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anonthenullifier · 7 years ago

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The Honeymoon Phase, Part 2

Summary: While on an undercover mission as a married couple, Wanda finds herself torn between following the mission and keeping Vision as far away from eager hands as possible.

Word count:13.6k

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8535118/chapters/26176383

Warning: minor language and some violence. Steam and fluff as well.

Hope you enjoy!

Wanda wakes up to an empty bed, hand reflexively reaching out, touching the unwrinkled sheets next to her, heart pounding in her chest at how cold the fabric feels. A quick assessment of her surroundings suggests it is morning, just enough light seeping in to illuminate the chairs in the corner of the room and the panoramic window displaying a surprisingly gloomy view, roiling dark clouds and fat, impatient raindrops marring the usually serene waters. This still doesn’t explain why she’s alone. So Wanda scrambles out of the covers, feet carrying her around the bed and through the door, scarlet developing around her fists, weaving in and out of her knuckles in time with her erratic, shallow breaths.

“Good morning, Wanda.”

The voice cuts through the dense fog in her head, twisting the fear into confusion, her eyes blinking several times as she stares at him, and then it all fades, a smile rising to pinch the corners of her eyes. “You look comfy.” Vision, actually Vision not her blonde pseudo-husband, is stretched out on the couch, legs at an incline so his feet can lay on the armrest, and his head supported by three pillows, perfectly angled and stacked in a formation that he swears eliminates any chance of a crick or twinge in the neck after prolonged reading. What’s most indicative of his comfort, beyond the alluring ease of his body sinking into the cushions, is the plush, loosely tied white robe contrasting gorgeously against his crimson skin .

“I am attempting to,” he sits up, placing a slip of paper in between the pages of his book, and she doesn't miss the glint of his wedding ring, a stray thought running through her head reiterating that gold really isn't the right metal for his hand. To her surprise one more observation follows, lagging behind the first, but with far more surety and a pulse of excitement behind it than the first: they’ll fix the ring next time. Wanda freezes at the thought but his voice breaks her reverie, redirecting her attention to the shy lift of his lips, “embrace a life of luxury. Out of scientific curiosity as the brochures laud these robes as heavenly.”

Everything else melts away as she shakes her head at him, always enjoying his adorable attempts to rationalize what he deems might be embarrassing behaviors. “That's a very noble sacrifice you're making, Helen would be proud.” He swings his legs, no doubt intending to stand and greet her, but Wanda finds she wants this moment to last, wants the image of him carefree and being devoured by the fluffiest robe she's ever seen to be seared into her memory forever. A gentle push of scarlet flies to his feet, holding him and his amused smile in place long enough for her to close the distance between them, crawling over his body, encouraging him to lay back down so she can rest comfortably against him, her head on his shoulder, his arm naturally descending to embrace her, pulling her snugly against him. “What’s your conclusion?”

A kiss to the top of her head buys him time to compose himself, make his voice as scientifically neutral as possible as he says, “I do not have an adequate quantitative measure of the construct of heavenly, but it is very, very soft.”

Wanda nuzzles into his chest, confirming it is a luxuriously soft robe. “I’d say it’s heavenly.” The featherlight touch of his fingertips against her arm, looping up and then down, soothes her soul, drowning out the last of the worries clinging to her mind from waking up alone. ��So how’d your secret agent adventures go last night?”

“Very well. I was able to eliminate eight more of the potential culprits from our list. Fortuitously the boat operator was included in that, ” he pauses long enough to point out the back window to the pelting rain, “due to the storm all outdoor activities were canceled this morning, including our boat tour. Um,” his fingers tap against her arm as he processes the information, pushing the finer details away so that he can summarize the main points. “Oh yes, I also sent in our mission update to Captain Rogers and he seems satisfied with our progress, though did caution that it would be ideal for us not to require any additional time for the mission, as this room is quite expensive.”

Beyond the word Rogers, Wanda’s mind stops registering information, instead focusing in on the unspoken implications of their canceled boat tour. Excitedly she wiggles free of his grip just enough to rotate her body, resting her chin on his chest so she can stare at the intoxicating way relaxation softens his features, his youthfulness and innocence front and center when logical analysis is not required. “Hold up, let me rephrase this.”

“Please.”

“One, you’re awesome,”

“Naturally.”

There is no reason to acknowledge his response, the smirk on his face a touch too cocky for her to encourage further sass, “And two, because of this storm we have,” she sends a wisp of scarlet into his mind to check his internal clock, feeling far too lazy to turn to look at the palm-tree shaped clock hanging on the wall behind her, “an hour and a half of uninterrupted, mission-free relaxation before our next obligations?”

Sparks dance along her skin when a second finger joins the lazy pattern he’s drawing on her arm. “Correct. And I ordered room service,” a head tilt towards the table is probably trying to show her the food, but Wanda refuses to look anywhere but the brilliant blue of his eyes, “so you could eat before our next excursion.”

Wanda grins up at him, “Perfect. Anything else?”

The gears in his eyes swirl with thought, his lips pursing and fingers halting as he contemplates. “Yes, actually. Since I established an alibi for the dance instructor, I removed you from the ‘ote’a class this afternoon and scheduled a hot stone massage instead, if that is acceptable?”

A long, exaggerated sigh of disapproval pairs with the shake of her head, but she’s unable to keep a straight face at the brief shot of terror in his eyes. “You monster.”

His face breaks into a toothy grin, a quick, joyous laugh falling pleasantly around her as he hugs her closer. “It is still work related,” a requirement in their mission contract that spending money on luxuries had to have a purpose, a requirement Vision respects far more than she does since she’s tempted to override Vision’s report and tell Steve they could use another six days for the mission. “Apparently the masseuse is the resort gossip.”

“Good to know. So, what,” just in case the suggestive tone of her voice is far too subtle for him, Wanda emphasizes her question by walking her fingers up his chest, caressing the sensitive edges where his skin transitions into vibranium, the twitch of his muscles under her finger a promising sign, “will we, two young, energetic newlyweds do with our free time,” she drags her finger down his chest one more time, following the edge of his robe until she hits the belt, and then finishes with what she hopes is the most strategic part of her plan, “hubby?”

“Well,” her eyes narrow. That word with his matter-of-fact tone is the single most disparaging sign that he is about to expertly, for the sake of the mission, extinguish the torrid yearning filling her body, “there are some incongruences in the files that I wish for you to examine and some strategic planning for the day.”

Her slightly threatening, “Vizh…” is met with an infuriatingly innocent, “Wanda.” And then her face meets the mounds of the cushion as he phases away, her body sinking into the couch, a sigh released into the fabric ends up engulfing her face in an uncomfortable heat. If this continues for the duration of the mission she’s pretty certain she’ll explode. Another “Wanda?” falls on her ears, this one laced with an impish delight that makes her swear that she’ll get him back after the mission. Somehow.

She channels all of her frustration into her, “What?”

“Are you going to join me in strategizing?” The question catches her off guard, well not so much the question but the general direction of where it is coming from. Wanda lifts her neck, checking the untouched mission files stacked next to her breakfast, and then turns her head towards the bedroom where she finds him leaning against the doorway. The facetious smirk on his lips tugs her body from the couch, feet hovering just above the ground, anticipation knotting in her stomach as she swelters under his stare. “I am only in this robe.”

Wanda’s breath is shaky as she inhales, fighting the giddiness of her increased pulse to remain as stoic as possible, forcing her smile down to give him a serious, reproachful, and mildly offended, “Are you really going to lead me on for days and then steal my signature move?” **

A nonchalant shrug sends a shiver down her spine, this easy-going, playful side of him so closely guarded that it surfaces rarely, only if they are alone and absolutely certain of no interruptions or unintended guests. It is, for lack of a better term as her mind crashes down around her, hot. His smile broadens as he starts to speak, each word latching to her feet, pulling her one step closer until her hand hovers over the belt loosely tied around his waist, “Is it as effective on you as it is on me?” All she manages is a nod in answer to his question, her thoughts scrambling, images and letters intermixing in ways that she can’t verbalize or even make sense of, but finally, the touch of his lips to her ear as he whispers a deep, satisfied “Good” centers the cacophony into one unified thought of hell yes before she crushes her lips to his, sending scarlet tendrils to untie the robe as she shoves him backwards onto the bed.

When Vision mentioned the masseuse was the resort gossip, Wanda assumed gathering information would be easy, requiring little to no mental effort on her part, allowing her mind to stay trapped in the memories of blissfully cool vibranium against her skin, the rhythm of the rain on the windows harmonizing the movements of their bodies, and the way his breathing would become ragged when she dragged the edges of her ring across his skin. But this woman’s penchant for gossip clearly does not extend to Wanda, her terse, two word responses deflecting every prodding question with as much, if not more, efficiency than the Black Widow herself. Briefly Wanda wonders if the masseuse is undercover as well, though nothing she can glean from the surface of her mind confirms this.

Wanda switches her tactic, deciding that perhaps it’s best to just get the woman to talk about herself and then transition into more pressing topics. “How long have you worked here?”

“Six months.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

The woman, not even willing to share her name beyond I am your masseuse today, begins to remove the stones, placing them into a heated bin. “It’s nice.” She grabs a bottle and squirts it’s contents onto her hands, running them up Wanda’s back with some experimental pushes and twists. “Pressure okay?”

“Yeah, that’s good.” Wanda closes her eyes, allowing just a second to enjoy the massage before pressing onward. “Any advice on the best thing to do on the island?”

Before the woman answers, Wanda is kicking herself, pretty certain she knows the answer, and, sadly, she is right. “A massage.” Each swipe up her back ends with the heel of the masseuse’s hand in-between Wanda’s shoulder blades and it both hurts and feels amazing, a phantom pressure lingering on her skin as the pattern begins again. “You’re tense.” Wanda would not describe herself currently as tense, she thinks, a bit stressed about the mission but no more than usual. Given the masseuse doesn’t want to answer her often, Wanda shrugs, not sure what to add even if it might hurt her chances of breaking the complex code that’s locking away the resort secrets. “Marriage troubles?”

Now her body tenses, goosebumps developing along her skin as she tries to figure out how to proceed, closing her eyes and attempting to picture what Natasha would do in this situation. The first lesson was to feel out the room and the person (or people) in it. Lesson two was to embrace the character, commit yourself and act in accordance with the character’s perceptions of reality. Since the masseuse brought it up, Wanda decides it means she has something to share, so she pushes aside Wanda Maximoff and embraces the exuberance of the honeymooning Ana Williams. “Oh no, not at all. We’re so so in wedded bliss and just enjoying this new, exciting life, I mean,” she struggles to pick her head up out of the hole in the table, craning her neck to flash a conspiratorial smile at the masseuse, who frowns at the action, “like he cannot keep his hands off me. This morning, oh my God, was amazing.”

Footsteps and a friendly Maeva floats in through the cracked door, the other masseuse at the spa checking on a reservation. The woman stops the massage to shut the door, waiting an eternally long minute for something to happen. When nothing else occurs, she comes back, continuing the massage, the press of her hand developing a gentler, sympathetic feeling. “Amora has her eyes on him.”

Wanda places her face back into the cushioned hole, a celebratory grin on her lips as she prepares to finally get enough information to convince Vision that they need to take the Enchantress down right away. But she has to remember to be Ana, releasing a flippant sigh with her, “She can stare all she wants but Simon only has eyes for me.”

A disagreeing click of the woman’s tongue fills the void of silence. “Not when she’s involved,” the gentle strokes of the massage transform into deeper, more meaningful, and slightly painful, paths, “every man that touches foot on this island,” she pauses, “and some women too, fall prey to her spell.” Now that the woman is talking it’s like a crack in a dam, shooting up higher and higher until the wall splits and the water comes pouring out. “I only took this job here because everyone talks about the romance and the steamy flings with co-workers. But since she’s been here no man is interested in anyone but her.” A disgusted scoff emphasizes the twisting of her fist into Wanda’s side, “Even sweet little Kenneth worships the ground she walks on.” Her hands stop moving, a thoughtful pause and then her twisting fist of doom descends on Wanda’s back again, “He might be the most infatuated, which is a pity, I’d let him be my concierge.” The comment is said with a tone that is the equivalent of an elbow to her ribs, a raised eyebrow, and a half smile that says Get it, get it ?

Wanda sorts the information as quickly as she can, dumping it into bins based on useless information, entertaining but not mission-specific, mission-specific, and damning evidence. Currently the masseuse’s tepid love life is not registering as useful, so she tries to guide the woman’s thoughts back to what Amora has planned. “But you don’t understand, Simon has only ever loved me. She’s just wasting her time.”

She expects an immediate response, but the silence that descends is far worse. “Lust can easily blind love.” The timer for the massage dings, yet the woman keeps her hands on Wanda’s back, a deep, defeated exhale mixing with the vanilla incense in the air. “Do not allow him to wander the resort alone anymore or else you will end up like the others.”

A towel sweeps over Wanda’s back, collecting the remnants of the oil, and then the woman leaves the room, pointing to a sign with directions on how to exit the spa and how tipping your masseuse is appreciated, though not required. Wanda slips back into her dress, frowning at the disheveled strands of her wig, wondering if it was from the massage or if she missed them this morning, fingers combing through her hair until it looks acceptable. She rummages through her purse, places a twenty on the wooden table housing all the oils, and walks out of the spa.

According to Vision’s hurried instructions as they left their room, he’s supposed to be in the main building of the resort competing in a thrilling shuffleboard tournament hosted by the Director of Entertainment and the Director of Hiring. Yet he’s standing outside the spa, hands casually hooked in his pockets, staring out at the calm, teal expanse of the ocean. Wanda does her best to sneak up on him, stepping from toe to heel, Natasha forcing both of them to walk in their vacation shoes for a week to learn the exact angle, force, and movement that would elicit any sound. Luckily her sandals for today were already quiet, but she knows if she rolls her ankle to the right the buckle will jingle and Vision will pick up on it. She’s a foot away when he shifts his hips, her own body freezing and her breath captive in her lungs as he resettles his position. In perfect synchronization, her arms wrap around his waist and she whispers, “Hello, darling,” thrilled at the tiny, almost imperceptible constriction of his muscles.

Completely against mission protocol, his density drops, torso incorporeal long enough for him to swivel around and face her, his body solidifying under her palms as he cups her face, encouraging her up onto her toes for a warm, cheerful peck. His hands remain, thumbs skimming the curves of her cheeks as he talks, “How was your massage?”

“Wonderful.” A minimalist smile touches the left corner of his mouth. “Did you win us a free dinner?”

The shake of his head conveys his disappointment and even though he’s disguised she can make out the small anomaly in the furrow of his brow where the Mindstone lays. “Once I reached the semifinals it became alarmingly clear I was not in the same competitive league.” There’s a haunted quality to his voice, losing is not an experience he’s well-acquainted with, and clearly he is unhappy with his failure. “An elderly gentleman,” he stops, brow wrinkling further, “hopefully I am using the phrase correctly, swept the floor with me in three turns.”

“Sounds rough, it’s a good thing we have a nice wine tasting next.”

“Actually,” an uncharacteristic bite of his lower lip is intriguing yet mildly concerning, “an opportunity arose for us to pursue a lead.”

The unpredictable nature of missions never really bothers her, a feeling of rightness in the chaos of following leads and switching paths, and yet, Wanda finds herself marginally disappointed at missing out on reclining on the beach and sipping wine. “This better be about Amora.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” Vision drops his hands, stepping out of her embrace before lacing their fingers together and directing her to follow his lead along a pink stone path. “I was speaking with her once I was eliminated from the tournament,” information that does not sit well with Wanda, mind unhelpfully filling with images of all the ways the woman likely fawned over him. “I informed her we found her performance thrilling and she offered to give us a private tour of backstage.”

Wanda’s feet grind to a halt, heels digging into the sand trapped in the grooves between the stones. “Wait.” Confusion fills his eyes as he studies her. “Did she actually invite both of us, or just you?”

“I informed her I was going need time to find you after your massage.” The fact that he doesn’t actually answer her question either means he’s not willing to answer it or that he is so blissfully ignorant of the implications of the “private tour” that he believes he’s actually answering her with relevant information. The tilt of his head as he waits for her response implies the latter option.

“Great.” They start walking again, her mind churning through all the ways to approach the situation, her biggest fear at the moment is arriving and finding a naked woman waiting for them. “So what’s the plan?”

“Ready for this?”

Vision’s quiet, “Not really,” mirrors her own discontent with the very high probability she’s going to have to watch him get groped again.

“Just,” she catches his wrist before he knocks on the door, “no kissing or touching, please, but still sell it.”

A frown quickly drops his lips as his eyes flick to the side, a tightness building in muscles under her hand and she thinks she may have offended him. The painfully unemotional response confirms his displeasure, sending a sharp pang of regret into her heart, “You speak as if I am excited for this.” Without waiting for her response he phases his wrist from her grip and knocks on the door. Thankfully they are not greeted by a naked woman, instead Wanda gets to savor the surprise and crushing disappointment on Amora’s face when she sees that Vision is not alone.

Amora, however, recovers quite quickly, lips easing into her perpetually rapacious smirk as she steps back from the door, “Welcome, Simon,” her eyes flick towards Wanda but she otherwise makes no acknowledgement of her presence, “please come on in.”

The room is smaller than Wanda imagined, assuming that someone like the Enchantress would demand a lavish set-up, not that it’s not luxurious with a couch against the wall draped in a white fur blanket, and several silky emerald robes, matching the one she is currently wearing hanging along the wall, it's just not lavish. There is also large mirror and a counter, a chilled bottle of champagne and a cluster of candles that no one would ever put out with the intent of being alone.

A giggle catches Wanda’s attention, head whipping around to see Amora’s hand braced on Vision’s chest. He glances up from the woman to meet Wanda’s eyes, a terrified and questioning dilation of his pupils matches the unease he’s sending into her mind, asking her to please move quickly.

“So, Simon,” the way she sighs the Si and lowers her voice to draw out the m makes Wanda’s skin crawl, but she ignores it as best she can, inspecting the items on the table, sliding a dime sized camera into a corner and propping another up on a book, hoping they’re placed well enough to get information. “What do you think?”

“It is lovely, just as you promised.” The stutter in his voice betrays how flustered he is and Wanda ventures another glance over her shoulder, bile rising into her throat at the bold dip of Amora’s hands along his hips, traveling back and Wanda, unfortunately, knows exactly where her hands are going. She has to swallow her rage, sending Vision a pained thumbs up of encouragement. “You suggested a tour of the backstage area as well?”

Amora grabs both his hand and wrist as she pulls him across the room, “Yes, there are many fascinating and poorly lit places out there.” They pause in the doorway, the woman seeming to remember that Wanda is there as well, “You are welcome,” she chokes on the insincerity of the word, “to join, though it is terribly boring.”

Wanda knows it’s part of the plan, a reluctantly suggested strategy by Vision to allow Wanda time alone in the dressing room, but she still finds her mind railing against it. A slow practiced inhale clears most of the concern ricocheting in her mind enough for her voice to take on an innocent, carefree nature, “Oh that sounds boring, I’ll just stay here. Have fun darling.”

The woman yanks Vision out of the room, and Wanda brings her hands to her face, muffling the frustrated, mostly silent scream. One more long breath in and longer exhale and she continues placing cameras and recorders around the room, hands running over the sequined leotards and gem-lined corsets hanging in the wardrobe. How this woman can prance around in these confounds her, fairly certain that she would feel too ridiculous to even leave the room. Another camera goes in the wardrobe, just to be safe, and Wanda moves back to the mirror.

The outer left edge is lined with setlists, detailing the songs and order of events for the act. Each night has a different audience participation, Saturday is newlyweds, Sunday older (by older the paper defines it as married more than 5 years) couples, Monday single men, Tuesday single women, Wednesday and Thursday she has off, and Friday is apparently a dating game night, the paper asking for single and attractive people to be paired up. Wanda follows the flow of the papers up, the top of the mirror containing an array of photos of the island, green mountains rising above blue waters, an assortment of tropical fish, and a shrine surrounded by asymmetrical white flowers. The right side of the mirror makes her pause, a sharp intake of breath punctuates the touch of her finger to a picture of her and Vision...well Ana and Simon. Their faces are flanked by printouts of the other two couples, the photos being the ones all guests were required to take at the entrance of the resort under an archway of palm leaves and orange, vibrant flowers.

Wanda closes her eyes, strengthening her mental connection with Vision long enough to assess his status and if she has time. A snarl contorts her face at the distinctive feeling of eager hands pawing at his chest and the, thankfully, strong revulsion spreading to every corner of his being and the dizzying speed with which his mind is working to counter each advance. Haltingly, so as not to rip them, she eases the pictures from the mirror, turning them over, hoping something damning can be found. She’s not certain if it is damning, but it's at least a piece of evidence to add. Each picture has an annotation on the back, couple #1 says Good for show but otherwise will be useless. He cheated on her already. Couple # 2 Possible but very private, will have to assess at time of show. And then the picture of them, Best option based on available media and details on reservation. Wanda quickly removes her phone from her purse, snapping a picture of each annotation.

A loud, “I do believe Ana and I have a reservation soon,” is the agreed upon warning that they are coming back. Wanda rushes to re-adhere the pictures to the mirror, hands falling to pick up the first item she touches, wincing as her fingers grip the teeth of a shark jaw, but she pulls it to her chest just as they walk back into the room and pretends to inspect it.

“Oh,” the sweet, threatening drawl of Amora’s voice prickles along her skin, “That is my favorite, a fine ma'o mauri specimen.” The brief attention given to Wanda is promptly removed, instead refocused on Vision, a leisurely caress along his shoulder as she talks, “Have I told you my love of swimming with them,” her hand keeps moving, down his bicep with a light squeeze, dipping into the bend of his elbow, and falling down his forearm, “it is invigorating."

Besides the unwelcome, yet expected physical contact, the first, infuriating observation Wanda makes is the ruffled nature of Vision’s shirt, his first two buttons had already been undone (Wanda has to keep insisting he not button his shirts up all the way) but currently four more buttons are free, his shirt hanging open for what, under other circumstances, would be a very agreeable view of his chest. “Darling,” when he finally meets her gaze she can almost see the gears. A quick inspection of his available skin reveals that it is developing a tinge of red, making the frantic worry twitching his lips much more understandable beyond the unwanted (she hopes) advances of the woman. Whatever is happening needs to end before he loses his disguise and compromises the mission. “You look like you’ve gotten too much sun today.” Wanda rolls her eyes, sending an annoyed and commiserable look towards Amora, “He just always insists he’s not as pale as he is and just refuses to wear sunscreen. Should have seen him when we went to the Outer Banks last year, just a bright red walking lobster.”

The comment backfires immediately, Amora lifting his arm to inspect it before caressing his hand, focusing mainly on area surrounding his wedding ring, “You know Simon, I have the best lotion in my quarters, if you’d,” her finger climbs up his wrist, trailing the vein he’s factored into his disguise, “like to come with me.”

“Oh, I-” Vision steps away, struggling slightly out of the Enchantress’ grip and slides his hand into Wanda’s. “My dear, I believe we are late for snorkeling. Amora,” a sultry curve develops in her lips as she sits back on the counter, legs crossing and her sandaled foot reaching out to glance his hip, “it was a pleasure, as always.”

He begins to leave, an urgency in his step that Wanda should follow, but instead she brings him back with a “Darling,” and an unsubtle press of her body against his, fingers weaving into his hair, and a ravenous kiss that is hopefully a clear enough sign that she's not going to let anyone else have him. “We should head out.”

She sends an apologetic smile laced with warning towards Amora, who matches her warning with a wicked smirk and a simpering wave directed at Vision. “Enjoy. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other soon, Simon.”

Wanda glares at the confident woman before they exit the room and make their way back outside, a gentle, barely audible “Your powers,” bringing her back from her seething, fingers closing quickly to extinguish the red rising from her palms. “Also,” they move towards an alcove covered by an untamed bush, his hand pushing aside the leaves as they step into the covered nook, his disguise flickering three times before resetting, “was the walking lobster comment necessary?”

The glare Wanda had been using on Amora shifts to Vision, “Was letting her unbutton your shirt necessary?”

The long winded defense building in his mind is discarded by the tightening line of his lips, a curt nod, and a “Fair point.”

Their nightly complimentary bottle of Dom Perignon sits empty between them, feet dangling over the edge of their private deck into the calm tropical water. The nebulous puffs of the Milky Way streak across the deep violet sky, sharp points of light spread through every inch of the expanse above them reflecting off the placid water. It is one of the most beautiful things Wanda has seen and she wishes the rest of their night mimicked the tranquility. Instead her fingers curl even tighter into a fist, nails digging into her palm as she tries hard not to yell at him. “Why can’t we just arrest her?” This conversation has been circling like a vulture over her sanity, round and round, since they returned from dinner.

“Circumstantial evidence alone is not enough to,” he pinches the bridge of his nose for about the twentieth time tonight, an action he’s never been one to use during an argument but clearly he’s picked it up from somewhere, “potentially ruin a life. We still have two days to confirm our suspicions, determine her modus operandi, and discover where the missing couples have gone.”

“The M.O. is pretty clear, Vizh,” to reiterate each point she throws up a corresponding finger, “first, she pre-selects three potential victims.”

A weak, exhausted “But we do not know if she herself chooses them, and I believe there is evidence that Ken-,” is ignored as Wanda proceeds.

“Second,” a hard edge to her voice hopefully makes it abundantly clear she is not looking for more of his input right now, “from those three she picks the winner; third, she invites them to private parties.” Their exclusive dinner that night had been delicious and intimate, a secluded, candlelit meal in a tucked away alcove overlooking the ocean during which she managed a small victory, of sliding her foot up his leg without him flinching noticeably in surprise, instead the action was met with an infinitesimal quirk of his lips. Then it all went to hell. Amora joined them, fingers combing slowly through Vision’s hair, giggling at everything he said, thanking him for the fun afternoon, and telling Wanda she should keep an eye on him, a threat more than a suggestion. “Fourth, I’m assuming is the full seduction; and then fifth, probably some succubus style killing.” What’s most infuriating is that Wanda can logically identify the holes in the case, is well aware simply arresting her doesn’t actually fulfill the mission, but for some reason doesn’t care. Vision releases a drawn out, descending sigh, a true tell-tale sign of his waning patience, and pinches his nose again. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“I,” he waves his hands, eyes going blank as he searches through the internet for the right phrase, “have a niggling pressure.”

Wanda almost laughs, but only lets a strained smirk betray her sardonic amusement. “That’s called a headache and I’m getting one too, thanks.”

This time he doesn’t pinch his nose, instead pressing his palm to the bottom of his forehead, his long fingers climbing up into his hair. “It is unpleasant, like being too deep underwater.”

That is a different type of headache, one, unfortunately, she knows all too well. “You might just be a lightweight. The mojitos were really strong at dinner and we went through this,” Wanda shakes the empty champagne bottle at him, “pretty fast.”

“Doctor Cho has established my metabolism is too active for alcohol to affect me.”

Wanda's at a loss of what to offer, fairly certain that forcing him to take ibuprofen would be futile. “Maybe you're just stressed or,” she throws her hands up, trying to think of something else, voice cracking in frustration as she gives up, having lost her will to fight about twenty minutes ago, “I don't know. Can we just go over again what she’s been saying to you?”

“If it’s necessary,” as if the attention of Amora is not already wearing her patience thin, the way Vision keeps dodging the question, offering as little detail as possible, is infuriating. He pinches the bridge of his nose again and Wanda clenches her fists tighter in her attempt to not swat his hand away. “She is telling me in quite explicit and unwelcome detail what would happen if I,” he pauses, inhaling loudly before continuing, “wished to partake of her company, away from you.”

“Any clues or information that we could use? Like what exactly is she saying?” It’s getting harder to not just dive into his head, pull out the information so she can look it over herself, but even with their fairly constant mental link, there are some actions that cross the line, some things that are unforgivable. Which means that no matter how much it feels like a knife to her heart, Vision doesn’t want to share this and she has to respect that. Wanda switches to a different method, tossing aside her anger for a moment. “It’s just,” she touches his shoulder gently, trying to convey that she understands, that she knows this is difficult, has been picking up on the unrest growing in his mind since the pool, and that she is here for him. “It’s just the only way to end this is to figure out how she’s doing it, what she’s doing. You’re the only one that has that information. Is there anything, what she’s said, what’s she done, that is, I don’t know, odd? Concerning? More so than the fact I’m going to break her hand if she touches your ass again?” This receives a breathy exhale that might be categorized as a laugh, a nervous one filled with discomfort, but a laugh, nonetheless.

Vision swings his feet through the water, eyes following as the droplets form broken arches before slipping back into the darkness. Another experimental splash, a whirl of his irises, and she can feel his mind focus, an eerie calm descending around them forming bumps along her arms as he slowly straightens his spine, hand falling from his face, lips pursed and body taut, a realization so strong Wanda can almost see it forming in the air in front of him. He shakes his head as if clearing away a haze. Wanda can feel his thoughts reorganizing and solidifying as he turns towards her. Then he speaks and the words create a thousand pound weight in her stomach, threatening to pull her through the wooden planks and to the bottom of the ocean. “Her words are empty, just sordid suggestions but whenever she touches me it is like rushing water, an unquenchable thirst for the ocean, and then this pressure.”

Wanda stares at him, watches as his lips move in silent conversation, attempting to figure out something else to say, and it worries her, that he cannot seem to describe this more, his words always meticulous and direct. “We’re arresting her, now.”

A deep inhale and a not-quite-sighing exhale disappears into the dark waters, Vision’s fingers prying her hand open, sliding his own against her palm and giving a reassuring squeeze. “One more night of building the case. That is all I ask.”

One more night is not only a fair compromise between her need for immediacy and his preferred sluggish pace, but it is also logically the best option. Yet all Wanda can seem to think about is Amora lurking in the shadows, fine-tipped, golden shellacked nails waiting to curl into his shirt, and she hates herself for it, is queasy at the what-ifs circling in her mind, suddenly coming face to face with the realization that maybe now that other women are interested, Vision won’t find her suitable, that maybe he enjoys a rush of water in a touch. “I'm just worried about you. We don't know what she's capable of and-.”

“That is all the more reason to continue collecting information.”

She's glad it's dark, her eyes dampening in anger, warring with herself over what's best for the mission and what's best for her, knowing he should leave, that really the best method is to use him as a bait, draw the Enchantress in and then pounce, but also desperately wanting to cling to him and force him to remain safe by her side. “What happens if you run into her tonight?”

The answer is not immediate and she appreciates the care he's putting into the response, his voice soft yet serious when he finally speaks. “I am certainly not thrilled at the notion of interacting with Amora again, but if it did occur it might illuminate what is happening. We are on a mission and at some point we will have to confront her.” When she doesn’t respond he tugs her hand, the feeling of his eyes boring into the side of her head uncomfortable enough, pleading enough to turn her neck and make eye contact. The disguise fades away, crimson skin and caring, empathetic gears rotating counterclockwise in his eyes as he cups her cheek with his free hand. “Wanda?”

“What if she captures you?”

Vision shrugs, a smile toying with the corners of his mouth. “I believe I am a fairly proficient fighter, so the probability of such an occurrence is quite low.”

“This isn't a joke, Vizh.” She reaches up, laying her hand over his. “What if you just disappear like the others?”

A tingle shoots through her arm as he phases his hand from beneath hers, shifting his body to draw her to him, arms encircling her, smothering her with his essence, their bodies pressed so close she can feel the rhythmic thumping of his synthetic heart against her own. “There is no need for concern because unlike the others, I have you.” He places a tender kiss to her lips before resting his forehead against hers, the blissful press of the stone against her skin grounding her and his quiet, steadfast, “I love you, Wanda Maximoff,” eschewing her irrational doubts.

“I love you too.”

A reluctant sigh brushes against her lips, his eyelids scrunching shut, “It is getting late.”

“I can join you.”

“You need sleep.”

She touches the vibranium on his chin, whispering, “You could stay, a bit longer.”

Another kiss and she needs him to stay, “I am eager for this mission to end so that I can stay,” he flicks a strand of hair, a slightly exaggerated frown on his face breaking the seriousness of the moment, “I have found I prefer you as a brunette.”

Wanda grins, unable to resist his surprisingly expert shift in mood, allowing him to pull her from the shaky ground of their disagreement to the solid footing of their relationship, “So when you told me I’m gorgeous as a blonde it was just a front?”

“Would you have preferred me to inform you that I discovered blondes are not my type?”

The revolution of her eyes happens instantly, her hand squeezing between their bodies to give him an amused shove to the chest, “Well they're not my cup of tea either. Now please, go get enough information so we can actually enjoy this trip.”

The transformation from red to pale skin, bald, shiny head to blonde hair is interesting to watch, but Wanda finds she is through with staring at this husband. He kisses her forehead, instructing her to “Get some rest,” and then he stands, leaving her alone on the deck.

She remains sitting, knees curled up to her chest for ten minutes before returning to their pile of paperwork. Slowly her hands sort through the folders, placing pictures and documents on the ground to form a threadless web, trying to find something they haven’t considered yet, another angle or another person to investigate. When nothing pops out at her and the grainy video feed from Amora's dressing room remains unhelpfully empty, she moves to the bathroom, cringing at the itchy weave on her head and the way the blonde washes out her face, fingers longing to tear it out and let her hair be free. She resists, washes her face and brushes her teeth and then pauses at the sight of Vision’s button up shirt hanging on the door. Curiosity forms in her mind, three excited steps to the left and she plucks at the shirt, lifting it to her face and inhaling, grinning at the intoxicating and unmistakable coolness of vibranium mixing with a more neutral, subdued scent that always reminds her of spring cleaning. Wanda strips off her dress, grabbing the shirt from the hanger and sliding her arms into it, fastening three buttons to keep it on, caring only about being encased in his presence.

As she steps into the bedroom, her eyes guiltily slide to the scattered papers on the floor, but then a book catches her attention, precariously perched on the edge of the nightstand. She runs her fingers over the cover, a Tiare Apetahi in full bloom on the front. With a shrug she decides this could be useful, maybe, at least Vision has been reading it, and throws herself into the pile of pillows on the bed.

She flips through the pages, skimming over the stories. The tale of the flower and the cheating husband is first, the iteration in the book slightly different from what Kenneth told them, but close enough that she doesn’t feel the need to read it too indepthly. The next story is about a jilted suitor who stole a necklace, killing the woman’s fiance and fleeing. Eventually he was cornered and killed by the late fiance’s dog, the paw print and outline of the necklace still imbedded in the rock. The next chapter is just as tragic, telling of a yellow lizard who was born to confused human parents (she doesn’t blame them for being confused, if she gave birth to an egg there’d be lots of questions). Sadly the lizard grew too big, too terrifying and was exiled from his home, swimming through open water in search of a new island, but he died from exhaustion and was found by fishermen.

Vision’s bookmark is tucked into the pages of the next story, a sticky note with a question mark next to the illustration introducing the chapter, a gorgeous jet-black haired woman with piercing eyes and a white flower clutched in her hand. Wanda feels a strange sense of deja vu, a familiarity with those eyes but can't quite place it, clearly neither could Vision. The first paragraph describes the woman, Paahonu vahiné, the goddess of the island, a beauty so divine no one can compare. Apparently she was engaged and her fiance left for war but while he was gone she grew tired of being alone. According to legend she bewitched a shark and rode it to another island (a power Wanda thinks would be useful though a bit limited) where she met a strong, handsome warrior and fell in love. Unfortunately her fiance found out and sent two guards to collect her, placing a curse on her so that any man who kisses her turns into a fish. Dismayed and irate, she left her lover to return to her own island, and in his grief, her lover fell so hard to the ground that the imprint of his knees is still etched in the foundation of the island.

There are handwritten notes in the margin, far too sloppy to be Vision’s (plus the fact Vision would never deface a book), but also familiar, just like the eyes of the goddess. Wanda sends a wisp of scarlet towards the table, her phone hovering into her hand, her fingers immediately pulling up the pictures from Amora’s dressing room. The handwriting matches, whoever wrote in the book also annotated the pictures. Wanda puts her phone down, skimming the notes in the book in hopes it'll reveal who wrote them.

Most of the comments are about the curse, such as the type of fish the men would turn into (an unhelpful something tropical and local? ), whether it is a peck to the cheeks or must be to the lips ( lips ), and a note about an addendum from another legend. Wanda flips through the book, searching for more notes, and finds the addendum on the second to last page. It cites a lesser known legend from the commune of Vaiaau of how Paahonu vahiné returned to her island in search of a cure to the curse. Another sentence follows but it is in a different language, though two words stand out, Tiare Apetahi. Whomever had the book before has attempted to translate some of the words, multiple lines underscoring certain words with arrows pointed at potential translations devoured? Consumed? Touched? Rare? Unique? flawed? . Wanda has to turn the book upside down to follow the flow of the writing, everything jumbling together without any conclusion.

She thinks back through everything, to the information in the folders, the interactions between Vision and Amora and then she stops, heart skipping a beat as her mind circles a fleeting, ephemeral thought. Vision described the Enchantress’ touch as a rush of water and a thirst for the ocean. Wanda turns back to the picture, returning to the main room and laying the book on the ground next to Amora’s folder. There’s a resemblance but nothing uncanny or damning, and Wanda growls in frustration, scarlet sending the book flying across the room as she paces.

Clearly it is Amora, it has to be, Wanda admits she might be a bit biased, but all the signs are there, yet they are still missing key information. Where are the couples going? It’s something Vision keeps annoyingly bringing up, it is not enough to determine who is committing the act, they have to know the details. She returns to the folders, desperately searching for another connection between them all, yes they all attended the show, they all went to the pool, they all experienced the seduction of the Enchantress, but there has to be something else. Wanda’s eyes scan the pages, studying their schedules and excursions, every moment of their trip, and then she lines up the files and starts comparing the list of personnel.

A knock startles her, scarlet twisting around her fingers as she cautiously approaches the door. She's assuming it's just that Vision forgot his key again and there are people watching so he can’t phase inside. When the door opens she’s met with a frighteningly serious face. “Kenneth?”

“He’s gone with her, I tried to stop it, tried to keep her away, tried to reason with him, direct him back to your room, but she just, she just once she’s made up her mind you can’t stop her and she’s so convincing and-”

An icy chill runs up her spine, branching out to consume her entire body. An unhappy, authoritative “Kenneth,” freezes his body so she can grip his shoulders, staring hard into his slightly tearful eyes, “I need less pronouns, more names, and some specifics, please.”

He nods, breathing quickly in and out, hands shaking less and less as he calms down. “Amora has taken your husband. That’s where the couples have been going, but we’re not allowed to talk about it or warn anyone.”

“Where?”

“The Tiare Apetahi.”

A deep breath centers her frenzied mind, lips settling into a serious and determined scowl. “Give me five minutes and then you’re coming with me.”

Vision’s shirt is discarded immediately, replaced by black leggings and a jacket that are far more conducive to kicking ass. They were strongly encouraged to bring weapons, something Vision was staunchly against, but Wanda let Natasha pack the suitcase, figuring her experience lended itself to only the necessities being included. Yet when Wanda unzips that particular suitcase she is met with batons and stun guns, brass knuckles and daggers. The smoke bombs are cozy in the corner of the suitcase, she’s never actually used one before and has never really seen the purpose besides team building exercises, but with a shrug Wanda grabs two and places them in a bag at her hip.

Wanda stops to look in the mirror, feeling slightly guilty at the rush of adrenaline coursing through her body, her fingers itching for action, hoping her confident nod and “You got this,” is enough to protect her from whatever is about to happen. That's when the overhead lamp hits her hand, dots of light dancing on the ceiling from the ring, and she frowns at the expensive and too large diamond. Carefully she slides it off, a tendril of scarlet sending it to the table. This isn’t about saving her fake husband anymore, it’s about saving the man she loves.

Wanda saunters out the door, eyes burning with a flicker of scarlet. “Come on Kenneth.”

They sneak through the resort, following hidden pathways meant only for the workers, secret doorways and halls connecting all of the rooms to allow them to pop in and out as quickly as possible. Kenneth has an irritating habit of ducking behind things, terrified anytime someone looks at them, but Wanda never stops, forcing him to keep up with her.

A large, metal door with a bright yellow caution sign stops their pursuit, Kenneth placing himself between her and the door. “Please, ma’am, you’re going to get killed.”

Wanda tilts her head, leveling the same stare she uses on Tony whenever he’s being a patriarchal, condescending ass. “I’ve got this.”

Reluctantly he steps aside, swiping his concierge badge to gain them access, but still holding up an annoyingly demanding finger to his lips, as if she is going to charge into the room like a pack of drunk elephants. They slip inside and for a moment she is disoriented by the stacks of boxes all around them, but when she peeks over the cardboard wall she realizes they came in a back door. The moat and plant are still there, nothing different about them other than what might be a glint of metal near the base of the planter, but what is different is the presence of two other people.

One is her fairly-proficient-at-fighting boyfriend, who is currently sitting in a chair, seemingly unrestrained and yet struggling, his clenched fists and rippling muscles a sign that he’s fighting against something. His disguise is still in place, which makes the scene more unsettling as she’s not sure if he’s just finally gotten the hang of role-playing and is pretending to be a helpless man, or if somehow he really is restrained. Emerald light fills the room, the same hue as what Wanda saw sparking from the Enchantress’ hands at the show, and the silky, dulcet intonations of his captor echo off the walls, trapped by the boxes to allow her a mostly clear understanding of what’s happening.

Amora approaches the chair with every ounce of swagger imaginable, hand poised and ready to touch Vision’s chest, “Tell me, Simon,” his name drips from her lips like honey, sticky and sweet, and Wanda hates it, “do you love your wife?” Wanda doesn’t hear anything, yet the woman smiles, a throw of her hands as if to say oops , “My apologies, perhaps you’d like your voice back.” Her fingers brush his lips, lingering for several seconds before finishing the movement, her nail catching his bottom lip and dragging it down.

A strained, “Yes, very much,” forces itself from his mouth and the woman’s smile only grows more predatory.

“Am I beautiful?”

For his own sake, Wanda knows he needs to say yes, that he has to commit to the mission, whatever the hell that is at the moment, but a voice in the back of her mind fights back, hoping he resists. His honest and awed “Breathtaking” sinks her heart and she has to fight back the instinct to barrel into the room, hands blazing with scarlet, instead she takes a calm breath and attempts to remain logical. The mission is a failure if they don’t find out what happened to the missing couples and unfortunately Vision’s compliance, and her inaction, are cornerstones of that mystery.

Amora circles the chair, hand trailing along his chest and shoulders, and all Wanda can think about right now is a documentary Vision made her watch the other week where poor, adorable seal pups rarely stood a chance against the sharks in the water. When Amora returns to her place in front of him, she turns to look in their direction. Wanda ducks, pulling a wide-mouthed and trembling Kenneth down with her. Several minutes pass before Wanda slowly peeks over the boxes and is horrified to find Amora straddling Vision’s lap. Her power courses through her veins as she watches the woman trace her fingers along his jaw, burgeons from her body once she reaches his neck, and a spark of red singes a box, a tiny wisp of smoking rising into the air when an emerald mist crawls along his shoulders and enters his head causing Vision to flinch. Wanda is just about done with this, charging her powers around her hands but stops at the surprisingly wrathful betrayal in Amora’s voice. “You are a trickster. This is not your face.”

A slurred “No” from Vision sends an unexpected ache into her heart, the golden pulses of his mind more discombobulated, muddled, and afraid than she’s ever felt.

“Show me.” Nothing happens for several seconds and then his body ripples with the molecular manipulation, the reveal of his real self eliciting a gasp from Amora and a “What the fuck?” from Kenneth. The woman stands up and circles the chair again, scrutinizing him, prodding at the vibranium plates on his head. “You are a god.”

“I am human.”

A scoff and the woman bends lower, bringing her face even with his, “Do not belittle yourself. I understand how human lovers distort reality but you,” she touches his chest again and Wanda feels a small, fluttering hope when Vision flinches again, “are magnificently inhuman.”

Wanda turns towards Kenneth with a stern whispered instruction, “Stay here.”

“Kenneth!” rings through the building, his body perking up and Wanda freezes in confusion, a rope suddenly squeezing her body, pulled so tightly she can feel it cutting her skin.

All mirth is gone from his voice, replaced by a feigned apologetic lilt that is masking the almost prideful swell of his words. “It’s best if you don’t struggle, please.”

Kenneth shoves her forward, knocking several boxes over, stopping her from falling to the ground with a yank of the rope, a pained gasp falling from her mouth as she recovers. Vision’s wild eyes follow her approach, the gears rotating so quickly it's making her almost as dizzy as the pain racing through her arms, “Wanda?"

She’ll admit it’s not the best time for banter, but instead of declarations of love or even saying his name she finds herself greeting him with a deadpanned, “Enough evidence yet?” There’s a confused Wanda? from above, but she ignores it, committed to maintaining eye contact with Vision for as long as a possible.

The smirk that valiantly strives to lift his lips is a good enough sign that he’s okay. “Most assuredly.”

“Can you move?” He tries, nose scrunching with the strain, but only manages a tiny, mournful shake of his head. “Awesome.”

A whip of emerald curls around Wanda, dissolving the rope and causing her legs to give out, her knees smacking against the floor while she pulses her powers against the emerald strands which resist her, tightening around her each time she tries to break them. “Kenneth,” Wanda glares at their concierge as he approaches Amora, a reverential, all encompassing adoration in his smile as he reaches out to grab her hand, but she pulls away from his touch in disgust. “I have changed my mind.”

Kenneth stammers out a “What?” reaching out for her hand once more. The restraint around Wanda loosens a millimeter with her latest swipe of scarlet and Wanda smiles, repeating the action, thrilled when the emerald starts to dissolve.

“I have a new desire. This,” Amora’s hands return to Vision, stroking his cheeks with a rare tenderness, “is my new lover.”

“But,” Wanda can hear Kenneth’s panicked breathing, can feel his confusion and the vertigo of betrayal without delving into his mind, “Paahonu…”

Amora turns towards him, rage contorting her features into a hideous mask, “You do not deserve to utter my name.”

He flinches from her wrath, bowing slightly at the waist, eyes cast to the floor as he continues to speak, “My goddess, without her,” his face turns just enough to reveal the disgust contorting his features, finger pointed at Wanda, “it will not bloom. You can not have,” Kenneth chokes out the next word, bitterness and despair filling the single syllable as he glares at Vision, “him without the flower.”

The information gives Amora pause, contemplation pursing her lips. “Very well.” The emerald ropes constrict around Wanda, erasing all of her hard work as her own powers restart their crashing and breaking. The woman waves her fingers, curling them into a fist, pantomiming a yank and Wanda is drawn forward, the intrigued eyes of the goddess studying her much like a child with a magnifying glass, the noon sun, and an anthill. “Do you love him?”

Wanda’s “Yes” is strong, confident, and threatening.

“Even,” Amora reaches out, placing a finger under Wanda’s chin and turning her face towards Vision’s worried eyes, “like this.”

The ropes start to loosen again, though Wanda tries to remain still, not wanting to draw attention to her impending freedom. She smiles at Vision before answering, “I love him even more like this.”

Surprise at her answer wrinkles the perfect skin of Amora’s forehead, lips morphing from contemplation to a mirthful smile. “Then your grief shall consume you when he is mine.” A snap towards Kenneth kickstarts his reluctant feet, and Wanda can’t decide who to watch, shifting her eyes from Amora to Vision and then remaining glued on Kenneth as he retrieves a machete from the base of the flower, handing it to Amora. The woman inspects the blade, rotating it to catch the light before placing it at Wanda’s feet. A flick of her wrist sends an invisible arrow to Wanda’s forehead and for the first time she feels what it is like to have an intruder in her mind, guilt building within her at her past actions, the sickening, serpentine invasion looping around her thoughts. The woman’s presence pushes against her, a pressure building behind Wanda’s eyes as Amora speaks, ”You grief will be so strong,” suddenly Wanda can feel the grief, blooming in her body, the idea of life without Vision unthinkably lonely, unlivable, “you cannot live without his love and yet he does not want you.” Her thoughts continue in a carefully guided, self-destructive path because the woman is correct, what is life without love, his love, and Wanda finds her eyes drawn to her left hand, the emerald cloud in her mind shrinking briefly in confusion at the absence of the ring. But then a faint ring forms on her finger, a facsimile of what she wore earlier, showing her what she will lose when Vision betrays her. It is disturbing, disgusting, heart-shattering and all Wanda wants is to remove the ring, no, not just the ring, it’s essence, the phantom feeling of the band on her skin, signifying the false vow would still haunt her. Yes, she’d have to get rid of the entire hand to be safe. “Your blood,” a rough shove to Wanda’s head directs her eyes to the machete, “will be my reward.”

The comment clicks into place and Wanda feels bile rising, disgusted at the pair in front of her, horrified that this woman thinks she can take what isn’t hers. Wanda closes her eyes, moving her thoughts away from the emerald intruder, recalling the softness in Vision’s I love you, Wanda Maximoff , and the unfettered, utterly honest admittance that he loved her resilience the most. She’s lost far more in her life and never stopped going. If she loses Vision it will destroy her, but only for a time.

Her arms move a fraction of an inch, a few more minutes and she thinks she can break free, so she scrambles to buy more time, her powers chipping away at the restraints. “Why us?”

Amora nods before answering with a surprising amount of candor. “Your love was strongest. The last couple, did not love each other and my flower did not bloom,” an outraged huff and balled fists display how horrible it must have been, but then Amora relaxes, cocking her head with an appreciative nod, “perhaps it is for the best, I would have wasted my opportunity on this pitifully weak mortal,” for a brief, confusing moment Wanda actually pities the close to hyperventilating Kenneth, but it passes when Amora finishes with a delighted giggle, “instead I get a god.”

Wanda breathes in, channeling all of her power into a tiny, concentrated ball in her chest and then she releases it with a scream, the emerald ropes combusting. “No, he’s mine.”

Scarlet missiles are sent through the air, deflected easily by the grinning woman, a joy dancing in her eyes that is directed at the challenge of Wanda and finally not at the need to consume Vision. Wanda uses this as a distraction, unzipping the bag at her hip and tossing both smoke bombs at the woman, an angry yell confirming she’s thoroughly pissed off a goddess, a new and satisfying accomplishment. Her thoughts focus on their stealth training, on the way Natasha would move through darkness, squatting low to the ground, body open and loose, ready for whatever challenge would meet her. A glimmer of emerald is enough warning for Wanda to throw up a scarlet shield, grimacing at the sheer force behind the attack, feet stumbling several steps back, but she stays upright, her right hand tossing wave after wave of red.

Footsteps to her left are just enough warning for her to parry the slash of green light, the enraged scowl of Amora appearing through the fading smoke. “You are impressive,” the goddess shoves Wanda backwards, finishing the compliment with a dismissive, “for a human.”

Wanda struggles under the onslaught, feet slipping backwards and muscles aching, but she keeps her breathing even, tries to focus on her powers, on matching the thrusts and swipes of her attacker. The smoke is gone, pockets of haze floating in the air, the room around her coming into focus. Kenneth standing near the moat, tears glistening on his cheeks and his mouth agape, and Vision straining in the chair, trying to escape so he can help. “You’re,” Wanda winces at the latest wall of emerald pushing against her thinning shield of scarlet, “pretty pitiful for a goddess.”

“Oh, my poor, delusional girl,” the wall of green begins to glow, burning Wanda’s palms, “You will lose and he will be mine, I am simply having fun right now.” A cresting wave of emerald crashes into her, swiping Wanda’s feet out from under her and throwing her against the far back wall. The room tumbles around her, vision blurry, and a thin, wet line of blood dripping down her face. There are so many noises and each one is like a hammer to the deepest parts of her brain. Her eyelids clamp shut, sorting through every sound, honing in on the most important which is the frenzied, horrified Wanda coming from Vision. When Wanda opens her eyes again she sees Amora next to Kenneth, a hand caressing his cheek as she leans in with a “Kenneth?”

Wanda struggles to stand, scarlet building and then breaking at the tips of her throbbing fingers, trying to get closer as Kenneth responds, “My goddess?”

The same voice used earlier on Vision floats through the air, a dreamy, reiterated, “Kenneth.” Reverentially he stares up at her, lips parted with a question, silenced when she touches his cheek in what is almost concern. “Do you love me?”

As Kenneth whispers, “Yes,” Wanda heaves in a shaky breath with every step, trying hard not to let the fizzle of red at her hands and the aching of her wrists defeat her.

“You know I do not love you.” Amora caresses his cheek once more and brings the machete up to the man. “Allow your grief to guide you,” Wanda tries to throw a hex at the woman, but it falls short, Amora brushing the man’s cheek one more time, her lips hovering above his mouth, “worship me one last time.”

The man releases a shuddering sob, fingers curling around the handle and Wanda yells out, “Stop!” whips of power flying towards the man but the blade descends too quickly, an agonized yell precedes his body crumpling to the floor, Vision’s shocked “Kenneth!” mingling with the pained screams of the concierge.

“Thank you,” Amora curls her fingers in the man’s shirt, lifting him to face the planter, the tightly clasped green bud opening, five snowy white petals unfurling to one side, “For your devotion.” Kenneth’s body goes limp and is tossed aside, sinking into the moat, the splash loud enough to cover the thud as Wanda breaks into a run, one hand sending out a tether into the water and the other around Amora’s ankle, trying, but failing to stop her from walking towards the flower. A single, graceful shake of her leg and Wanda is thrown to the ground, powers reverberating and slamming into her chest, knocking the air from her lungs.

The room fills with light, a searing heat drawing sweat to her brow, but she knows that glow, adores that glow, manages to open her eyes just enough to see the burning stream from Vision’s forehead connect with the flower, obliterating it to ash. A scream bounces off the walls, expanding into every corner of the room, a scream filled with eons of pain, of waiting, of planning, centuries of existence that all culminate in the crush of failure. Amora is across the room in an instant, fingers contorting as she twists thick, emerald around Vision, his body rising into the air. “You,” a strained bend of her fingers curls his body, a grimace forming on his face, “betrayed my love. This was for you.”

Wanda uses the distraction to sneak up behind the woman, allowing herself a brief moment for a gloating smiling when Vision breathes out a pained, “I never wanted you.”

“If you cannot be mine,” a sinister wave of her fingers brings him closer, the tips of their noses touching, a pout forming on her lips as her voice takes on a wistful, regretful tone, “then you can swim with the rest."

That’s when the rage fills Wanda again, this assumption he’d just melt into this woman’s embrace, and now that he won’t that she’s going to take him away, and suddenly she knows tightly controlled, Natasha approved fighting isn’t going to cut it, that her powers are strongest when she allows herself to feel. So she embraces her anger, her disquiet over watching this woman fawn over Vision only to turn against him, the sinking in her stomach at the surety the other couples are beyond being saved, the shock of Kenneth’s sacrifice, of the arrogance of gods and goddess to think they can take and take and take. An explosion of scarlet throws Amora to the ground, giving Wanda a chance to catch her breath and charge her powers up for another attack. She sends a burst of red through the air, “You do not get to decide who loves you,” another burst of power and the woman remains on the ground, “you chose to betray your lover,” scarlet flows in steady streams now, pinning the woman, “you brought the curse upon yourself and you can’t,” Amora struggles and Wanda increases the flow of her powers , “just take what you want, especially when it’s mine. And,” the thought comes about so quickly, Wanda doesn’t even have time to question if it’s appropriate, but she throws one more tendril at the woman, slapping her across the face, “no one, and I mean no one, does an exotic dance for my husband, except me.”***

The genuine fear and admiration in the woman’s eyes stops the assault, her voice quiet, almost human for the first time, “What should I do then?”

“Bring back the others,” Wanda nods towards the fish frantically splashing in the water.

Amora follows her eyes, an infuriatingly dismissive shrug throwing off Wanda’s powers, “I cannot undo the effects of the curse, only my fiance can, and he is quite uncooperative. Plus,” an unapologetic, ancient gleam shines in her eyes, “They would only die of despair when they learn the truth. Trust me.” A flash of emerald causes Wanda to flinch, though it is not directed at her but Vision, his body tumbling from the air, crashing to the ground with heaving breaths filling his lungs. “You have earned his love, cherish him.”

It’s not enough bounces furiously through her head and Wanda wants to scream at failing the other couples, at how conflicted she is in her need to rush to Vision and her sorrow at what they’re going to have to tell all of the families when they return. What’s worse is she knows that no amount of restraint will keep Amora in custody, that they could arrest her, send her to the Raft, but she’d escape. The gods always do. She turns her powers towards Amora once more, hands trembling as she attempts to reclaim her control of the woman, but a slash of emerald causes the scarlet to ricochet and explode several boxes. Slowly Wanda rescinds her powers, realizing any more attempts at containing the woman are futile and settles for a command “You will leave this resort, go back to wherever you belong, and you will not touch another human again, understood?”

“I will do my best, though I cannot stop them from worshipping me.” Amora stands up and walks away, casting one last, sorrowful gaze to the remnants of the Tiare Apetahi before vanishing from the room.

A touch to her shoulder breaks the last visage of her fury, tears pooling in her eyes, distorting everything around her as she wraps her arms around Vision, finds comfort in the uneven rise and fall of his chest. And they hold each other.

The days that follow are a blur. S.H.I.E.L.D. arrives within an hour of the confrontation, immediately taking over the damage control from the mission. There is a somber air to the actions of the agents, a candlelit memorial set up on a tucked away corner of the resort to offer memories of the fallen S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives. Luckily, it doesn't take much work to transfer all of their mission intel to the new agents, highlighting all of the important links, the retroactively found documented proof of Kenneth being the concierge for everyone and Amora’s connection with the couples. What does cause trouble is the five hour long meeting that starts with: “So how exactly do we explain this to their families?”

Then they have to conduct dozens of interviews with confused workers, even more confused guests all of it culminating in the immediate and indefinite closing of the resort which leads to a small riot involving thrown daiquiris and the weaponization of shuffleboard sticks. Wanda and Vision help where they can, conducting the interviews, being interviewed themselves, writing mission reports, filling out forms, and serving as a presence to instill calm into the frantic disorder collapsing around them. At some point, though Wanda feels a tiny pinpoint of guilt at how happy it makes her, a woman at the spa agrees to remove the weave, freeing her hair.

Wanda and Vision don’t talk much, besides what is required for the mission, but conversation isn’t needed at the moment, far more important is the comfort of each other whether it’s clasped hands, a protective arm around a waist, a gentle hug, or simply the brushing of their thighs when they’re sitting for an interview. At night Vision clings to her, face buried in her neck, and she wraps herself around him, breathes him in, cherishes the fact that he’s here, and then fiercely kisses his temple when that thought careens towards the couples that don’t have this anymore, never will have it again.

When the time comes to finally leave the resort, the relief is palpable, Wanda even manages to finish packing her bags before Vision, antsy to leave the mission behind and return to the blessedly nontropical, sleek compound. A knock at the door and her hand shaking just slightly as she opens it, reveals their fill-in concierge, La'akea, with a neutral smile on her face. “I’m here to collect your belongings.”

“Of course, one sec,” Wanda steps back from the door, angling her body so she can see into the bedroom, “Vizh?” Her voice seems to startle him, his hand darting into his bag, tucking whatever it was into the pocket.

A somewhat guilty smile is turned towards her. “Wanda?”

“Stuff ready?”

“Yes.”

La’akea bows her head as Wanda welcomes her in, a luggage cart wheeled in behind her that she expertly packs with their bags. Before she leaves, she hands Wanda a small, tan envelope, an uneasy slant to her lips as she fumbles out the explanation. “It is not much, but the owners wished to provide you a free trip to one of the sister resorts, redeemable whenever.”

“Oh,” Wanda runs her fingers along the edge, thoughts jumbled, part of her certain they’d never return, but another more hopeful part of her weighing the possibility that a different island may be relaxing, perhaps one with fewer spiteful deities. ”Thanks.”

The concierge takes their luggage, leaving them alone in the empty room, their bodies gravitating towards each other, a comforting arm around her waist as she leans into his shoulder, the texture of his synthetic clothes filling her with peace. “If you are willing,” the hesitation in his voice causes her eyebrow to raise, twisting out of his grasp enough so she can meet his bashful gaze, “they insisted, despite my misgivings otherwise, to fulfill a request I placed before we arrived.”

“I’m intrigued.”

When they land, Vision allowing a rare, carefree smile to part his lips at being allowed to fly them to the location, Wanda finds herself speechless. They are on a small, enclosed beach, jagged rocks climbing up around them in a semi-circle, directing the water to crash against glistening sand, stirring the shells with each singing wave. What’s more is that there is a small pergola with white fabric woven between the crisscrossing beams of dark wood, and tiny, glittering lights strung up along the edge of the roof, positioned over two chairs. Between the two chairs is a bottle of wine. “What is this?”

A sadness fills the space between his lips as he breathes in, eyes taking in the romantic set-up. “This is what I bartered with Sam, this is why he agreed for me to take his place, well this and my promise to do his laundry for a month.”

Wanda glances between Vision and the set-up, “Sam agreed to give up paradise so we could have a romantic evening?”

“Well,” he takes her hand, fingers intertwining, a nervousness to his gait as he leads her to the pergola and offers her one of the chairs. Once she's comfortable he joins her, easing himself into the other chair, hands rubbing nervously at his thighs as a contemplative, anxious air hovers around him. “It was meant to be tad more romantic, somewhat celebratory, I hoped, but I,” he pauses, flashing her his best attempt at a nonchalant smile, “given all that occurred did not believe it was appropriate anymore.”

His words don’t really answer her question, though Wanda thinks she can at least make sense of what he isn’t saying, the subtext of his words far easier for her than any mark on a mission, his mind a gorgeous, complex narrative that she has been honored to enjoy so intimately. When she finally figures out what she believes is the vague implication, a jolt sparks in her toes, rushing along her legs and torso before finally connecting with her heart as it flutters wildly. “Well, it would be a shame to not enjoy any of it.”

A genuine curve forms on his lips as he pours out two glasses of wine and Wanda can't help but notice how naked his hand looks without the wedding ring anymore, and the strange pang that causes in her chest. Gently he passes a glass to her, lifting the other to his face, sniffing the liquid as they likely would have been instructed at their canceled wine tasting, nose starting in the middle then drawing the glass away, his hand waving to help the aroma into his nose. “I’d say a hint of passion fruit with cedar undertones.”

“Are you just reading the bottle?”

It’s the first time he’s genuinely laughed since their canceled boat tour and finally the dense, mournful clouds surrounding them break and they get to be themselves again. “I do not appreciate the insinuation that my sense of smell is not impeccable.”

Wanda sniffs the wine, finding that she just smells alcohol. “You’re a horrible liar.” The thought gives her pause, a question budding on her lips, one she knows he’d deny, but trapping him in the lie would be enough to satisfy the oddly strong yearning of the possibility. Instead she sips the wine, smacking her lips several times, eliciting another chuckle from him. “You know, we should do this again sometime.”

“Oh,” Vision swirls the wine in his glass, eyes locked on the ebb and flow of the water, “I am not certain undercover missions are my cup of tea, though we do work well together.”

It’s her turn to laugh, eyes rolling at his misunderstanding, subtlety never his strong suit. “Not what I meant, Vizh.” The words get trapped in her throat when she tries to continue, the notion both exhilarating and yet terrifying. “I mean be newlyweds.”

The expectation, based on years of catching him off guard, is that the glass will plummet into the sand as a clear confirmation of her suspicions. But it seems he’s picked up a few skills from going undercover, his fingers flinching just once before he turns the glass around in his hand, thinking about the suggestion, a pursed grin warring with his face as he attempts to remain neutral. It’s this gesture that sends her heart beating so quickly she’s certain it’ll escape and fly away. “Oh, well, perhaps next time we shall stay in our room instead of getting entangled with vengeful goddesses.”

Wanda lifts her glass, holding it out to him and beaming when he clinks their glasses. “Cheers to that.”

“Cheers.” Their hands join over the table as they watch the tangerine sun set over paradise.

If you are interested in background on the comics and myths used for the story, hop on over to AO3.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!!

#scarlet vision #vision #wanda maximoff #ao3 #fanfiction #undercover mission #bamf Wanda #Vision is a damsel in distress

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