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littlebitoffanfic · 5 years

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The Bear Or The Deer

Fandom: Frankenstein Character: Adam/Frankenstein’s monster Relationship: Adam/reader Request: you do a lot of horror and I was just wondering on the off chance: would you do Frankenstein’s monster x reader? AN: Frankenstein is my favourite book! Since, in the book the creature calls himself Adam, I decided to stick with that as his name. also, this’ll probably be a multi-chapter thing as I cant wait to explore more plot with him

Sitting in your home on a stormy night, in the pitch black, waiting by a window was never something you thought you would ever have to do. But after the last few months, you needed to know. You had to. Something was happening and you didn’t know or understand it. People had reported a monster in the woods that surrounded your home, yet you had had little cause to be frightened. In fact, the only thing that truly scared you about it was not knowing what it was. You had never felt exposed or unsafe in your home. It was about a mile out from the nearest town, and just off a trail that only had one or two horse and carts pass by ever week. You were mostly self sufficient, growing your own vegetables and fruit in your large garden and a few animals such as cow and a few chickens along with your trusted horse. You traded in town with your craft work, using your love for paints, crafting and even mending things. Often, the butcher, who has a young family, will ask you for new clothes and such in exchange for meat. You would sell your art to passing traders and do the occasional jobs for everyone else in the town in exchange for whatever you needed. But it was still hard work. Your home and its surroundings needed a lot of tending to. Only, you had noticed something strange over the last little while. Your log pile, which you kept outside next to the small bard, was kept topped up. Then apples started being left on your back porch every morning, along with oranges and any other fuits. As time grew on, you grew uneasy. You tried leaving out food and some blankets and such, in hope that whoever it is was just looking to trade. But they never took anything. And then the rumours started in town. A beast, like a bear, stalking the forest. A few had seen it moving about, but none dared approach it. It had to be human-like, judging but its knowledge of cutting wood and such, but where did it live? Was it close to you? Tonight, you planned on seeing it for yourself. You had left out a large basket of food for it. Cheeses, hams, a bottle of milk and some eggs, in hopes that it would take it. You sat to the side of one of your kitchen windows, which was close to the back door where the thing sometimes left fruit. You hoped it would see the basket when placing the logs on the pile and come to investigate. You had nearly drifted off when a crash of thunder woke you, making you jump as you sat straight up. Looking out the window, you noticed how the moon was nearly fully covered by clouds, the only light now came from the soft glow of your living room, where you always kept the fire going to heat the house and the small light of the full moon that peaked through the clouds. Another few lightening strikes and crashes of thunder kept you alert. Until you saw the creature. It emerged from the forest like a it might have been a tree itself, judging but the stature. In the rain, it was bend over, walking on two legs with a long cloak drawn over its body. It was human, and judging by the stature, probably male. It, he, carried logs against his chest, only pulling back his cloak to place them onto the pile carefully. He was soaked to the bone, you could see that, and yet he was more concerned with make sure the balance of the pile was right. His face was hidden by the hood, but you saw he had noticed the basket, which was still dry thanks to the porches roof and the wind that blew the rain in the opposite direction. He walked to the porch, placing his foot on the bottom of the three steps, his whole body seeming to tilt to the side in curiosity. He looked up towards the top floor of the house, where he probably thought you were fast asleep. You saw him place his hand up to his chest and he gave a small bow to your house, before retreating without the basket. You were stunned, shocked and so confused. What was he? Why did he do these things for you? Why would he be out in such weather? Where was his family? It was curiosity that lead you to spring up from your seat and run to the back door as a crash of thunder masked you opening the door. “Wait!” You called out, scooping the basket up by the handle. The figure froze, his entire body seeming to turn to rock at the sound of your voice. You took a few more steps out, not daring to descend the steps into the rain just yet. You wanted to keep the food dry. “Please, will you take this?” You asked, hoping your question would draw some kind of response out of him. Which it did. He turned, but in a strange kind of way. His lower half turned a quarter of the way towards you while the top half twisted fully, keeping his head low and covered by the hood. It was very unnerving to watch, and reminded you that something just wasn’t quite right about him. “For helping me. I want you to have it.” You manage to speak, keeping the fear from affecting your voice. A crash of lightening followed by a roll of thunder as if showing some kind of inner battle the man was obviously having with himself. You were just a woman, alone in your home. He had no reason to fear you. You had no weapons, nor was there anyone close by who would be able to help you. If anything, you should be scared of him. But something was different about him. “Please.” You repeated, keeping your voice soft. This seemed to be enough to persuade him back to you, approaching you in such a manner that reminded you of a stray dog approaching a human who had offered it food. It wanted the food, yes, but it was scared of the hand that gave it. As he reached the bottom of the small set of stairs, you couldn’t help but feel dwarfed by him. Even with you at the top stair, he was taller. The light from the house didn’t give you enough light to see his face. Holding out the basket, you smiled. He hesitated, but raised his right hand to take the basket. As he did so, the sleeve fell back, revealing a wrist with a deep scar running around the wrist and down beneath his sleeve. The flesh itself was a little… off in colour. But the scar looked painful. You couldn’t help the gasp that fell from your lips as you looked up at him. At the wrong time. A bolt of lightening lit up the sky and, for the first time, you saw his face. A gaunt face looked back at you. Thin lips with barely any colour behind them were opened slightly in surprise. His cheeks bones were prominent, and his skin the same as his hand, looking slightly off and discoloured. His nose was missing, and chunk and several scars ran across this face, almost like a doll that had been ripped apart and sow back together again. But his eyes. They were a yellowish colour, with the left one having another scar running from the bottom of his eye right down his cheek to his jaw. They were wide, surprised, like a deep that had been scared by the sudden attack of a bear. How quickly your metaphor for him had changed, from a bear to a deer. He seemed terrified of you. Yet he could easily turn on you and you were very aware of that fact. But as quickly as the lightening had struck, it was gone, replaced with a thundering bang. The man ducked his head, retreating into himself as he turned on his heels and fled. Caring little for the rain or your own safety, you ran after him, calling out for him to wait. It would seem that his great height left him at a disadvantage to you, as you were able to catch up wit him before he reached the edge of the woods. “Wait, please!” You cry out, reaching out and grabbing his cloak and digging your heels into the ground. The man let out a grunt, twisting towards you as if expecting you to attack him, causing his hood to fall back and reveal black hair. He winced and it hit you. He didn’t want you to see him not because he didn’t want you to know who he was, but because of the way he looked. “Im sorry. The thunder and lightening just frightened me, that’s all.” You lied through your teeth. You were already soaked to the bone from the rain, which pelted down with little chance of stopping soon. The wind whipped your hair out of place, almost blowing you off of balance. Yet he stood strong a tree. As if to prove that you weren’t scared of him, you reached out and took his right hand, raising it with is palm upwards. He jumped at the touch, his skin freezing and his hand now tense. Raising it, you hooked the basket in his hand. Once he had the weight, you used both your hands to close his fingers over the handle. “As a thank you for everything you’ve done.” You smile up at him, his eyes so bright without the hood. He was handsome, at least to you. So unique and unknown. You would be lying if you said he didn’t intrigued ou unlike any man you had ever met. “do you have a name?” You asked, suddenly doubting if he even understood you. Perhaps he was mute, or didn’t understand your language. He nodded, his tongue darting out as if to wet his bottom lip despite the fact his face was soaked. “Adam.” A deep voice replied. “Im [y/n].” You told him, as if the two of you were meeting for the first time at some ball or in a local shop. He repeated it back to you, like it was the most beautiful word he had ever heard and just had to make sure he could say it right. A gust of wind ripped through the garden and hit you like a ton of bricks. You fell forward, loosing your footing as you let out a yelp. But a strong arm caught you and, before you could even realise what had happened, you were swept up like a bride. He had dropped the basket to catch you and now proceeded to carry you back through your garden. You felt your heart hammering in your chest as you stared up at him while his gaze remained solely on the path. You could see how tense his jaw was, like he was grinding his teeth together. As he climbed the bottom two steps and was about to put you back on your porch, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He froze. His mouth slightly open and his eyes wide, as if he were unable to believe it. You took the opportunity to swing out of his grasp, now standing on your own feet. “You’d better get home and dry off. The storm looks like it will only worsen tonight. You’ll catch your death.” You look up at the sky. You were pulled from your thought by a soft chuckle, one which made your cheeks burn and your heart stop. It was low, almost too low to hear. You looked to him and saw amusement in his eyes. He doesn’t hold your eyes for more than a second before dropping them, bowing to you. “Thank you for your concern, but I shall be fine.” He speaks with such an elegance that doesn’t quite fit his features. “well, Adam, perhaps you should come back tomorrow, just to let me know you are safe?” You ask, biting your lower lip. his head snaps up, his eyes wide with disbelieve and… hope. a single nod confirms his return as he retreats away from you for the final time that night. He pulls his hood back up and turns away, walking back to the basket, which had landed on the path, but nothing had spilled out. You hoped the blanket that covered it would be enough to protect the content from the rain. he scooped it out, glancing back at you. You smiled and waved, backing into your doorway and closing it. It was all suddenly so quiet without the wind and rain in your ear. You locked the door, unable to stop from smiling as you went to the window, seeing him take one last look at where you had been before disappearing into the woods. You couldn’t help but bursting feeling in your chest that wanted to dance until he returned, nor how his face was burned into your mind in a good way. There was still so many question in your mind. Who was he? Where did he come from? Why did he have those scars? And you couldn’t quite work out if he was the bear or the deer.

#frankenstein #frankenstiensmonster #frankensteins creation #frankensteins creature #adam frankenstein #adam Frankenstein x reader #Frankenstein monster x reader

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itsinmydunah · 6 years

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Battle Sign

A/N: This fic is a frankenfic. I used it as a way to help me study my neuro material, and also turned it into an angsty h/c fic. I hope you guys enjoy it. Please let me know if this style (medical stuff, h/c, etc) is good. I may use this “study” method again if people like it :)

Word Count: 3,965

Warnings: medical stuff - if you can’t handle graphic descriptions of head wounds, I would stay away from this fic

There is an icy urgency in his veins that has him rushing to the quinjet. He is met with a horror worse than the destroyed city at his back, worse than the civilians screaming in the streets. He freezes in step, clenches his fists, and blinks hard as if to erase the image, as if it may just be a bad dream that he can will away.

He opens his eyes again.

Wanda is laid on a gurney, neck in a cervical collar, hair and face covered in blood.

“Where’s Vizh? Wherizhe?” Her words are slurred, both pupils dilated huge and virtually non-responsive to light. “I wan ‘im.” Her hands keep reaching out blindly, grasping at air. When they come in contact with nothing, she starts panicking, breathing getting fast and hard.

“Hey, hey, Wanda, you need to calm down.” Clint is by her head, smoothing her hair to one side so Bruce can look at her head wound. He’s careful not to touch the cervical collar that has been fixed around her neck.

“I am here,” Vision chokes out, walking through the quinjet to stand right where Wanda is strapped down to the gurney. He looks down at her, clothes torn and covered in rubble and blood, and feels sick in a way he never has before.

“We need to leave now, Steve. Her head looks bad, and I don’t have the stuff to fix this here,” Bruce calls out loudly over his com while digging frantically through a cabinet then moving on to another.

“What happened to her?” Vision takes both of her hands in his, leaning down to assess the visible damage. He winces at the bloody, clotted mess within her hair, the skin that has been torn away from her skull. As soon as Clint sees Vision settled by Wanda, he stands and heads to begin to call in the others.

“A building was collapsing. She managed to shield most of it until the very end. It was terrifying. I’ve never seen her shield go down like that. A huge chunk of concrete got her right at the top of the head. I have no idea of the full extent of the damage. What I can tell so far with what we have onboard is that she’s got a serious brain injury. Not sure it the skull has cracked. We need to get moving.” Bruce flits about, attaching wires to Wanda and looking intensely at the tablet in his hands.

“Wanda, can you tell me what 2+2 is?” Bruce asks gently, his tone a complete paradox to the harsh tapping gestures he’s utilizing with his tablet.

“mmmm, na,” Wanda tries to turn her head to see Vision, but he immediately moves into her line of sight so she doesn’t struggle.

“Wanda, can I get you to squeeze Vision’s hands?” Vision looks to Bruce, shaking his head ‘no’. “What about tell me where you are?” Wanda’s lower lip just quivers, and she starts crying. Vision cups her face gently but desperately, eyes begging Bruce to fix this. “I need you to get her to stop crying somehow. It’s only going to bring up her intercranial pressure. We can’t have that now.” The synthoid nods, swiping her tears away with his thumbs.

“Wanda, I am here,” he begins, voice soft as a feather, “darling, you are going to be fine.” Tears still streak down her, her eyes fixed on his. The hugeness of her pupils scares him, the way he can tell she’s locked in her own head and in pain. “Should she be given something?” Vision feels desperate in a way he never has before.

“In a hospital she’d get an anti-epileptic and maybe some propofol for sedation. I don’t have anything here that I feel confident enough using on an injury that I don’t know the full extent of.” Bruce rips at his own hair. He exhales heavily and reaches for some tubing. “I’m going to start you on some oxygen, okay, Wanda? Just a nasal cannula to start.” Bruce tucked the tubing behind her ears and loosed it under her chin. “Now I’m just gonna start irrigating this wound. Hopefully this can keep you from getting an infection, okay? Vision is right here with you.” The doctor sets about putting on gloves, yanking a table to the head of the gurney, and using a large syringe with a splash guard and sterile water to clean away the debris and blood packed into Wanda’s skull.

Tony, Steve, and Nat trudge in. Everyone’s eyes immediately go to Wanda, to the bright red water and blood dripping from her head wound onto the floor, to the way Vision is as tense as they’ve ever seen him, his hands anxiously trying to soothe Wanda in any way he can.

“We need to leave NOW,” Clint barks from the pilot seat, ready for takeoff. Everyone immediately throws down their gear and offers help to Bruce in any way they can. He waves them off. Too many people keeps him from working effectively. Vision appreciates Bruce’s single-minded focus on Wanda’s care at the moment.

“Head to Johns Hopkins. I have a friend in their surgical trauma center we may need. Also call Helen Cho. We can use the new mini-Cradle she’s been developing, hopefully.” Bruce calls out to Clint, tugging at avulsed part of her skin to irrigate beneath it.

“Aye,” the man responds, and the quinjet lifts off.

Wanda is still crying, snuffling softly, her hands twitching at her sides. “Vizh....whr you?”

“Here, darling, here.” Her bloodshot eyes open to meet his. “Yes, right in front of you. Can you see me?” She hums, and he takes it as a yes. “You are doing brilliantly. Do you hurt?”

“M’head.”

“Okay, alright. We are working on getting you somewhere they can help. I am right here, not going anywhere. I promise.” Wanda’s eyes flutter shut, and Vision presses fraught kisses to her face. “I love you, I love you,” he feels almost frantic.

Wanda groans in response. Her mind reaches greedily out to his, and all he suddenly feels everything. Her pain, her terror, her anxiety, her heightened pulse, the noisy thrum of her thoughts trying to form but ending abruptly because her brain can’t seem to finish them. Vision can feel her internal screaming rattling him to his core. Suddenly there is flash of light, darkness, and a sharp ache behind his eyes. He is thrown from her mind just in time to see her begin seizing.

“Roll her to her side. I’m timing it,” Bruce urges him, quickly undoing the gurney straps, moving to ensure that her head is safe from knocking into anything. Vision does as he is told, but feels adrift, like he is floating above his own body. This cannot be real. This is.... this is like something out of a nightmare. Wanda has struggled enough, she does not deserve this. This should not be allowed to happen to her.

He watches as her body shakes, her eyes roll back, and her lips move as if to form words. “Wanda,” he says as calmly as he can, “you’re going to be fine. Bruce and I are here. You are safe.” He doesn’t reach out to her mind, doesn’t want to invade when she is already being betrayed and torn apart by her own body. Vision listens with one ear as Bruce patches through to his doctor friend at Hopkin’s, relays information and inquires as to what to do. The rest of his mind is focused on the stuttering, gasping breathes Wanda takes, of the choked noises she makes as she suddenly vomits. Bruce is quickly suctioning her mouth with a long tube, urging Vision to hold her head to the side. There are tears streaming down her face, her eyes wide open and scarily aware. “Darling, I have you.” He feels useless, so damnably unable to help the person he loves more than anything. He hates himself a bit in this moment.

Wanda finally stops seizing. She falls into unconsciousness, and Bruce sighs heavily.

“I’ll keep monitoring, but there’s not much else I can do. I sent ahead Wanda’s medical file to my friend at Hopkins.” Vision, from his place in front of Wanda, shoots Bruce a skeptical look. Bruce responds calmly, “She can be trusted, I promise. Her daughter is altered, she’s making safety of ‘different people’ her mission. Wanda’s information is safe with her.” Vision reluctantly hums an agreement, his eyes fixed on Wanda’s unmoving face. It is so similar to when she is peacefully sleeping. Yet he can feel her turmoil thrumming just beneath her skin.

“Do you want to clean her up a bit?” Bruce has a sterile cloth dampened and a basin as well as some minty mouth swabs. Vision takes them silently, gratefully. He is thankful to have some way to help Wanda, even something as small as this.

Vision gently wipes her face, starting at her forehead, brushing her hair away from her face. He has to be careful not to tug on the strands that are near her open head wound. He methodically removes the blood that has seeped to her fair skin. He dips the cloth, stains the water bright red, and cleans vomit from around her mouth and neck. Her clothes are a lost cause, but he doesn’t want to jostle her more than necessary to replace them. He is sure the hospital will take care of that. He gently coaxes her lips open with a minty swab, cleans her tongue and cheeks of emesis. Vision casts a look at her hair, wishing that he could tidy it for her. Wanda hates when it becomes tangled. She takes great comfort in having him smooth it out for her, even allowing him to braid it on occasion.

Bruce hands him a heated blanket. “She needs to be kept at an even temperature at all costs.” Vision tucks it around her, wishing desperately that he could move in next to her, could hold her close and share his warmth with her. Keep her safe.

As soon as they land on the heli-pad at Johns Hopkins, Bruce has Vision help him guide the gurney off the quinjet. Once they exit, doctors and nurses descend upon her, rushing her to a surgical bay. Bruce goes with them, barking out information about her blood pressure, her temperature, her Glasgow Coma score, her seizure time, her metabolic panels, her blood type, her weight, her allergies, her current medications, her birthday, her height, her code status, her her her her her her her her her——

Vision’s ears start buzzing, his knees feel weak beneath his body, he feels simultaneously on fire and frigid. He doesn’t perspire, but he suddenly feels like he has broken out in a cold sweat.

“Whoa, whoa, big guy, don’t do that.” Tony is on his right, holding him up, and Clint on his left. They huff under his weight and drag him to the wall in the hallway where he slides down to sit. Tony perches in front of him, “Bruce has some of the best people on it. And I called in the leading neurosurgeon in the country - a Doctor Strange - to consult. She’s gonna be fine.” Vision hears him, processes what he has said, but he can’t seem to snap out of this daze. His tongue feels thick. He hears Clint ask Tony is androids can go into shock. He hears Sam, Natasha, and Rhodes talking to Bruce. He hears their hushed concerns, feels their gazes flit to him and then to the surgical bay. He hears the overhead system call out a Code Blue, hears the shriek of monitors from the room where Wanda is. Hears the stampede of Dansko-clad feet run by shouting to one another.

He feels Clint, Steve, and Tony try to hold him back from rushing to Wanda’s side. He shakes them off easily, looking into the surgical bay from the large glass viewing area outside. Someone is doing chest compressions on her, another is shoving a tube down her throat, another is administering medications through her IV. Vision watches in horror. He has all the knowledge of the Mind Stone and the internet, the past memories as J.A.R.V.I.S when Tony binged Grey’s Anatomy. He has seen these interventions before in abstract, depersonalized ways before. But this is vastly different. Vision sees the heart monitor’s rapid, erratic activity, hears someone yell out about ventricular fibrillation and shockable rhythms. Watches as the surgeon at the head of the table begins doing surgery, barely seeming to notice the flurry of everyone around him.

That heart stopping is Wanda’s, is the heart she chose to share with him. That body being pumped full of epinephrine is a body he holds every night. That brain being operated on is marvelous and loving. That broken skull being picked at is one that he has cradled and kissed.

“Vision, you shouldn’t be watching this.” Steve is by his side, a steady presence. For a moment Vision hates him for his unfaltering nature. How is this not tearing him apart? How dare he try to tell Vision to leave Wanda? He turns to glare at the soldier, turns to yell, but takes in the sight of the others. Bruce is covered in blood and unidentifiable secretions, his hands shaking. Natasha is hovering near him, eyes wide and blank. Sam is clasping Clint’s shoulder. Clint, who is openly crying. Tony is pacing jerkily, muttering to himself. Rhodes is staring out a massive window, back to the surgical bay, head bowed as if praying.

Vision looks back to Steve. Everyone is falling apart. Clearly Steve has made himself be the one who carries everyone else, the only one who isn’t spiraling. Suddenly he can’t help himself. He steps forward and hugs Steve. The man immediately grips onto him tightly. Everyone else slowly joins - Natasha holding tight to Vision’s side, Clint at his other side, Sam and Rhodes clasping his shoulders, Tony and Bruce at his back. All of them are shuddering out breathes, some sniffling, all supporting each other.

“She’s got so much fight in her. She’s not gonna give up. She loves you too much for that.” Clint looks at him with red-rimmed eyes. Vision nods. He knows how willful Wanda is. He’s familiar with her stubbornness, her unwillingness to leave those she loves behind. He hopes that will be enough to keep her with him.

They’re all piled against the wall propping each other up. Vision is at their center. Tony is cradling his third cup of coffee. Clint is half asleep against Natasha. Bruce is tucked into Vision’s side with Sam and Rhodes next to him.

The surgeon, Dr. Strange, comes out of the double doors with a surgical mask pushed beneath his chin. He is thin, bearded, with keen eyes. His scrubs are covered in blood and damp with sterile water. “Miss Maximoff is currently stable. She went into ventricular fibrillation for approximately five minutes, in which we shocked her twice to get her back in rhythm. I did a craniotomy to relieve pressure and removed skull fragments from her depressed fracture. I know you have Dr. Cho coming with a miniature Cradle Prototype. Hopefully that helps, because without it Miss Maximoff would have months, if not years of recovery ahead of her.”

That statement has Vision reeling. He knows that the human brain is complex, that it requires time and rest. But years? Years for his Wanda to return to herself? He is grateful simply that she is alive, but he will admit to being afraid of what is to come. He feels Tony at his shoulder, supporting him silently. Steve meets his gaze and gives him a grim smile.

“Dr. Cho is certain that the Prototype will speed up both the bone and tissue healing enough to reduce recuperation time down to two weeks barring no brain bleeds,” Bruce says.

Doctor Strange nods in commiseration. “I have placed a burr hole in her skull and drainage tubes to allow any developing hematoma to siphon out. The nurses will be starting her on antiepileptics and corticosteroids for seizure prevention and to reduce the swelling in her brain. Bar in mind that while the Cradle may heal tissue and bone and even nerves, it may have little effect on Miss Maximoff’s brain. It is likely that she will still need a long time for recuperation. I will be recommending the best neurologists and therapists this hospital has to offer to aid in her recovery. Does anyone have any questions at the moment?” He looks to each of them. They’re all too overwhelmed to form questions now, and the surgeon seems to understand that.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Vision steps forward and shakes his hand. He is gratified beyond belief that Wanda will heal.

“Of course. I will have Dr. Whitefield and a nurse come give you more information. I was glad to be of help.” With that, the surgeon is gone.

Tony ensures that they have a large private room for Wanda. Vision is there constantly. He has never been so glad that he requires little sleep or sustenance. It means he can be there for every nurse’s report, every update, every twitch. The medical staff have been exceedingly tolerant of his presence, ensuring that they include him each time they come in to work on Wanda. One of the physical therapists showed him how to do some exercises to prevent limb deformity without increasing Wanda’s intercranial pressure. A nurse taught him how to properly do oral care, give eye drops, and reposition Wanda to ensure her comfort and reduce ulceration. Vision took pride in being able to take care of her in some manner, even these small things. She was his most important person, and all he wanted to do was help.

The room was kept somewhat dark and warm and was tucked into a corner so it was quiet and calm. Dr. Whitefield had told them that too much stimuli would overwhelm Wanda and likely cause a seizure or extreme agitation when she woke. She had recently become stable enough to breathe on her own, so a nurse had removed her endotracheal tube. They had all assured him that meant she was improving and strengthening.

Dr. Cho had successfully healed the gaps in Wanda’s skull with synthetic bone and the Cradle’s stimulation. Her scalp was mostly healed aside from the drains that Dr. Strange kept in place to ensure regulation of her intercranial pressure. Bandages wound around her head to keep the drains in place and to prevent infection from the incisions. Most shocking, however, was the distinct lack of hair. A nurse had explained to him that it posed an extreme infection risk during healing and that Dr. Strange wouldn’t have been able to do the surgery without removing it. Even after that most logical explanation, Vision remained dismayed. Another shocking manifestation was the blue-black bruising beneath both of Wanda’s delicate ears that extended to her upper neck. It is so dark that it looks like someone tried to choke her. Every time he sees it, Vision is jarred, is made aware of how tenuous Wanda’s grasp on life is. Dr. Whitefield assured him that this, “Battle Sign” as she calls it, will dissipate within weeks and that the cause has already been surgically fixed by Dr. Strange.

Despite this progress, Vision is still eager for her to awaken. He has missed her desperately. For the first week, he wanted to touch her mind with his. Bruce, sensing this, had warned him from doing so.

“Her brain is doing a lot of healing,” he had said, “having someone prodding around in there may keep her from creating the proper neural pathways and recuperating as she should.”

Needless to say, that had been enough to keep Vision from connecting with her.

He missed her voice. He missed her touch. He missed her kisses. He missed her curling up beside him in bed. Oh, did he miss her.

She wakes up in the middle of the night when he isn’t even the room. It is one of the rare moments where he requires sustenance (he hasn’t eaten in a week, and only left at Tony’s insistence that he and Clint would remain behind). Vision enters the room to see that the lights are dimmed even more than usual and hears the soft tones of Clint speaking. His gaze beelines to Wanda.

For the first time in five weeks, her eyes are open and locked on him.

“Vizh.” Her voice is rough and low. Vision aches at the sound of it. He instinctively reaches to give her water, but remembers shes’s not allowed anything to eat or drink until her gag reflex is assessed by a speech therapist. So he settles for moving in close, sitting right at her side and taking her hand in his.

“Darling, how do you feel?” He reaches to smooth her hair back as he always does, but falters. Instead he brushes his fingers down her cheeks. She closes her eyes and leans into him, sighing softly.

“Tired.” Vision leans down and kisses the crown of her head, her eyelids.

“Then sleep, darling,” he murmurs lowly, “I will still be here when you wake. You are safe.”

He remains by her side, stroking her face and arms and hands for hours with petal-soft touches.

“You love my hair.” Wanda sniffles a bit. For a moment, Vision is flummoxed. He had stepped out of the room to speak to Dr. Whitefield for a moment, and returned to the sight of a contrite looking aide holding a mirror for Wanda. He shakes his head to the aide, allowing them to slip from the room.

Wanda has never been the type concerned with her looks. Part of that may have come from the fact that she easily and carelessly fit into society’s standards of “beauty” before now. Additionally, both Bruce and Dr. Whitefield told him that excessive emotionalism could be a side effect of her head injury due to where the damage occurred.

“Wanda, I love you.” Vision moves to sit beside her, pulling a chair in close so that he can hold her hand. “I love everything about you. You are alive, and on your way to healing. That is all I care about.” He leans in, kisses her forehead. The lack of hair to tickle his face is new, different. For a split second he mourns that he won’t be able to run his fingers through her hair for a long time, won’t be able to tangle them into those strands when he kisses her. But he pulls away, sees her wide hazel eyes, the bandages taped to her head, feels the thrum of her thoughts against his. He can’t be anything but exultant that she is alive and beside him. “You are so beautiful to me,” Vision whispers, large hands coming to cup her face. He feels her tears well over and wet his skin. “I am in awe of the fact that you are here, that you are so strong to survive. I am stunned by your resilience, now more than ever.” He leans in, kisses each of her eyelids, tastes the saltiness of her tears. “You are nothing short of a miracle to me.”

Wanda crashes into him with a fierce embrace. Vision returns it carefully but wholeheartedly. He is sure that her continued healing will prove to be difficult, but he is so happy at her continued presence that he feels like he can take on whole armies.

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