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mxliv-oftheendless · 5 years ago

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Green Wounds, Ch. 4

And we’re back with Green Wounds! Here’s hoping Tumblr makes it easier to post this one... because I swear to God it should not have been that hard to post the KISS Unsolved story. But we’re not here to gripe about Tumblr. We’re here to see what’s up with Starchild!

Hoo boy, I am actually excited for y’all to read this chapter. Some heavy shit goes down in this chapter and it was insanely fun to write it! If you guys have seen Maleficent, then you already know what’s gonna happen...

Read on and enjoy!

Starchild stayed in the ruins for a month, sending Peter every day to spy on the ongoings of Jendell. King William died after a fortnight—at which Starchild felt a rush of satisfaction—and his successor was to be crowned in some weeks after his marriage to the king’s daughter, Jeanette. But Peter never saw anything of Ace.

Peter flew down behind Starchild, who was staring out in the direction of Jendell. He was often staring out at the kingdom whenever Peter saw him. He wasn’t sure what Starchild did while he was off spying for him, but he hoped it wasn’t just staring out obsessively at the kingdom.

Starchild waved a hand and turned Peter back into a man. Peter immediately crashed painfully to the ground, letting out a groan of pain. He really hated being a bird—it felt like a betrayal to his feline species to have the form of one of their favorite animals to hunt. “Why do I always have to be a bird?” he grunted to Starchild as he picked himself up. “Can’t I be a cat?”

“Flying is faster,” Starchild replied bluntly, not turning around to him. “Did you see anything?”

Peter shrugged. “I saw a bunch of servants carryin’… carryin’ multicolored skin? And some of it looked like animal fur. What was that?”

“Probably clothes. Did you see what they did with them?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t. Other than that, I didn’t see anythin’ else.”

“Did you… see Ace?”

“Uh… no. I didn’t see him.”

He couldn’t see Starchild’s face, but from the way he spoke he sounded like he was frowning. “Fine. Go get some rest, and go back in the morning.”

“What do you even want to know about this Ace guy, anyway?” Peter asked, by this time very curious. “I thought you didn’t like humans.” Why would he? Humans were dirty, inelegant creatures. Not at all like the sleek, civilized superiority of the cats. “Plus, he stole your wings. I would think you wouldn’t want anything to do with him anymore.”

Starchild finally turned to look at him over his shoulder, and Peter was treated to an icy glare. “I don’t like humans. And I also don’t employ you to ask me ridiculous questions,” he said just as icily. “I have my reasons.” He turned back around. “Just… Just leave me alone. Go hunt or something.”

“… Could you turn me back to normal again?”

Without replying, Starchild waved his hand and Peter was (thankfully) turned back into a cat. Peter quickly slunk off to hunt, not wanting to be around the faerie longer than he had to be.

-*-

What Peter was unaware of was that Starchild did not actually spend all day on a ledge in the ruins, staring out at Jendell. His days were usually spent going around the ruins, sometimes exploring and other times simply wandering. Occasionally he ventured out of the ruins into the fields.

On one such time, he was wandering along the edge of a field nearby a forest when suddenly rustling made him turn his head. There coming out of the forest was a red fox. When Starchild saw the tip of one of the fox’s ears burned off, he realized it was the fox he had encountered at the glade. Had it been following him?

Starchild frowned at the fox. “I thought I told you to go away,” he said to it, even though in the back of his mind he thought, You’re talking to a fox. A FOX.

The fox tilted its head and stared at him, with the same piercing, exposing stare. Starchild wanted to hit the fox with magic again, but this time stopped himself. Instead he tightened his grip on his walking stick and glared back at the fox. For a long, long moment, neither fox nor faerie moved. Then Starchild curled his free hand into a fist, his hand glowing dark purple, and ground out, “Go. Away.”

After a moment, the fox lowered its head, turned around, and disappeared back into the woods.

Starchild turned and walked back towards the ruins. He wasn’t sure why that fox had appeared to him again, but he didn’t like it at all.

As Starchild spent more time alone, away from the Moors, and as his mind descended further into obsession, he gradually began to lose more of the faerie he had been before Ace stole his wings. And as summer turned to autumn and the world turned steadily colder, so did what remained of his heart.

-*-

Finally, after a month of hearing nothing and seeing no sign of Ace, Peter saw something.

He was perched on a window that looked into a gigantic room with a platform on one end, the platform housing two regal-looking chairs. A huge crowd of elaborately-dressed people was gathered in the room, waiting for something.

After a while, the doors to the room opened, and the crowd parted, leaving a path through the middle of the room to the chairs. Men wearing armor marched into the room first, then stood in line on both sides of the path.

Then a beautiful dark-haired young woman entered the room wearing a lavish dress that, honestly, made Peter wonder how she didn’t trip and fall in it. All the people in the room bowed to her as she passed, and Peter couldn’t help but notice that the young woman seemed a little out of her element as she nodded her head in return. She walked up the platform to the chairs and sat down.

More footsteps filled the air, and Peter turned to look at the entrance again. His eyes widened slightly.

It was a man, with dark hair cut to his chin and a rather odd face. He was wearing the lavish clothes and animal furs that he had seen before, but Peter recognized him immediately. This was Ace, the man his master was so obsessed with.

Ace walked up the platform, but instead of sitting down in the other chair, he instead went to stand between them. Another man came forward, carrying a golden crown in his hands, and as Ace knelt down Peter realized what was happening.

The man placed the crown on Ace’s head then stepped back, bowing his head. Another man spoke. “I present to you, the first of his line,” he said to the crowd as Ace stood up. “His Royal Highness, King Ace.”

Excited murmurings went up in the crowd. Ace looked out at the crowd and briefly nodded his head to them, then turned to sit down in the chair alongside the young woman, obviously the Queen.

Peter turned around, spread his wings, and flew off back toward the ruins. A large part of him didn’t particularly want to tell Starchild what he’d seen, but he really had no choice. At the same time, Peter also remembered the story his master had told him, about that Ace taking his wings, and actually felt a twinge of indignation. Taking a faerie’s wings so he could have some crown on his head? That was just low, even for a human.

-*-

Starchild had gone very, very still by the time Peter finished his report.

“Someday, y’know, I’ll live there, in the castle,”

Of course. How could he have so stupidly forgotten the one thing Ace had always wanted?

He finally spoke, his voice shaking… with what, he wasn’t sure. “He did this to me… so he could be king?”

He didn’t want to cry anymore. He had cried more than enough tears over Ace and his betrayal. What he felt now was rage.

Deep purple magic began to materialize around him as his anger rose higher and higher. His breathing turned ragged and his shoulders shook. The grip his hands had on his walking stick tightened until his knuckles turned white, and for a moment he imagined it was Ace’s neck.

He turned his head to the sky, and let out a long, primal scream.

The deep purple magic shot up into the air and broke through the clouds, twisting into a column of purple light. Purple lightning bolts shot out of the column and struck stones around the ruins, exploding them all to rubble. For a moment, Starchild stared up at it, frozen, eyes blazing.

Then he lowered his head, and the magic dispersed. Sheer rage was still surging through him, and inhuman growling came from the back of his throat as he breathed raggedly.

I’ll never hurt ya Starshine This is true love Starshine Let me help you I’ll keep you safe

I love you, Starshine.

Lies. All of it had been nothing but lies. And he’d fallen for all of them.

Behind him, Peter spoke up. “What now, Master?”

Snarling like an animal, Starchild turned around, his eyes wild with rage. He wordlessly waved his hand, turning Peter back into a cat, and stormed off. With every step, stones flew out of his path, and as he passed under a still-intact entryway, the entire entryway broke apart and flew in all directions.

“Well, when I become king, we can change all of that.”

“We could really unite the two kingdoms?”

“Sure! We’ll do it together, Starshine!”

He wanted to travel back in time and berate his child self. How could he have been so naïve as to think Ace would be any different than all the other arrogant, selfish humans?

As Starchild left the ruins with Peter bounding after him, leaving them in much worse shape than when he’d arrived, the one coherent thought that broke through the anger consuming his mind was Get back to the Moors.

He couldn’t live like this anymore; hiding away in pitiful ruins (human ruins), scavenging for food, waking up screaming and crying every night from the same dream… and letting Ace go unpunished for what he’d done.

He was tired of humans controlling his life. And he was not going to let another human shatter him again, or take away anything else he cared about.

Get back to the Moors.

-*-

He walked all through the night, and would have continued into the day if Peter hadn’t insisted on stopping to rest. So he begrudgingly stopped and let Peter take a brief nap, before setting off again. The entire time, his anger never faded, not even a little. If anything, it increased. The ground would lightly rumble under his feet, any plant growth he passed would burst into dark purple flames and die, and dark clouds seemed to follow him overhead. He passed between two small divides made of stone, and with every step he took the stones were flung out of formation into all directions behind him.

It seemed to take an eternity, but finally, Starchild saw the familiar standing stones up ahead. He was nearly there. He came to the boulder he had perched on just over a month ago, and climbed to stand atop it. He opened his mouth and began to shout in the tree language, his voice projecting out into the forest. “Border guards! I summon you here now!”

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then he heard rustling and heavy footsteps, and turned just in time to see Gene appear from out of the trees. Upon seeing him, Gene froze in surprise, then began to growl at him, demanding to know where he’d been. Starchild ignored him and looked out into the forest, watching as more and more of the border guards emerged. When they saw him, they all began asking him where he had been, what had happened to him… and what had happened to his wings. They were all especially shocked to see him without his wings.

Their constant questioning about his wings did the most to make Starchild’s rage flare up again. His hand tightened around his walking stick, glowing faintly purple, and he raised it up in the air then banged it down against the boulder. “QUIET!”

Purple magic shot out from the tip of his walking stick, hitting all the border guards. There was instant silence.

Starchild looked out at them all, then began to speak, his voice the most powerful it had ever been. “I know you all have many questions. You ask what happened to me, and my wings? I will tell you what happened. They were taken from me… burned off my back by the same filthy human that now sits on the Jendell throne! He tricked me, made me think he wanted to help me, even made me think he loved me,” he spat out the word like it was poison, “all so he could steal my wings and become the king! He blinded me with all his lies, but I see him now for what he truly is—a greedy, selfish, arrogant piece of filth, just like the rest of his kind! Have any of you ever wondered why we continue letting humans invade our home? For centuries, it has been war after war after war, with the greedy humans forcing us to defend ourselves. At the end of every war, they say there will be peace, but they lie! Not even a month ago they tried to take the Moors again, not even thirty years after the war that took my parents’ lives! They don’t stop… they will never stop!

“Why do we let them attack, and always force us to defend? We have always been nothing more than sitting ducks! Well, I say, not anymore! The Moors cannot survive with us simply trusting in one another; we need clear and strong leadership. And although my wings are gone, I am still protector of the Moors. I can give us that leadership! But I cannot do it by myself. You have all fought by my side in defending the Moors, and I cannot think of anyone better to help me! Join me, and I will make sure the Moors are never defenseless again!”

Starchild looked out at all the border guards. “What say you?” he asked of them. “Who will stand with me?”

For one long moment, there was silence. None of the guards moved, or spoke, only stared at him.

Then…

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Starchild turned his head. At the front of the group of guards was none other than Gene. He held his spear out in front of him, and was banging the end of it against the ground. Then Starchild heard another tapping spear join Gene’s, then another, then another… until every single one of the border guards were banging their spears against the ground.

The corner of Starchild’s mouth quirked up into a miniature smirk. He turned around and walked out of the clearing, the border guards falling into step behind him.

-*-

Clouds rolled over the sun, and the sky went utterly dark over the Moors as thunder rumbled. The glowing lilies floating in the lake one by one winked out. The Fair Folk looked around in surprise and confusion… then turned and froze when they saw Starchild come out from among the trees, the border guards behind him. Gasps went up when they saw the faerie, and someone cried out, “His wings!”

For their protector no longer had his large black wings. And although he looked the same, save for a black jacket and black boots, his features were no longer soft and gentle, and kindness no longer radiated from him. His features were now sharper and cold, and what the Fair Folk felt from him now made them all incredibly afraid.

He walked past them all toward the very center of the large lake island. As he did, the branches on the trees grew longer, growing and connecting with branches and vines that grew out of the ground. The branches and vines twisted together, forming the back and seat of a makeshift throne.

Starchild walked towards the sprouting throne with his head held high, and the look on his face perhaps would have been solemn if his features weren’t so cold and stony. Each step was slow and deliberate, to better make the Fair Folk realize what was happening. He didn’t bother turning his head to look at them as he passed, but could feel the shock and terror radiating from them all.

When Starchild lowered himself to sit on his throne, he understood for the first time in his life why humans loved power so much. He ruled over the Moors now, had a different power that wasn’t magic, that would allow him to get what he wanted… and knowing that made him feel more powerful than he’d ever felt in his life.

Peter jumped up onto a stone beside him, and Starchild lifted a hand to run his fingers over Peter’s fur. He finally turned his head and looked out at the Fair Folk, taking in their intimidation and fear. Every movement was smooth and calculated, and every inch of Starchild gave off the impression that he could easily rip them apart if they even thought about protesting this new reality. To his satisfaction, the Fair Folk all averted their gazes whenever his eyes met theirs.

To his left, Gene pointed his spear at the Fair Folk and growled threateningly, the other border guards following suit. Shaking in fear, one after another the creatures began to bow, until all of them were bowing in respect to Starchild.

Starchild looked out at them all, and for a moment, he felt a flash of something akin to guilt. The old Starchild would have been appalled at the thought of doing this, and would (ironically) rather cut off his wings than impose his own authority on the Moors.

But that Starchild was a fool; a naïve, starry-eyed fool who thought he’d been given true love’s kiss. He had been content to cry, wanting nothing more than to wallow in misery and sob over Ace stealing his wings and ripping his heart to pieces. That Starchild was dead. And this one, this new Starchild, did not want to cry. He would not cry anymore.

What he wanted now was vengeance.

And he would get it, one way or another.

Lightning flashed, illuminating Starchild’s cold face.

#green wounds #chapter four #picture as usual comes off of ecosia images #it's really interesting to write the development of starchild and peter's relationship #starchild is slowly hardening even though he now has a servant/sort-of companion #I guess it would show how even if you're not completely alone you can still be consumed by your pain #peter is a little confused #he's also getting concerned about starchild #starchild encounters the fox again #it's also really interesting to write out starchild's interactions with the fox #we see what's up with ace #or more appropriately king ace now #hoo boy...#starchild has gone dark!#I love how they set it up in the movie to show that maleficent finding out about Stefan is the clear straw that broke the camel's back #I tried to convey that here as well #but OHHH SHIT starchild's gone dark!#and strap in y'all cuz it's only gonna get darker...#hope you guys enjoyed this!#my favorite chapter comes up next Saturday!#maleficent au #kiss au writing #my writing #stay tuned for chapter five!

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anonthenullifier · 7 years ago

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An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 4

A Victorian Scarlet Vision AU

Chapter title: In which a seance finally doesn’t end in a river.

Chapter summary: Wanda performs a seance at Stark’s manor.

Word count: 10.3k

AO3 Link:http://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/30207789

Notes: My apologies for the delay, writing for the Scarlet Vision Secret Santa and then going on a week long trip made it a bit difficult to get this out on my usual schedule. But I hope, as always, you enjoy this chapter!

@atendrilofscarlet ,

Sorry this is about a week late, though I did have the first draft done before your birthday :). Since you received so much fluff for your Christmas gift, I thought I’d give you some angst. Thank you for being the best beta ever, the only reason this story is happening and remotely coherent is because of your amazing input and suggestions. Plus it’s been a gift for you the whole time, so there’s that as well :). I hope you enjoy this and I swear fluff is coming in the next chapter!

A round table sits in the middle of the checkered floor, the suede wingback chairs pushed against the far wall while the leather couch has taken up residence under the window. There are seven chairs at the table, each transported from the dining room and placed at even intervals to allow enough space for some freedom of movement, but close enough that everyone at the table can grip the hands of their neighbors. A white, lace trimmed tablecloth covers the worn and faded wood, an assortment of white tapered candles (not her usual style but she cannot be picky since she is fully aware the materials are merely for show) illuminate the faces of the people around the table.

Wanda remains hidden in the hallway adjoining the kitchen, eyes roaming over the guests waiting impatiently at the table, a nervous, pulsating energy filling the room, which is the ideal atmosphere for a successful séance. “Miss Maximoff,” though there are seven chairs, two are unoccupied, one for her, and the other had been meant for the butler, yet he seems staunchly against joining the séance.

“Yes?”

The man’s skin is mottled, hands noticeably shaking at a near constant rate, and his steps are even more halted and uneven than the day before. It is only due to the anticipation of entering Stark’s mind that she is able to temper her desire to reach out and steady him. Instead her face remains impassive as she watches him, with what she assumes is a wince of pained impropriety, lean his shoulder against the doorframe for support as he speaks to her. “Are you certain you do not wish to discuss the general background of the people here tonight? I have been reading the recommended practices and it was the only item mentioned by every source.”

For any other medium that is true, the ability to utilize information from the personal lives and backgrounds of the clients a necessary and powerful tool in any instance of spiritualistic practice, but Wanda has never had a problem discovering the sordid and deeply buried truths in her marks. “Thank you, but I am fairly,” she pauses, trying to determine the best term for her abilities, “gifted at reading people.”

“Very well, Miss Maximoff.”

Wanda glances at the clock mounted to the wall, estimating the last guest arrived roughly five minutes ago, which means she should allow at least a few more minutes of antsiness to build before sweeping in. “Are you sure you don’t want to join?”

A shake of his head accompanies the slow exhale of his decision, “I must prepare dinner, Miss Maximoff, though I will certainly,” the sentence breaks in half as he inhales, breath shaky and his eyes blinking languidly as he refocuses on what he was trying to say, “step in to observe, if that is acceptable.”

“Of course.” The longer she remains next to him, can hear the shortened and erratic intake of his breath, the less concerned she is with the séance, mind beginning to tilt away away from revenge and towards empathy. “Vision are you-”

The lapse in her judgment is thankfully eradicated, the echo of footfalls and Tony’s “Are you ready yet?” chilling her blood to the point her body is functioning solely on muscle memory, leaving her mind unhampered by anything other than the task at hand.

Absentmindedly her hand lifts to run along the beaded headdress, tracing the spheres up until she can adjust the edges to bring the central point of the diadem to fall just between her eyebrows, strands of scarlet beads cascading down along her cheeks. Wanda smiles at both men, pulling her shoulder blades down, forming an arch in her back that brings her chin up into a haughty, confident angle. “I believe we can start now.”

“Good.” Despite his apparent impatience and rush, Tony lingers behind as she walks down the hall, his voice lowering so she cannot make out the words, but a glance over her shoulder provides some context, though she is confused at the gingerness in the way he lays his hand on the butler’s arm, body leaning closer to say something. Then the moment passes with an amicable pat, Stark taking several large steps to catch up to her own pace. “I hope you won’t be offended when I prove you’re a fraud like all the others.”

Wanda’s mouth forms a tight smile at his provocation, “So long as you are not offended when you fail.” The man laughs and she savors it, consuming this last sound of joy and using it as fuel for what is to come. Her movements are fluid and slightly exaggerated as she takes her seat, fingers interlacing atop the tablecloth, every ring on her fingers carefully chosen as either a reminder of her past or as a token of mysticism to increase perceptions of her credibility. “Since Vision will not be joining us, please adjust your seats so you can reach the hand on either side of you.”

Wanda uses this time of repositioning to finally study the people at the table. Immediately to her right, as instructed, is Stark, hands unable to remain still, rubbing incessantly along his thighs as he chatters with the woman next to him. Based on their interactions so far, this woman (Pep as Tony calls her or, likely more correct, is the Miss Potts that fell as a surprised exclamation from the butler when the woman stormed into the manor three hours early demanding to know why Tony was absent from tea this morning) is romantically entangled with Stark, for some reason. This woman is far more than simply an attractive ornament on Stark’s arm, the air of grace and merciless intelligence that surrounds her intrigues Wanda. If it was any other séance, Wanda would no doubt choose this woman’s mind, curious what might have led her to a life where Stark is the best option. Across from Wanda is Natasha, the measured, calculating stare no different than the last time they met, but this time the woman’s mouth appears stuck in a perennial, wily smirk. Next to her is Clint, the only guest that is here based on Wanda’s own recommendation, a séance always easier when she can shift her focus to a mind she knows is friendly in the rare instance she dips too deeply into more precarious and tempestuous thoughts. The last person at the table, James Rhodes, is the most disarming, a man with skin darker than anyone she’s ever encountered. From her understanding, those who look like him are treated as less human, and some are even held captive in the Southern states. She has heard the stories being told along the streets, whispers of revolutions and a secret railroad, though how someone could hide the large, boisterous rail cars is beyond her comprehension. What is most surprising about this man is not his skin, but his military uniform*, crisp and clean, well-cared for and yet she can see the signs of wear. Hand-me-downs were quite common of her wardrobe as a child, so she knows firsthand that there is no way to hide the marring of re-stitched holes and patched together fabrics. A smile parts his lips and she averts her eyes, not wanting him to misinterpret her staring.

“Please,” Wanda refocuses, fingers untangling as she spreads her arms to the side, palms facing up, “take the hands of the people next to you.” Maintaining an air of calm and confidence is key to a successful séance and so Wanda has to force her body not to recoil at the touch of Stark’s hand against her own. Her mind orders her fingers to curl over this hand, hold it firmly but not too tight as to cause pain or betray the tenuous thread of control she has over the scarlet energy buzzing through her body. “My only request of everyone here tonight,” her eyes methodically move from one face to the next, maintaining eye contact for a designated two seconds before moving on, using this moment of connection to push ever so softly against each person’s mind to gauge their general suggestibility, “is that you maintain an open, curious mind and remain calm.”

Stark scoffs at her side but she refuses to acknowledge it, instead tilting her head towards Clint as he speaks. “So any chance of a spirit getting feisty with us?”

A mixture of genuine and forced laughter follows his comment, gazes shifting around the table in what Wanda has come to identify as the first phase of a successful séance, a sense of apprehensive inquisitiveness, which is particularly strong in groups that, in general, do not agree with the movement but want to base their opinion on experience. This, she smiles slightly, is a promising sign. “It is possible, though I have never seen nor heard of any violent physical manifestations occurring.”

Clint nods, shifting in his seat, which causes a domino effect on the hands he’s holding, both Natasha and the soldier leaning towards him in compensation. “Good to know.”

“The first stage of this process is to find a willing guide from the realm of spirits.” The Fox Sisters encourage the use of a consistent spirit guide tied only to the medium. This ensures that no one can question the veracity of the guide’s existence. But Wanda firmly believes it is far more convincing to invoke a guide from the memory of someone around the table, to personalize it so there can be no gossip amongst parties about how they have all had the same guide. “Please close your eyes and think of someone you have lost, a caring soul, someone who would be willing to help us this evening.”

She waits until everyone has closed their eyes (Stark second to last, only being beat by Natasha who sends Wanda a long, skeptical stare before following the directions) to follow-suit, her own mind growing quiet as she extends her powers. Because Stark is her primary target, she does not test his mind at this point, the person who provides the guide is never the one she uses for the actual séance, not wishing to pry too deeply into one mind. First she reaches out to Miss Potts, sorting through the thick layers of unease and dubiousness in order to locate a face or a name. There are some half-crafted thoughts, the people fading in and out too quickly for Wanda to gather enough detail to be convincing. So she leaves the woman’s memories, traveling towards Natasha whose mind is an impressively constructed fortress. Scarlet tendrils attempt to infiltrate the walls, seeking out weak points created by personal connections, emotional moments or deeply loved (and lost) companions. Yet the walls hold, which is not altogether surprising, a spy likely has far too much training, too much control to allow any iota of allegiance or fragility to be felt. Clint is next, his mind churning through face after face, keeping a brisk, nauseating pace. There are far too many to hone in on one, and even more so, far too much disgust brewing in his mind, a harrowing and confusing experience given the joviality and helpfulness of the family man. Wanda has to pull herself out to keep from collapsing at the overwhelming sensation of all those deaths, shoving down a brief flash of terror that her safety net is not nearly as safe as she had hoped. Hesitantly she reaches for the last mind, wary of finding a similar landscape as Clint’s, certain a soldier has seen more death than a blacksmith, but instead she finds order and a solitary, incredibly clear face. It is refreshing and she allows herself a moment to enjoy the stark contrast between this mind and the others, though it is not nearly as soothing as the butler’s mind. Wanda shakes her head, clearing the excess, unasked for comparison so she can delve deeper into Rhodes’ mind.

“Our guide is here.” The statement elicits the desired response, spikes of uncertainty rising from most of the people around the table, the tugging on her hands indicating that people are leaning in to listen for the rest. “He is in a dark uniform,” she cocks her head to the side, powers sweeping gently across his consciousness to encourage the man to hold the image, “on a ship.”

“Really Rhodes, we have to be guided by a sailor?”

Stark’s interruption chases the specter away, Rhodes’ mind growing busy with a response as he opens his eyes to stare at Tony. “At least our guide will have a sense of direction.”

Now Tony opens his eyes, a playful, infuriating smile forming on his mouth, “Oh, just like you sailed us in a circle the last time we went out. Great sense of direction there, sailor.”

“I’ll have you know the wind was being quite difficult.”

If she lets this continue the entire atmosphere will be lost, and once lost, her revenge will become impossible. Wanda tightens her grip on both of their hands, thickening her accent as she drops her voice into a threatening growl, “Please do not interrupt.” Unsurprisingly the only apology is from Rhodes, his mind instantly evening back out, but Stark still, reluctantly, complies, restoring the delicate ambiance of the evening. “Thank you.” Wanda pushes lightly back into the memory of the man on the boat, planting subtle suggestions to provide a name and a better image of the face. “Our guide is back, his name is Paul and he has agreed to help us.”

A friendly, “Hi Paul,” reaches her from across the table.

Typically she does not encourage any interaction between the guests and the spirits, the additional questions often muddling the memories she utilizes for the séance, causing them to become hazy and uncertain particularly when a question is asked for which the person doesn’t know the answer. Perhaps, however, building a rapport between the group at the table and this guide may add further legitimacy to the process, which might make the next part easier. “He says hello back, Clint.”

“So,” the next voice surprises her, the even, authoritative tone of Miss Potts filling the air over the table, “what is next?”

“Paul will serve as our liaison with another spirit.” Wanda breathes in, centering her powers in her chest as she steadies her nerves. A slow, carefully controlled breath out lays the foundation for what she has contemplated and dreamed about since she was ten. “In order to help him, it is best to draw upon your emotions, invoke the strongest memory you can.” She pauses, allowing the information to seep into their minds, waits until she can feel their thoughts shift, their own emotions beginning to bubble to the surface. At this point she would usually choose the most salient and easily accessible memory from the group, regardless of the specific emotion, but tonight she needs something in particular. “Spirits are more drawn to negative energy, they desire to know their deaths have lasting effects.” The air around them grows frigid as the few happy memories are transformed, fingers gripping hands tighter as thoughts collapse under the weight of loss. “Find within yourselves anger, or sadness.” Wanda opens her eyes to stare at Tony, whose lips are pursed and eyes are scrunched in concentration. A thud in the background briefly draws her attention, the lanky form of the butler appearing in the darkness, but she disregards it for the most part, allowing a brief wave of pleasure to race through her veins at the knowledge he will be here to witness the demolition of Stark. She turns once more to Tony, voice low and even as she makes her final suggestion. “Perhaps a time of immense guilt.”

Wanda removes her powers from all other minds, coalescing the five free strands with the one she has connected to Stark’s mind. The frenzied, lightning pace of his contemplation slows, a weight forming in his stomach, a sense of gravity that affects her body as well, limbs growing heavier as a flicker of light fills his mind. “There is a fire.” The comment ignites his memory, flames growing, searing away all other wavering thoughts and faces, but while his extraneous thoughts dissipate, her own threaten the strength of their connection. When the factory exploded, when her parents were consumed by inferno, the flames were so monstrous the fire brigade simply watched, awe-stricken and horrified. They only stepped in once it was deemed manageable, but by that point there were no survivors. Wanda takes these images, lassos them with a tendril of scarlet and slowly passes them through the link. “Paul is approaching the fire, it,” she pauses as the last of her suggestion nestles into Tony’s mind, “appears to be a factory.” Contrary to the plan, his guilt fades, numbing him into a state of confusion. Her lips fall at the change, fingers itching to let go of his hand and direct her powers, but she cannot do that, has to instead calm her own tertiary memory and instead bring back his guilt. “No, my apologies, Paul has informed me it is not a factory.” This sparks the image back to life, the flames brightening as she mentally steps into his memory, taking in the assorted scraps of metal hanging in the room, several wooden tables (or at least were once wooden tables but are now kindling ) spilling over with charred papers and wires. Wanda slowly pries his memory, inserts herself snugly into his perspective. “It is a room, filled with tables and machines,” the room clarifies around her, lips tilting up in a moment of victory, “yes, it is a laboratory, perhaps one owned by an inventor.” Tony’s mind erupts in renewed guilt, almost shutting her out and it is the first time she has ever worried if someone can feel her intrusion and figured out the trickery of her technique. The Fox Sisters do intense background research, use glow paint and sheets to create spirits, wires up their sleeves to rock the table while holding hands, and tins tied between their thighs to make the “spirit” answer simple yes or no questions. Not Wanda, she actually brings the spirit to life. Tony breaks the intense concentration around the room with a gruff, “Great.” Then his voice grows sardonic, if their eyes were open in a typical conversation she knows he would be exaggerating his features, raising his eyebrows and winking to cement the insanity of the comment, “Let’s talk to this spirit.” “This,” Wanda draws out the word, thickening her accent as she builds the tension, head cocking to the side to patrol the memory, find where the guilt emanates, who he is thinking about. “This is not the spirit, this man is still alive.” The confirmation bathes Tony with dread, a satisfying experience for Wanda as she waits, coaxing his mind to move forward in time, the memory frozen on a moment of laying sprawled on the ground staring around at the growing flames. Then it happens, the door opens and there is a shaky Hello that echoes through the room. “Paul is directing me towards the door,” thankfully Tony’s mind follows, the memory swinging until she can make out the ajar door and a tall, masculine figure outlined by the light of the hallway and the ever-growing brightness of the fire. “There is another man,” a nudge of scarlet against Tony’s thoughts attempts to get him to resolve the blurriness of the man’s features, but the smoke is too heavy and his terror is too much, she is not even sure if Tony saw the man in any detail that night. But that doesn’t matter, his guilt intensifying as she feeds his memory, forces him to face the nauseating reality of the situation. “This man is our spirit.” There is a brief flutter of bewilderment, but Wanda wraps it in scarlet and tears it from Tony, instead sending even pulses of power into his mind, whispering to him that whatever happens next is solely and unquestionably his fault. “Would someone please release Paul from his role as our guide? I must focus on connecting with our spirit.” Silence greets her request, the air tense but interrupted by small ripples of unease as people turn heads to determine if someone else is going to take on the task. A tiny, slightly defeated sigh precedes Rhodes’, “Paul, you have, um completed your job, um, quite admirably. At ease, sailor.” Wanda nods, attempting to recall the words she heard the sailors use when she was on the boat to the United States. “He says - Aye aye.” This seems the appropriate response, Rhodes’ grip loosening as he settles back into his seat, a nervous anticipation now forming in the fidgeting of his fingers. “I am connecting with our spirit.” Which is a lie, her grip remaining staunchly on Tony, directing him to continue the memory, show her what it is that plagues his mind, what she can use to commence his ruination. “Hello?” Tony’ latches to her hand, mind flaring as she speaks along with the memory. “Hello, is anyone here?” What Wanda does next is different from her usual séance, never willing to move beyond the memory to any sort of supposition of intent or feelings, but there is no other way to accomplish her precise goal. “He is petrified, the flames are so bright, so hot, he wonders if he is in hell.” Subtlety is difficult to use when wrapped so completely around someone’s mind but the lack of finesse doesn’t seem to hamper the effect of her words, the man to her right tenses, inhaling and refusing to release his breath until she speaks again. “He steps forward,” she pauses, the bursts of concern radiating from the minds around the table are clear without actually utilizing her powers and she has to temper this distraction, needing her full focus on Stark. “He asks ‘Are you hurt?,’” the spirit’s voice is impressively calm given the chaos of his surroundings. Wanda can feel her neck muscles constricting and then releasing as her head moves along with Stark’s unspoken response to the question. Then the man bends down, face obstructed by the thickening smoke and the slow, heavy blinks of Stark’s eyes. Wanda is about to push Stark to reveal the spirit’s name, assuming he knows it, but fails to garner the information, the memory continuing despite her own attempts to slow it down. So she follows it, not wanting to diminish Tony’s guilt, an ever growing weight his chest that slows both his breathing and her own, and so resumes her narration, “He is lifting the inventor, pulling him to his feet and now they are moving from the room.” Wanda tilts her head to the side, watches the slow walk of the men, can almost feel the arm of the spirit around her waist, guiding her through the destruction. “The fire is not just in the laboratory,” the hallway is aflame as well, the paper on the wall peeling and dripping. The carpet covering the wooden floors is a hellish pond, and yet the spirit does not stop, never hesitates to stamp out the fire and continue on their journey to the door. “Our spirit has saved the inventor.” “Thank God.” This is Clint, an exhale of relief at the news despite the fact he seems to be disregarding the information that their spirit does not have such an opportune fate. Which is precisely why she can feel Tony’s muscles tense at the comment and why she refuses to remove herself from his mind. Then the memory grows hazy, Tony reaching the point of recollection where details are less certain, his breathing labored, his body, that night, about to give up. But she does hear his voice in the memory. “The inventor is speaking he is saying…” the words are difficult to discern, a whisper cut by rattling coughs, his lungs labored as they attempt to expel the smoke. “The reactor,” Wanda feels her own body tense, animosity brewing at the request she knows is coming, at the inhumane audacity of Stark to put his work above this man’s life. No wonder he feels guilt. “It’s,” Wanda follows the break in the sentence, pausing before finishing, “still inside.” What might be more infuriating, more counterfactual to what her own instincts would have been in the moment, is the fact the spirit responds almost immediately. Wanda hesitates as she mimics the response, confused and angry at this man for agreeing to his fate. “Where is it?” Someone gasps, an explosion of sorrow that no doubt is accompanied by tears, but Wanda cannot stop now, has to keep her powers with Stark and make him relive this memory to the very end. “Our spirit is going back inside, but he refuses to allow me to follow. He is concerned for our safety.” A blatant lie, but if she attempts to describe the journey and gets a detail wrong, then Stark will have enough proof that this whole experience is a farce and he will never accept his guilt for this man’s life and most definitely not for the lives of her family. Luckily the memory is almost over, not long after the man runs back inside there is an explosion, a cloud almost identical to the one from her childhood, and a portion of the house collapses. Wanda finds herself gasping, the pain from Tony’s mind too much to bear, her eyes pricking with drops of despair at the image of the house crumbling. “The house, it’s collapsing.” The memory ends here, there is nothing more, Tony either cutting her off in the present day or perhaps losing consciousness from inhalation of the fumes in the past. Yet she is not done quite yet, because spirits do not fade with memories, they always live on, their effects felt in every waking moment and even in sleep. Death is inevitable and its guilt is inescapable. “Our spirit is returning, he has one last message before he leaves.” The pause she allows looms above the table, growing thicker with the continued silence, every single person around the table anxious for the resolution. Wanda breathes in, centering her powers so that she can convey the entire meaning of her conclusion into the link she has with Stark’s mind, her voice growing harsher to emphasize certain words. “He says that he would be alive if not for you, that he has never and will never forgive you. That it should have been you instead of him.” Wanda lifts a finger from Rhodes’ hand and swipes it to the side, moving the air in an audible wave as she extinguishes all of the candles at once, a dramatic move she has not had the satisfaction of using for several month as most of her séances are cut short by a trip to the river. “He is gone.” Only now does Wanda remove herself from Tony’s mind, opening her eyes as she sends a whip of scarlet to a gaslamp on the wall, turns it up so that the room is bathed in a soft glow as everyone opens their eyes and release hands. Most faces are sorrowful, confused and upset by the turn of events. But then Clint smiles, hand hitting the table in excitement, “That was amazing!” His words are echoed by Rhodes, Natasha allowing a tiny, amused smile as she glances at the blacksmith. “How,” Tony’s voice is tiny, barely a whisper but the tone catches her attention, their eyes meeting and she cannot parse out the most salient emotion -- whether it is guilt, terror, or a surprising level of anger. The man shakes his head at her, mouth falling into a deep, wrinkled frown. “How could you?” Immediately her stomach drops, this is not the desired reaction, but he doesn’t elaborate, refusing to acknowledge her anymore, instead turning his head away. She follows his gaze to the ashen, wide-eyed reaction of the butler. Vision had been so silent she had forgotten he was in the room, but she cannot dwell on his face or even brush his mind because he backs away almost immediately, shoulders caving inwards, drawing his body in as tightly as possible before he stumbles through the doorway. Wanda stands at the same moment as Tony, watches in confusion as Stark glares at her before excusing himself from the table, walking briskly to follow the butler through the door. She allows a small break between Tony leaving the table and her own hesitant steps in the direction of the kitchen. There is no reason for her heart to be racing like this, a beat that should be joyous from her success but is instead a terrified patter, her palms sweaty, concern at the pained expression on the butler’s face wrapping around her chest and causing her breathing to shorten. She makes it a quarter of the way through the room before she is intercepted. “That was impressive,” Natasha is smiling at her, not an impressed smile but one laced with a satisfied knowledge of confirmation. It is far sharper and more dangerous than any smirk she has encountered. Wanda attempts to side step the spy with a curt, “Thank you,” but the woman anticipates the move, matching Wanda’s steps in order to block her. Realizing she’s trapped, Wanda ceases her attempts at escape, the smile on Natasha’s face crawling higher, a malevolence to it that causes Wanda to step back in concern. Natasha closes the distance, placing a hand on Wanda’s arm in what would appear from the outside to be a congenial manner, but the threat is quite clear. “I never thought I’d find the Scarlet Witch.” All at once nothing else matters, the world around them collapsing into an infinitesimal ball that includes just the two of them and the words hanging in the air. Wanda had left Sokovia to escape her past, hoped that an entire ocean would eliminate the nightmares and the memories of what she’d done, and yet, no matter how far she runs, it never stops pursuing her. “I-” The world expands around them, a loud crash and anguished yelp echoing from the direction of the kitchen. Natasha glances away and Wanda uses this moment to escape, fingers lifting her skirt to allow freer movement of her feet as she rushes towards the commotion. Wanda’s body comes to a halt once she shoves the door open, eyes trailing along the concerned hunch of Stark’s back as he bends over a body sprawled on the ground, Vision’s long limbs thrown out erratically as if the fall caught both men by surprise. “What-“ The sentence never makes it past the first word, firm hands pressing into her back and guiding her authoritatively out of the doorway as Miss Potts sweeps in, the energy around her buzzing with hurried nerves and yet the cadence of her words is eerily calm. “Is he okay?” “Does he look-“ Anger fills the syllables until the man realizes who he’s talking to and then Tony slams his lips shut, face falling towards the ground long enough for a centering inhale. When he resumes eye contact his mind is brimming with guilt so concentrated Wanda’s powers are unnecessary and there are droplets of self-focused rage growing at the corners of his eyes. It is exactly what she wants to see and yet, oddly, there is no victory in the display. “No, he’s not.” The woman gathers the pale blue fabric of her skirt in her hands as she steps towards the two men, squatting low until she is even with Tony, her voice still quiet and steady. “What can I do?” Tony breathes out, lips vibrating as he pushes out the last of his worry. “I need help carrying him.” The sound of conversation travels down the hall, Clint’s voice recognizably louder than the rest as he informs the other guests that something has to be wrong. Wanda instinctively moves towards the door, hands glowing as she prepares to hold it shut. “Pep, change of plans.” A wisp of scarlet inches towards the hinges as Wanda watches the woman place a reassuring hand on Stark’s shoulder, one that is pushed aside when Tony stands, hands drawing her up with him. If it was anyone else, Wanda would consider the scene touching, his hands cupping the woman’s face, brushing aside a strand of her cornsilk colored hair as he levels an intense yet adoring stare at her. “I need you to be the best damn socialite possible, channel every haughty, podsnappery** imbecile you’ve ever met-” His uplifting speech is cut off by Pepper’s, “So you, basically?” and Wanda again wonders why someone like her is with a man like Stark. A small, proud smile courts his mouth as he matches her sardonic tone one that is usually coupled with a pantomimed knife to his chest. “Ouch, you have truly wounded me, my love.” The playfulness is short lived, a stern dip in his eyebrows emphasizing his request, “Please, just get these people out of my house.” “I’ll do my best.” Wanda glances away as the two kiss, rescinding her powers just before Pepper waltzes past her, chin raised in a convincing superiority as she walks out the door, immediately meeting the group with a “Would you look at the time.” Once she is gone, Tony resumes kneeling next to the butler, slowly easing his hands beneath the man’s shoulders before struggling to lift him. Wanda vacates her position at the door, instincts taking over as she rushes to the two men, mimicking Tony’s actions as she slides her hands along Vision’s back. “Where are we taking him?” It is only after she talks that Tony seems to recognize who is helping, a firm shake of his head mirroring the unhappy downward arc of his mouth, “No, no, no, no. You,” he removes a hand from Vision long enough to shoo her away, “leave as well.” “You said you can’t lift him alone.” A retort forms on his lips, face scrunched in an anger that lacks any sign of sarcasm or wit, one that is primal and terrifying, but then he grunts, channeling his frustration into the sound before shutting his eyes, mind calming enough for logical thought. “Fine, you can help me move him and then you leave. You’ve helped more than enough already.” The helped is emphasized just enough to make sure she understands he thinks she has done the exact opposite, but she shoves it aside for now, determining it’s in the best interest of the unconscious man if she doesn’t fight Stark right this instant. “What I’ve found most useful is to,” Tony shows her exactly what he wants her to do as he explains it, lifting Vision’s limp arm and then laying it across his own shoulders, “sort of cuddle him, you know, put most of the weight on your shoulders.” Wanda nods, bending her head so she can nestle herself against the butler’s ribcage, his long arm lying along her shoulder, hand limply hanging in the air. Instinctively she wraps her arm around the man’s waist, adjusting her grip to make room for Tony’s arm. “Now what?” “Bend your knees,” she follows his command, matching, as best she can, the angle and placement of Tony’s legs, “and now we lift.” Together they stand, the weight of the butler much more than she would expect from his lanky frame. “Good?” She tightens her arm around his waist, wedging her shoulder into his armpit to allow his weight to rest more firmly on her own body. “Yes.” “Let’s go.” The journey is slow, stuttering steps punctuated by Tony’s unoriginal observation every five minutes that, “You know, if you were taller this would be easier.” Wanda stays silent, utilizing all of her energy to maintain even steps, grimacing as her arms and legs grow tired, uncertain how far they have to go or how far they’ve even come. For a half second she considers glancing back but she fights the temptation, unsure she’d be able to keep going if she discovered they had gone only ten feet. It’s as they round the next corner, this new corridor one she recognizes from her second night here, that she allows one sigh of relief. The door to, what she had presumed that night and all but is confirmed now, Vision’s room is in sight. “Just a bit farther, you need a break?” Wanda shakes her head, quickly realizing that Stark can’t see her past the butler’s unconscious body, “No.” When they reach the room, Stark shifts more of Vision’s weight onto her shoulders, just long enough to open the door, hand reaching inside to pat along the wall, a triumphant, “Aha!” happening in time with the pale light of a gaslamp filling the space. Tony enters first, rotating his body, and in effect Wanda’s as well, sideways so they can ease the man through the door. Slowly they amble over to a bed, one far nicer than would be expected in servant’s quarters, but the carefulness with which the sheets are laid on the mattress, pillow placed in the most appealing position to make the whole set-up inviting, is not surprising, given the care she’s seen Vision show towards everything else. It’s a shame then that they plop him down so haphazardly, ruffling the sheets and knocking the pillow to the ground, Tony cursing as he retrieves it and then wedges it under the man’s head before moving to swing the man’s long legs the rest of the way onto the mattress. Wanda watches as Tony sits on the edge of the bed, hand falling gently on the butler’s chest, rising and falling with his terrifyingly weak breaths . Though she understands there should be some urgency to their situation, resting also sounds appealing, the muscles in her legs trembling and threatening to give out from carrying him across the manor. The search for relief is wonderfully short, an unassuming wooden chair tucked under the desk next to the bed. The slightly fastened breaths from her lungs mingle with the deep, steadying gasps from Tony, both of which mute the shallow, raspy sound from the butler. Their harmony is thrown off by a sigh from Tony, signaling the end of their respite, his hands lifting to rub tiredly at his eyes before pointing in Wanda’s general direction. “There are scissors in the top left drawer, um,” he pinches the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes, “back corner, right side, in a box. Grab them for me.” She turns towards the desk, opening the drawer and sorting through the contents -- mainly pens and ink, some loose pieces of paper, and bundles of matches -- until she feels a long box that she curls her hand around and pulls from the dark abyss of the drawer. Her fingers run along the edge of the box, a simple wooden structure with no decoration, and lifts the lid, finding the sturdy metal scissors as promised. “Why do you need these?” An explanation is not readily given, Tony grabbing the scissors from her hand, placing them on the windowsill, and then standing from the bed. She watches as he opens a closet in the corner of the room, listens as he grunts while dragging a complicated looking machine across the floor, flimsy tubes flopping along the ground as he slides it next to the bed. A small lever on the front turns it on, an eerie, bright glow emanating from a blue crystal embedded in the machine. Wanda can’t tear her eyes from it, recognizing the Arc from the manual they were given after their experiments, an image shown to them over and over and over again, their instructions clear on how to handle its raw, unstable energy. A chill overtakes her body, lungs shuddering as her entire past crashes all too suddenly with the present, an overwhelming amalgamation of the divergent strands of her life that leaves her lost in deciding which part of her life holds precedent for handling this situation. “What,” her tone hardens, needing, demanding answers, “is that?” “That,” Tony pats the machine, lips momentarily curving up into a fond smile, “is going to save his life.” The information befuddles her, the words buzzing in her mind as she attempts to rectify her own knowledge of the object with what he’s just said. It never was presented as a life-saving intervention, only a source of untamable and dangerous power, one Stark, in particular, should never be allowed to handle. “I’m sorry,” Wanda opens her mouth to respond, unsure why she's receiving an apology, but then she tightens her lips into a thin line upon seeing Tony standing over the butler, scissors held at the bottom of the man’s shirt. Stark’s eyes do not leave the man’s face, a sadness creeping into his voice the longer he stares at Vision, “I know this is your favorite suit, but don’t worry, I’ll buy you a new one," he pauses with a shrug, "I'll buy you ten, actually." “What-” the question falls away, her eyes following the choppy journey of the scissors as Stark cuts up the middle of the wrinkled button-up shirt, once he reaches the top he resets the angle of the scissors and first cuts along the right shoulder of the jacket then down the arm, his free hand shoving the ruined fabric away so he can follow the same path, only in reverse, for the shirt. He repeats this on the other side, the man's clothing eventually separated into three pieces. “Why are you-” again her voice stops as Tony lifts the destroyed clothes away. The first place she looks is Vision's wrist, recalling the way he flinched from her, covered himself in fear of her reaction. She knew, from that night, that Vision’s body was scarred, a deep, undeniable pain staying with him from a time he was unwilling to share, but in all her rumination, in every possible explanation for the cold, hard feel of his wrist she conjured in her mind, she never would have imagined this. The tears are instantaneous and unwelcome, blurring her view but not enough to mask the truth he was hiding, his discolored and scarred flesh intercut with rods of shiny, polished metal, starting at the cuffs screwed into his wrists and climbing up to his elbow where there is a reinforced hinge connecting the piece of metal from his forearm to the one embedded along the side of his bicep. This meets a plate reaching from one shoulder to the other, dipping at his sternum to form a V and held firmly in place by chunky, tarnished rivets. As she focuses on that dip she first notes the fact that the skin just above it is what she’d spied that night in the light of the hallway, the same pang of sorrow filling her chest now as it did then, only amplified a hundredfold at the full extent of his injury . Then she allows her gaze to move on, following the dual pathways of metal weaving in and out of his chest, a path of reddened and marred skin creating a stark contrast to the almost hypnotizing gleam of the two plates traversing the entirety of his ribcage. There is more than just this, the light of the lamp glinting off metal that continues down below the waistband of his pants and other pathways that seem to form a cage around his sides,wrapping around him to indicate the pattern continues on his back, but a calm, authoritative voice forces her to tear her eyes away, “I need you to help me now.” Wanda nods her head, hands wiping the water from her eyes, her mind shutting down all secondary and tertiary sources of information, including her own emotional response, allowing her to focus on whatever help she can provide. “Yes?” “Middle drawer, left side, second compartment,” she follows his directions, brows knitting as she holds a thick leather strap up between them, “perfect. Bring it over.” Wanda shuffles to the bed, standing uneasily with the leather in her hands as Stark bends to fiddle with three canisters in the back of the machine, his fingers then trailing along one of the tubes, pinching the flexible material before inserting a needle in the tip of the tube. “It’s pretty fancy, right?” Stark holds the tube up for her to inspect, a low hum coming from the machine, pulsing in time with the inflation and then deflation of the malleable material. “I don’t even know what this is.” “Oh,” he lifts it closer to his face, “I don’t really either, well,” the tube waves limply in his hand, “this at least, some fancy invention from a colleague in Seoul. The machine is ours.” The tone and the nod of his head towards the man on the bed implies they created this together, yet she considers this just another embellishment common of Stark’s character. “But,” he lowers himself to sit on the empty mattress next to Vision, “that's not important. I need you to put that,” he points to the leather still in her hands, “in his mouth, between the teeth.” “What?” “The teeth,” Tony opens his mouth, chomping his teeth several times in emphasis, “between them.” The request is odd, but no more odd than reading minds or having a body constructed partially of metal, this day, she reasons, might even foolishly hope, not actually existing and all a terrible nightmare. Carefully she sits on the edge of the bed near his head, hand shaking as she pushes her skirt away from Vision’s face, the tremors only worsening as she reaches out and places her hand to his cheek. His skin is feverish, a sickly dampness that arouses a sense of urgency she had lost upon reaching the room, Tony’s explanation of the machine finally fully sinking into her consciousness. He is dying. Wanda slides her stare to Stark, assessing where his attention lies, and once she knows it is not on her, she conjures a cloud of scarlet along Vision’s jaw, easing his mouth open wide enough for her to slip the leather in between his teeth. Once it’s in place, she allows her hand to linger on his jaw, thumb making small, soothing circles on his skin as she stares at him, attempting to channel a sense of comfort through her powers into his mind, though she’s unsure if the unconscious register such things, but it cannot cause him more harm, at the very least. Regardless of who this man associates with or his questionably placed trust, he has only ever been kind to her and she hopes, in this moment, she can at least repay the favor. “He’s ready.” “Perfect.” Intrigue is to blame for her eyes leaving Vision’s face, drawn to the movement of Tony’s hands as he straightens the man’s arm, fingers tapping the inside of his elbow, searching for something, though Wanda has no guess as to what. A few more taps and then his finger remains in the middle of the indentation, only a short distance away from the hinge on the outside of Vision’s elbow. Then Tony brings the needle up, breathes out, and inserts the thin tip into the butler’s arm. The entire process repeats on the other side, an exhausted, almost apologetic sigh of relief falling from the lips of her unanticipated companion for the evening as he bends to flip another switch on the machine, sitting back as a low rumble emits from the contraption. Yet the peaceful air of relief doesn’t last, transitioning swiftly into a harsh, bitter, accusatory whisper, “How did this happen?” “I don’t know.” Instantly her tone matches his, her response laced with hardened honesty meant to deflect the accusation back to the person that she assumes is actually to blame. Tony sits up, back straight and eyes narrowed as he takes in her words, “Now you’re too pigeon-livered***?” The condemnation confounds her, uncertain what she could have done to bring this about, the butler’s injuries clearly longstanding and established far before she ever met him at the river. So she slows her words, punctuating her innocence by clearly articulating every single syllable. “I have no idea.” This is the wrong answer, Stark’s face contorting in displeasure as he stands from the bed, feet pacing the room and his hands moving in sharp, direct motions. “Just like you had no idea what you were doing tonight?” Wanda walks back through the evening, every last detail clear as she sorts through her actions, nothing damning or indicative of foul play or causing whatever is happening to Vision. Her silence only stokes his ire. “Amazing,” his tone shifts into derision, hands never stopping as he talks. “So let’s walk through this, logically, okay?” He doesn’t wait for a response, lips tight and arms crossed as he proceeds. “All of this was meant to hurt me, right?” The words erase the last thirty minutes, send her back to the séance and the table, the guilt she fed so carefully into his mind and the realization he had no response to the memory of ruining her life. Suddenly her view is narrowed, concerns falling away as she stares at him, arms still crossed and eyebrows raised in anticipation. Wherever the next part of her life takes her, it all hinges on destroying Tony Stark so why, she reasons, lie. “Yes.” Tony nods, a movement that is equal parts grimness and egotistical satisfaction, not helped at all by the way his facial hair enhances the slight amusement on his face. “And Pepper says I’m too self-absorbed to admit that no one wants to hurt me. So,” his steps grow more confident carrying him to a dresser against the wall where he leans, a cocky, well practiced casualness to the way he props his body up on his elbow, “enlighten me, what did I do to you?” The séance already determined that her loss is inconsequential to his life, not even a flicker of recognition when she mentioned the factory. But that doesn’t mean he cannot be forced to reckon with his egregious sins now. “My parents worked in your factory in Novi Grad.” The effect of her words is noticeable, the self-assured cockiness on his face tightening up into a cagey scowl, eyes flicking from side to side as he processes the information. His voice softens slightly, what she hopes is a glimmer of remorse threading itself through the words. “I’m guessing they were working the day the electromagnetic coil malfunctioned?” “Yes, I was ten.” “Well,” the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders lacks any sincerity, though his words are even more hollow, “I’m sorry.” An apology of convenience and apathy is not enough, her powers awakening in her body as his face settles back into a mask of overconfidence. “You took everything from me, from the people of Sokovia.” Stark pushes off of the dresser, hands traveling into the front pockets of his trousers, and gives her another half-hearted shrug and an indifferent click of his tongue. “Yeah, Sokovia isn’t a shining moment in my life, I’ll grant you that but hey,” he nods in her direction, the corners of his lips moving his expression from one common at confessional to the empty smile worn by the type of person who would, when coming across someone with a bone sticking out of their arm, only say you know, it could be worse, your other arm could be broken as well. “Look at you now, an entrepreneur of spiritualistic delights.” Scarlet prickles under the surface of her arms at the callousness of his response, at how little guilt he harbors for his monstrous effect on her life. “You are a monster.” “Tell me something I don’t already know.” The smirk that held residence on his lips flips, a scowl tugging his goatee down as he walks towards where she’s sitting. “But guess what, you’re no better than me.” Wanda bristles at the comparison, every atom of her being denying his words, because she knows the impetus for her own misdeeds, can justify every action she took, every loaf of bread she stole, pocket she picked, every mind she infiltrated and it all falls back on this man. “I am not you.” Her fingers ball into fists to stop the wave of scarlet building in her palms. “The only life I will ever ruin is yours.” The scornful laugh he releases only provokes the undulating red trapped in her fists. “Well, at least I’m not delusional.” One by one her fingers begin to open, defiance coursing through her veins as she stands, shoulders squared towards him, her hands ready and waiting to unleash a storm. If Tony notices the thin line he walks between living and dying, he doesn’t show it, the conversation moving on without hesitation. ”For future reference, you went about my demise all wrong.” What she should do is destroy him now, release the energy from her hands and remove the pestilence that is Stark from the Earth, save humankind from his influence, yet she hesitates, the shallow yet even breaths of Vision next to her a reminder that if she did just that, she would be killing two people instead of one. So she rescinds the power, drawing it up through her arms so that it can fester in her chest, determining it best to amend her strategy to reconnaissance instead of attack. “How so?” The heel-toe pattern of his pace stops at her question, Stark pivoting his left foot to face her, a surprising stillness embracing his limbs as he watches her. “If you want to hurt me,” his voice grows louder as he speaks, finger jabbing at his sternum in time with each syllable, “You hurt me. You leave,” the finger directs her eyes to the blonde-haired, pale man on the bed, metal gleaming in the light of the lamp, tubes running from his arms, “him out of it.” The accusation is wrong, the butler never a piece in her game, far from it, the past day giving her time to rationalize why she ran upon hearing Stark owned the manor, why her first instinct was to flee instead of stay. It all came down to two reasons, the first was a desire to simply be done, to deny her demons any more leverage but the other, the one she has fought against admitting, attempted to explain away in various, unconvincing manners is that she knew if she removed Stark she might have to hurt Vision. “He was not part of my plan.” “Really?” The caustic drip of his anger erodes her own calm, fingernails digging into her palm to keep the scarlet trapped in her body. “Then how’d this happen?” “I-” Wanda hesitates, knuckles loosening as she unfurls her fist, attempting to understand how she should know the answer to this question. Stark carries on, ignoring her confused syllable, “He had a treatment before I left, each treatment,” his hands swoop in a hurried gesticulation, possibly trying to clarify the information but it only adds to her confusion, “lasts three months. It’s been three weeks. The only way for him to destabilize so fast is if he got utterly and completely soaking wet. Was it the damn swan again?” Her lips form the, “No,” before she’s processed the explanation. “Then what was it?” She’d seen him handle water, every day, from the pitcher at her door, to cleaning the dishes, fetching a pail of water for the horses, yet he was always so careful, either donning gloves or using complicated contraptions, such as Friday, a machine designed explicitly to handle the sloshing and scrubbing of laundry. But there was also the storm. “What,” Vision had begged her not to go out in the rain, “happens,” hesitated at the door after she ignored his logic and trudged into the tempest, “when he gets,” and yet he still came outside, “wet?” “What…” a hand unceremoniously points at the man on the bed, “this. Tremors and a fever, inability to breathe, mental shut down, unconsciousness, give it another hour and seizures join the soiree.” “Does he kno-” An irritated huff cuts her off, “Of course he knows. What,” Tony takes four steps, closing the distance between them, allowing her to see the dilation of his pupils and the quiver of his lips, “happened?” When they came back in from the rain, she had to abate the smug amusement threatening to manifest as a grin at the dour frown that overtook his face, the removal of his coat revealing a saturated dress shirt, one he plucked dejectedly with his fingers. She assumed he was simply upset at ruining his perfectly pressed shirt. Wanda breaks eye contact, gaze falling to study the crescent moon on her index finger. “He went into the storm.” Tony’s hands lift, forming uneven arcs as he flails his arms out to the side, “He went into the storm?” If she didn’t already hate the man standing in front of her, his patronizingly sarcastic voice would surely stir a seething disdain in her chest, “I’ll believe that once Pierce goes against slavery****.” “He was,” Wanda lifts her eyes, first glimpsing the man on the bed and then moving to Stark, “trying to convince me to come back inside.” The tempestuous atmosphere of the room settles into an eerie calm, the hairs on her arm sticking up at the sudden shift. “Get out of this room.” When she doesn’t move he repeats the command, “Get out.” Wanda shakes her head, firmly planting her feet on the wooden floors, a deep, unwavering need forming in her mind to absolve her name, show she didn’t intend for this to happen. “I didn’t know.” The phrase freezes his movements, but it does nothing for his anger, any joy or pleasure gone from what he would typically imbue with a smarmy wit. “Well that’s enough to make a stuffed bird laugh.” “It’s true.” “Sure,” Stark nods, lips pursed and nose scrunching in disbelief as he shrugs at the suggestion. “A conniving spiritualist, who wants to destroy me,” he brings his hands to his chest, “befriends my water-averse butler, gets invited into my manor, forces said butler into a storm, and then turns his generosity and foolish openness against me at a very dramatic séance. You really think I wouldn’t connect the dots?” The majority of the timeline sounds plausible, if that had, in fact, been her plan, but he’s wrong in every way possible. Yet her voice can barely maintain a whisper as she denies it again, “That’s not true.” Doleful, fed up eyes stare at her, Tony’s shoulders drooping in defeat, his hand shoving her out of the way so he can sit on the chair next to the bed. “I guess we’ll just have to ask him when he wakes up,” the indirect dismissal of her company is more potent now than the command earlier, and so she bunches the front of her skirt in her fists, lifting it slightly so she can move more comfortably through the room, and proceeds to the door. “Wanda,” her first name coming from this man is debasing, but she has to roll her anger into a compact box, shove it away until a better time, needing to escape his presence in order to regain her bearings. For a moment, she contemplates continuing her path out of the room, but determines to hear whatever is left to say, turning to face him once she reaches the door. “No one knew about him, about,” Tony pauses, a mournful exhale deflating his chest, “that night. Not even Pepper.” Their eyes meet and her heart stops at the tears bulging from the bottoms of his eyelids and the guilt radiating from his mind, stronger now than it was at the séance or at any point in their conversation. “I’m going to let you explain that to him once he wakes up.” Wanda shuts the door, walks eight steps down the hallway before his words engulf her mind, a ragged gasp stealing the air from her lungs as the realization of her deeds finally settle on her chest, a weight so heavy she has to lean against the wall to help her slide to the floor. The entire séance she was so focused on Tony’s own guilt, on rectifying her life that she never stopped to consider the familiarity of the spirit’s lilting British accent, proceeded with the memory despite the bewilderment on Tony’s face when she said the man was dead, and only now does she understand the ashen horror on the butler’s face before he stumbled from the room. Wanda’s hands shake as they travel up her face, fingers wrapping around the smooth beads of her headdress as she untangles it from her hair. Slowly she turns the intricate piece in her hands, one she crafted herself after her first séance as a way to garner more respect and stronger belief from her clients. It was meant to symbolize her freedom and independence, the ability to transfigure the misery that had shrouded her for so long into hope. Yet all it managed to do was firmly root her in her past, failing the directive to take down Stark, and instead, inadvertently destroying the life of the man with the kindest eyes she’d ever met. She had forgotten this feeling, allowed her anger to create a source of retrograde amnesia to the fact that the collateral of innocent lives has never been and will never be enough justification for the fleeting satisfaction of revenge. The headdress falls from her hands as a nauseating guilt stitches itself into her body, “Ja sam monstrum*****.”

Victorian language/culture decoder: *Fun fact, the US navy, unlike the US army, had no restrictions for enlistment based on race during this time period. This is because they always had a shortage of sailors. The Army, on the other hand, allowed Blacks to serve in the army for the war of 1812 and then discharged them all until the start of the Civil War in 1862. ** Podsnappery:“wilful determination to ignore the objectionable or inconvenient, at the same time assuming airs of superior virtue and noble resignation.” ***Pigeon-livered: meek, gentle, or cowardly ****President Pierce was anti-abolitionist and believed trying to abolish slavery would corrupt American ideals. Fun fact, he’s considered by many to be the worst president in US history. *****I am a monster.

#Scarlet Vision #Vision #Wanda Maximoff #Minor Tony x Pepper #An Auspice of Scarlet #fanfic #AO3 #mine #hope you enjoy!#aos

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caesurabywriting · 7 years ago

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do you have a drabble or headcanon of your otp: fooling the world & each other becoming engaged? pretty please. c: i'm curious.

because you said please + i’ll take any excuse to talk about them, i’m obligated to answer this. honestly i have way too many headcanons but i’m going to try and be concise and coherent here (+ huge apologies for how long this is anyway, but these two are hella complicated and i’m way too Extra for their angst)headcanons:

- they only get engaged because she claims she’s pregnant (spoiler alert: she’s not, but she’s relying on the fact that she can get pregnant soon after/in a close enough window for it to be true) - she uses that excuse to get his attention bc he seemed to be getting more and more distant and passive re: their relationship and she wanted to have a way to lock him down even if she has to heavily manipulate the situation to get her way. she’s like a milder form of amy dunne.- she’s also the poster child for abandonment and trust issues because her parents were awful, but it’s what brought them ~together~ in the first place. his ex-gf, viv, was her best friend. they all lived together in NYC, along w tom’s own bestie, for six years ( which is what #manhattan memoirs is about ) before viv one day abruptly moved out without an explanation, dropping contact with them both, abandoning their perfect unit of four. up until that point tom and tessa barely tolerated each other + had an ongoing banter thing going on. she had a short fuse and he loved to light it at any chance he got. antagonizing her was his favorite hobby. later on, they proceeded to ‘bond’ over angry and angsty hate sex to avoid being sad over her viv’s departure. but then feelings were caught. oops. anyways…- she’s a ~first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby~ kind of person, and he knows this. having a baby without being married first would be a huge deal breaker for her. if he declined stepping up to ask her to marry him there would be no baby and she’d tell him to leave (in theory, but between you and me i don’t think she could and would have come up with something more dramatic to get his undying attention)- it was very non romantic and went down more like a business deal discussion. she presented a serious ultimatum that needed addressing. she sprung it on him. essentially, pre-proposing his proposal. there was no ring or down-on-one-knee business. it was very much a highly staked version of ‘should i stay or should i go?’- she went out by herself after the ‘proposal’ and chose her own ring and everything. anything he chose would have been complained about and returned- he wanted/wants to propose again in a more romantic and thoughtful way because even though he’s pretty neutral about marriage, he sees it’s important to her and she deserves the best of things. alas, time kept ticking by and it seemed like he’d lost his shot, so he kept such plans to himself and lets her resent him a little extra for his apparent lack of involvement, as usual.i do not have a full drabble composed ( yet - but i probably will one day even though it will ruin my life ), but i do have various fragmented flashback/extracts from actual replies/past threads that may or may not make sense out of context but, regardless, i’ve collected them below if you’re interested on a glimpse of things somewhat engagement-related:

1. Their tables had done more than shift, they had been flipped and spun out. The undeniable truth tightly wrapped around his reality, pinning him transfixed in place. For better or for worse, those two lines had seen Tom’s uncontrolled fishtailing hitched onto a finite track. A duo of one dimensional pink had the power to change everything. Tom blinked over dilated pupils, his sentimental conscience sucker punched by a one-two hit of remorse and disquietude. It was all still etched into him like the grooves of a record, designed to be played on repeat at his masochistic leisure — Tessa presenting herself empty handed after already discarding the evidence, bearing the news with clutched hands and a penetrating gaze. Her voice, poised and decisively urgent: ’Stay.’ They were standing in the same room for the first time in three days. He’d avoided the sheen of her dark hair for the floorboards, ‘That’s not all you’re asking.’ His timbre noticeably wavered in comparison to hers. Like a whip, Tessa’s voice cut across with a warning flatline: ‘No. It’s what we are.’ Her eyes, calculating, soften magnanimously the moment he looks up, ‘You know your answer, don’t you, Thomas?’ 2. Her reveal had been a surprise. Admittedly, he was the only one to blame for that belief, his sense of awareness not particularly careful nor attentive during the time between an office shift ending and them falling from a fight into a bed together. In all it’s ‘A one time thing. We’re not doing this again,’ ( gradually switched out for ‘make it a one more time thing,’ ) glory. What had only ever been meant to be a secondary arrangement, intended to fill space, to pass time. The most beneficial way to end a combative argument. It was an exhausting interlude that matched the tone of his routine, wearing him down until he was nothing but fine grains. He had been confused, torn, and collectable.3. No celebratory graduation ceremony marked their progression as they impassively watched their shared temperature rise from ‘fling’ to ‘fiancé’, endlessly fluctuating between offensively heated and dishearteningly tepid throughout. Their anniversaries as somber as the sticker announcing it on the square of calendar. That catalyzing moment of history turned away from very deliberately. There were no sweet heart-eyed how did you two meet narratives to supply. Just Mr. Type-B and Ms. Type-A, two heartbroken kids susceptible to distraction. Amusing themselves until it became real. Maybe it did. Or maybe it was harmless and it was pure paranoia making it seem like a neon sign blinked above his head in an infinite line of alarmed exclamation marks.4. Wreckage was imminent no matter which way the pieces aligned. Home ( now ) was sleeplessly staring at a ceiling, deliberating in the dark and into the glow of the morning. Most of all, an internal pleading line of looped thought: Oh, God, let today be a normal day. Let him be normally nervous, unhesitating, and spontaneously happy. Let him not squint as Tessa walked away, the disheveled shadow of dark hair thrown down her back strongly evoking of another’s in poor lighting. Familiar shades of umber and taupe clashing with the lesser known notes of sangria and mint on her breath, the scent of rose in her hair. Tessa, an intended sojourn; a breathing space. An operating lightbulb to illuminate the dreary darkness of a vicissitude neither wanted to admit they were blind in trying to navigate. No one was ever prepared for a demotion into the limited edition status of another’s life when, viewed in the other direction, they’d presumably been branded essential. But it had happened, and Tessa was the only tangible reason not to go too far off an precipice that led to no tomorrow. Pulling at hands smudged with paint instead of cigarette ash in a desperate attempt at capsizing the insurmountable detritus of past imprints drifting throughout his system. Taking the brunt of all frustration, tremor, and every emotion banned from expression. Aggressively sidelining the only language he wanted to feel, touch, and listen to. Relearning a different one. Everything that had been absentminded and easy now requiring vigilance and humorless behavior. Yet as exhausting as all her short tempered glares and cavilling was, it had also been her strict accountability and interception between him and acts of stupidity that kept him together.5. She was a person to whom his surrendering murmur of ‘I love you’ often had the bitter aftertaste of something over-steeped. His palliative precursor, a promising commitment not to be cowardly, invitingly interchangeable with other prosperous phrases of three: I am here. I am staying. We are family. The woman who’d engaged in an unrequested initiative, yanking the dusty rug out from beneath their at-risk stale situation and pulling them into dazzling sunlight. He couldn’t have said no if he’d wanted to. He was prepared to try — faking it until it was true — just as he shouldered everything else. Maybe saying yes to Tessa, and in turn something that scared him, had been the gateway drug.6. There were many shouldn’t-ridden clauses, both spoken and not, between the two of them. Tessa and Thomas. One of the very first in-depth conversations they’d had ended with a shouldn’t. The first time he hadn’t felt the need to crack a prolonged, tensely held, silence with something deprecating. Instead, tentatively entering the humid air, a plea and a concern all in one: We shouldn’t do this, it’s too soon. Then, only two days later: we shouldn’t stop, I can’t do this alone. And the rest fell into natural order, the reoccurring theme of expectations fallen short: He shouldn’t come home so late. She shouldn’t have to ask twice. We shouldn’t talk about that. The clarity of her voice in his head was almost identical to a certain other someone’s. A different inflection, a different time — but just the same; a damning memory able to be plucked from the recesses of his mind at the most inconvenient of moments. Tessa’s censorious commentary was never far behind. He’d been consumed by it in slowly advancing increments for nearly ten years. In the beginning, a day-to-day routine of merely pretending he was listening to her as he dotingly observed the accompanying figure that she’d arrived with. More recently, her unimpressed narration wove through the fabric of any of the romantic or couple-y things they tried to do. Tom, begrudgingly following her into the overcrowded abyss of whatever public outing she’d pre-arranged, always far too absentminded, staying alert for all the wrong reasons. Looking down to check on even the slightest vibration of his phone — a problem? A meeting? A respite? — whilst completely avoiding having to provide any input on Tessa’s newly favorite subject ( it rhymed with bedding ). Their verbal tennis matches, a ceaseless tit-for-tat game of passive aggression, could run steady laps around everything else they did. It was almost an entity of it’s own. There was Tom, there was Tessa, and there was that low pressure that hung in the atmosphere whenever they entered into the same room as if someone had made tasteless a joke at a funeral. The one beam of hope through it all was the fact that, admitted to or not, they knew each other too well. Despite what they withheld from one another — even though, if presented the same card drawn during a Rorschach Test she’d see the shape of a book where he’d see a pint of beer — they could never return to being strangers. Getting to know her had been a muffled process, a slowly sinking feeling. The diluting of a strongly flavored concentrate with hot water. Three parts scathing to one part cordial. Mild enough to eventually be widely palatable as opposed to the too-potent original double dose; the sort of thing that appealed to rush-seeking junkies and hyperactive children and those who fell somewhere in between.

#this got so long i'm sorry afjhladkgh #idk what you were looking for #but in case it wasn't clear already i'm trash for these two. any question i get about them just enables my feelings.#PSA: i'm always down for questions or memes pertaining to otp: fooling the world & each other #it gives me life #otp: fooling the world & each other #tnt fan club #answered.#anonymous.

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