more, “you are not sacrificing yourself, I won’t let you.”

Defiance lingers in his otherwise placid features, “It is an option of last resort only. We have already-”

“It shouldn’t even be an option, Vizh. There has to be another way.”

He examines their joined hands, uncomfortable with being the messenger yet still he soldiers on in his attempt to justify his ridiculous suggestion. “We believe we have devised a way to dampen the power of the Arc 2 from the Iron Man to function adequately within the infusion pump.”

Of course he would have a fall back option and a source of rationale for the tightrope walk over a gaping grave he’s suggesting, “And what if the pump is destroyed?”

“It shouldn’t be, but,” the length of his hesitation is unnerving, a fissure forming in his usually unflappable countenance, “to be frank,” a phrase that concerns her far more than the idea of destroying the arc reactor, “according to Dr. Palmer and Dr. Cho, regardless of the functioning of the pump, parts of the exoskeleton are degrading at a faster rate than is sustainable.” Tears wet the corners of his eyes and frustration tenses his fingers around her own, “And if anyone has to take on the yoke of potential harm in this plan, there is no reason for it to be you," he almost stops there, continuing in after a few seconds, "or Mr. Stark, or Miss Potts, or Officer Rhodes, or anyone who has an actual chance at longevity.”

Her mind wasn’t prepared for the whiplash of emotions, diving from joy at seeing him into the depths of angry resolution and now swinging into hopelessness. It is discombobulating and makes her feel like she is lost at sea, splashing out an SOS. “Is there nothing that they can do?”

“There is an experimental procedure,” the one they must have been talking about when they entered the inner parlor, “with equal chance of success and failure based on Dr. Cho’s animal trials.”

All he has offered her since they’ve met is a kindness predicated on an optimism that all will work in her favor, that she is strong and capable and this will carry her through. It’s alarming to see his inability to apply the same support to himself. Wanda lets go of his hands and rises onto her knees, using the momentum to lean into him, her arms wrapping around his neck so that she can lay her forehead to his once more, ensuring he can hear her, “Stop being an imbecile, Vision.” Air rushes past her cheek as he chokes out a laugh, “Regardless of what happens, of whether the procedure works or not, of how fast your the metal degrades, you matter just as much as anyone else," this is the truth in general, but not quite for her own view, "but to me, you matter even more than everyone else."

“Wanda…”

“There’s no logical argument against my statement so don’t even try,” another deprecating laugh and she draws him in for a kiss, one that is feather light while still conveying her certainty in what needs to come next. Everything until this point has been taken from her, over and over again, so many times it was influenced by a misplaced trust formed in desperation. Through all of those stumbles, and falls, and metaphorical cliffs she’s been shoved from, it’s allowed her to recognize the rarity that is the bond between the two of them, one she ardently refuses to lose and she needs Vision to know this, in case what he fears comes true. “You matter to me because your mind is brilliant and makes me feel safe.” He tries to respond but she takes a page from Stark’s book and just keeps talking. “Your words enrapture me because they are always filled with warmth, and kindness, and genuineness even if you are a sore winner and sometimes stubborn." His tiny smile urges her on. "Despite what you may think, you are incredibly handsome.” She kisses away his disagreement, thrilled when his hand comes to rest on her waist. “But most importantly, you have the single most extraordinary soul I have ever found. I love you, Vision and no one is taking you from me.”

Anxiously she reads the lines on his face, untrained in how to interpret the branching near his eyes or the long, unbroken line across his forehead, lines she needs and wants more time to learn. But she doesn’t feel like more can be said, her point made, and she refuses to access his mind right now, needing whatever he says or does next to be of his own volition. Finally, his features still and he doesn’t hide anything behind a wall of etiquette, every drop of contrasting emotion allowed to flit through his eyes. And then he smiles and the world, for a moment, exists only in the space around their bodies, its core resting in the decreasing space between their lips as he requites her profession. “I love you as well, Wanda Maximoff.”

If they were not a day away from potential catastrophe, if there were not other plans to iron out, strategies to delineate, if the clock on his desk didn’t tick quickly towards Stark’s return, she would extend out this moment, trap him in her embrace and lose herself in him. But if they can figure out how to stop Ultron, can find a way to stop the past from encroaching on their future, then she knows they can lavish themselves in their affections after, unimpeded by anything and anyone, a promise of a tomorrow much better than she’s used to. “Is there nothing else you can think of to stop Ultron?”

She’s not surprised by his quiet and remorseful, “No.” Which leads her into the next thing to confirm.

“Do you actually think it will work?”

Vision’s hands curve snugly around her waist, keeping her close as he answers, “Theoretically it should incapacitate enough without undue harm to others or the infusion pump,” this isn’t the strength of assurance she wants. “I am supposed to be constructing it now so we can test it tomorrow.”

If they want a fighting chance against Ultron, they have to prepare for all possibilities, even the ones they vehemently hate. “We should go to the lab. I want to see this thing,” but this begrudging acceptance of at least seeing if the failsafe is a feasible last resort doesn’t mean she foregoes the opportunity of one more drawn out kiss (one that curls his fingers into her blouse and ends with a sigh for more) to solidify her stance before setting them on the path to figure out Ultron’s destruction. “Come on.”

A solemn nod of acquiescence is paired with him untangling from her embrace. He helps her stand from the bed, his hands flattening the creases in his shirt while she walks to retrieve her blouse, leveling a deadly glare at the coils on the table. “Wanda?”

“Vizh?”

The comment takes time to wrestle from his throat, a rationale she didn’t let him make earlier coming out, “The device is only necessary if the rest of the plan fails. I trust you, Miss Romanov, and Mr. Barton will render it a useless endeavor.”

“We won’t need it.” It’s a promise she intends to keep, whatever it takes. The picture of her past has been rendered, and now she’s determined to allow no one other than her to draw her future. “Let’s go.”

Victorian Culture and Language Decoder:

The Flour Riots of 1837 occurred in the dead of winter when a confluence of increasing food prices and poor political and legislative response to food shortages sparked a riot. It is believed a group of largely anti-capitalist speakers (known politically as the Locofocos) were responsible for calling together the meeting in the park.

The U.S. Department of Defense at the time was still named the War Department.

Ultron Mark Twelve is one of Ultron’s aliases and really the only human-ish sounding one I could find. I’m open to suggestions if there is something better.

Whole hog: Thorough, bare-faced lie

Shake a flannin: get into a fight.

Fresnel lens: a description and a couple pictures are at the bottom of a website that has the link on AO3

Brown stone fronts: Wealthy politically oriented men of New York City. The epitome of wealth at the time was to live in a Brown Stone house like the millionaire Vanderbilts.

Rational costumes: Women who wear pants.

It wasn’t until 1896 that the Korean Empire began, so prior to that it was known as Joseon.

Chemise: the common undergarment for women during this time. Something like this (link can be found on AO3)

#scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #vision #au #alternateuniversescarletvision #thescarletvisionnetwork #mine #aos #ao3 #please just go in the tags

14 notes · View notes