#metal perforating pen | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cordeliawhohung · 25 days

Text

Touch Me 'Till I Vomit (pet!au) [12]

pet!au | ghoap x fem!reader | tag list

gentle

cw: angst, non-con touching, dub-con sex, smut, hate fucking if you squint

Click. Click. Click.

Johnny won’t stop messing with his pen. Repetitive clicks echo in the small space in his art room as he hunches over his journal, shading away at some image just beyond your view. It’s distracting. That slip of plastic against plastic. It’s not as acidulous as a firing pin striking metal — nor is it nearly as dangerous — but it’s enough to get the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Enough to make you remember the weight of an empty gun biting into the palm of your hand. It’s unforgiving, like a bad dog.

Brain too perforated to properly concentrate, you tap the eraser of your pencil against the notebook in your lap. The scrawlings of a madwoman taint the paper between its faded blue lines. It’s a gift from Johnny. Shoved it into your hands the other day because he said you looked bored. Told you that you fidget too much without something to busy yourself with, and he needs you to sit still in order to draw you properly. It was unusually astute of him to notice something so small about you. You’ve descried something more than just a lowering haze over the sapphire of his eyes, but you’re unable to put it into words.

He’s different these days. You don’t know why.

Either way, you are grateful for the escape. You’ve repurposed this old, fading notebook into a diary of sorts. Some place to pour your thoughts out to something that has no other choice than to listen — something that cannot bite you. For so long you have carried so much inside of you; not just the pain and fear, but the little things, too. You nearly cried when you realized you finally had a place to put it — that weight — down.

It wasn’t until you flipped to the first page that you realized you don’t know what the date is. Your passage of time has been warped again and again. A tablet dissolving in your drink made you lose days. Johnny taking you on the floor while a football game droned in the background made you lose years. You try to count the time in other ways. The length adding to your hair. Golden leaves catching fire on the fringes of the forest. An algid whisper on the wind dancing through the open window. The way summer dies with a sputtering pule.

These days, you measure the turn of the earth by feel. Months. Hours. It doesn’t matter to you how long you have been trapped here; you only care about how much life you have left to live when you escape.

Johnny. John? Soap. Like the bar. Never feels clean. Never makes me feel clean. Scottish. Tattoo on forearm. Coat of arms? Military? Wannabe? Scar on head. Shot? Simon said so. When? Who? Matching scar. No. Never.

Simon. Simon. Just Simon. English. Manchester? Guns. Hunter. Big guns. Fucked up nose. Fucked up everything. Scars. One on ribs. Butcher? Smells like blood. Hate him. Animal. Lots of tattoos. Took me as a pet for Johnny. Mad man. Bad man.

Me. Not Bonnie. Something else. Someone else. Bartender. How old am I? Need haircut.

Miss my jumper.

Miss my mum.

Miss ice cream.

Had an interview before I was taken. What day? Missing since… June. June. Summer. Hot. Did they ever call back? Needed better job. Wonder if they’re looking for me. Is anyone looking for me? Always called mum on Sundays.

Does her phone ring now that I’m gone?

No. Not gone. Not yet. Not ever.

I hope her phone rings.

Scribbles muddle the margins between fractured words and thoughts. You can conjure nothing more than empty, uneven eyes and dried flies lining burnt window sills. What creativity lingers in the fringes of your mind stays in the mess of grey matter; never something to brand the off white paper in your hands. Masterpieces cannot be created in a cage. You save what little energy you have for dreaming. You dream of a day when your teeth grow long enough they don’t whittle down to sand when you try to sharpen them.

“Bonnie?”

Johnny moves quietly. Or, your ears are growing old. Too busy trying to recall sounds you used to love; unable to make sense of the cacophony that constantly surrounds you in this tomb. He’s already eye level with you by the time you look up. Crouched next to your plushy chair, a wide hand sits on the armrest that props your elbow. He’s got his journal in hand, and you are very aware of the way he curiously eyes your own. You slam it shut with the pencil between the pages before setting it aside.

His eyes follow your hands with question, but he says nothing as he turns his journal for you to see. Truly, Johnny has a talent you’ve rarely seen others show off. Meticulously crafted sketches brand the paper, etching your likeness in grey graphite. He captures every curve of your body as you lean in the recliner, eyes narrow with concentration. You’re drawn with a smile on your face, but those muscles in your cheeks have been dormant for so long you’re not sure you could conjure the expression if you tried.

“That looks lovely,” you compliment. It’s not a lie, but it rolls off of your tongue like it is.

“You’re lovely,” he fires back. Playful. Light.

There it is again. That look. Heavy lids threaten to smother the blue hue of his eyes — heavy with a concupiscence so thick it’s palpable in the air that separates you from him. You hope one day it solidifies — turns into some protective barrier — but it never will.

It starts like it always does. The slicing of the threshold, brittle like eggshells and bones. You don’t think about it as he presses his lips to yours. You keep your mind full of other thoughts because if it’s empty, there’s more room for worse things. Bitter things. A man can only stare at a meal for so long before his hunger consumes him. You are liquid. A flowing being molding into the shape of his body as his torso pinches your legs against the recliner. It’s easier to give in. Hurts less. Angers Simon less. Even with that monster gone you behave because the walls have eyes. Dark brown irises that do nothing but stare and smirk.

“Ow!”

But you still have your limits, and your body aches more often than it is numb these days, and Johnny’s hands haven’t grown any softer. He paws at you with claws that can’t retract and you wince. Your breasts are sore from weeks — no, months — of abuse. They’re silent wounds that will not heal and always, always scream.

Then, it stops.

Johnny’s hands retract from your body at the same time as his lips do, leaving you breathlessly dumbfounded. Blinking away the confusion, your eyes settle on Johnny who retreats back to sitting on his haunches. Blue eyes shimmer in the late summer sun as he shifts. For once, you are the one above him instead of the other way around. He looks up at you as if you’re an angel—

—as if he’s begging for forgiveness.

“Did Ah hurt you?” he asks.

“Uh… a-a little bit,” you admit stiffly.

“A’m sorry.”

There’s something in his eyes that unsettle you. You think back to that night when his body thrashed and squirmed next to you on the bed, fear reverberating through the mattress. Panicked and screaming; unable to rip himself from some nightmare. How he screamed about wanting to go home. Your stomach twists at the very thought, and it only gets worse when you realize that — for once — he looks more human than mutt.

“It’s okay. I… I know you didn’t mean it,” you whisper.

“Never. Ah would never hurt you,” he concurs. A breadth of stillness freezes the room and for the longest time you hear nothing but the chatter of birds. Johnny reaches for you with a singular hand, and rests it on top of your leg, heavy and warm. “Bonnie, are ye afraid of me?”

Vocal chords turning to stone, your throat seizes as you attempt to answer. “No,” you lie. Cautious eyes flicker to the walls around you like they’ll crumble at any moment. Something slices through the prostration in your chest, and a strange cogitation flickers in the back of your mind. It’s as strong as it is terrifying, but you find your body executing it before you’re able to stop it. “But… Simon does. He terrifies me.”

Johnny’s mouth fills with well meaning mirth. “He’s scary alright, but he won’t hurt ye. Simon’s not like that.”

“I’m still worried he might,” you admit. A hesitant hand reaches out and rests over Johnny’s. The smile on his face quickly melts away into surprise as he stares up at you with parted lips. “But you wouldn’t let that happen. Right?”

“Never.” His response is quick. Sharp and eager as he leans closer. His other hand comes up to rest upon yours, sandwiching you into a small embrace. “Cannae ever let anythin’ bad happen to ye.”

Something shudders in your chest. Your diaphragm, maybe. It quivers and quakes as if you hold a bird’s nest within yourself. Foreign words begin to scratch at the back of your tongue, tickling your throat. You know well enough to bite them back, but as you stare at Johnny’s smile — lips pulled wide — someone stronger chokes the words out for you.

“You’re so good to me, Johnny,” you whisper, voice whiny as you scoot forward in the recliner. Slipping your hand out of his grasp, your palms instead reach up to cup his face. His smile fades into parted lips and bated breath as your thumbs rub against abrasive stubble. You don’t think you’ve ever seen his eyes dilate so wide before. “Such a good boy, aren’t you?”

“Ah try tae be,” he swallows.

“I know you do.”

It takes an eternity for your lips to meet his. Just when you think you’ve halved the distance, it only grows, and you’re unsure if it’s because of the scream of betrayal in your chest, or something worse. He groans when your bodies finally reunite, and you play into the fantasy his sick brain is infested with. Precious Bonnie. So supple and pliant in his hands. If only he knew you were this soft because muscles cannot properly tense around broken bones.

You pull Johnny onto the recliner by his collar, but you ensure you’re the one to land on top. Legs spreading wide to accommodate his thighs, your knees squish into the sides of the arm rests, sending journals and pencils flying to the ground. When he paws at your chest again, you bite back the urge to push him away. To slice your nails through the back of his hand. Fingers pressing into tender flesh, he stares up at you like he’s finally able to feel the heart beating beneath his palms.

“You wanna fuck me?” Those words sting on the way out, but you attempt to distract yourself from the pain as you grind down onto Johnny’s lap. He nods, hips pathetically bucking up. “Yeah? Ask me, then.”

Thick brows pinch together as he parts his lips. It’s as if his request is on the tip of his tongue, but his hands have a mind of their own. Wandering. Grabbing. Pinching.

“No,” you chastise. “Use your words, Johnny.”

“Please. Please, Bonnie.” It’s pathetic. He says the words like he’s speaking to Simon.

“Good boy,” you coo. “Gentle now. Gentle, Johnny.”

He fumbles with the fly of his jeans, all too eager. His cock hardly has time to spring free before he’s already making a mess. Precum drips everywhere, staining the band of your shorts as his reddened tip slaps against you. Too worried about keeping your power, you don’t bother to properly remove your clothes. Instead, you move the gusset of your shorts and panties to the side before sinking down onto him. This has to be quick. You promise yourself it will be.

All the while, you remind Johnny to be gentle, gentle, gentle.

Even when you’re in control, it still hurts. There’s that stretch and sting as you split yourself open, but you take it slow. Steady. Unlike Johnny, you allow yourself to adjust. He’s panting beneath you by the time you fully take him. You feel so full of rot it upsets your stomach, but you try to mask your trembling with a gentle rock of your hips. His moan is cacophonous, and your fingers itch to dig into his throat and render his vocal chords useless, but you relent.

Always, always relenting.

There is an intense appetency for blood that itches in the back of your mind. Even as you fake your moans and rock your hips, you want to take your hands and dig. Fingers piercing through flesh, cutting through bone; you wouldn’t stop until Johnny’s heart is in the palm of your hands. Still beating. Still fresh. You could squeeze it for an eternity and it still would only be a fraction of the pain you’ve been made to endure.

You hate him. You hate him like a mother hates her daughter. Like how eyes hate mirrors. How the sun hates flesh.

“Johnny?” you choke out. “Do you love me?”

It takes him a moment to catch his breath, mouth stuck open as he stares up at you. “Aye. So much, Bonnie.”

“Yeah? So you’d do anything for me?” you challenge. You try not to wince as he butts up against your cervix, but you know you can’t afford to stop.

“Aye.”

“Anything I ask?”

“Anythin’ ye ask. Fuck, Bonnie A’m-”

“I love you, Johnny.” It’s acid. Pure bile on your tongue. You nearly choke on the words, but you repeat them again. “I love you so much.”

You hide your face in the crook of his neck when he comes. Thick fingers dig into your hips as you hold still, allowing him to spill his seed inside of you like he always does. His pulse throbs against your lips and you restrain the urge to take the artery into your maw and bite down. There’s nothing in your mouth but pathetic, brittle teeth. You don’t even think you could break through his skin. Still, you dream of it. Running the tips of your fingers along Johnny’s jaw, you yearn for a day when you have the weapons and tools to free yourself. It’s a long, agonizing process. One you’re not sure you have the patience for.

And so, when you lean back to look at him, you stare at his lips. Soak up the way the delicate skin parts as he smiles up at you, allowing you to catch sight of his teeth. You might not have sharp canines, but he does. You know first hand the way they can dig into your lip and draw blood from skin. Fingers twitching, you yearn to pull the canines from his mouth, to wield them for yourself, but you know you’re not strong enough.

But maybe, someday, you can be the guiding hand. Point a finger and say go fetch and have Simon’s head delivered to you. That day is too far over the horizon for you to view, but the vision of it is so clear in your mind that it’s enough for now. Right now, you’ve taken the first step.

“Good boy,” you croon as you thumb over his bottom lip. “Good boy, Johnny.”

You’ll just have to keep walking.

#ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #soap x reader #pet!au #tmtiv #f!reader #dead dove

364 notes · View notes

anonthenullifier · 6 years

Text

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 10

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter Title: In which the lovers descend into hell.

Chapter Summary: Ultron's plan begins to clarify as Vision pays the price for his closeness to Stark.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/42603071

AN: A warning for this chapter: The interactions between Ultron and Wanda are depicted with behaviors common of abusive relationships. If this is something you do not want to read, I wanted to let you know up front.

There is a particular way some doomed men walk, a rigid hold on their shoulders, their muscles taut so as not to let their necks droop, and their faces blank, minus a light sheen of defiance. She’s seen it many times in her career and it’s usually heartening to witness the spirit of humanity thrum so strongly in the face of a bleak eternity. Except now, when she doesn’t want the man to be doomed.

Vision, if not for the slight limp in his long strides, has remained steadfastly silent and unemotive, head held high and breath painfully even despite the tempest in his mind. There’s not even a flinch or blink of surprise or sharp intake of breath when they enter the cavernous warehouse that serves as the base of Ultron’s operation. The main floor is a fairly ordinary pot and pan manufacturing company, bodies scurrying around, steps punctuated by the pounding of machines and loud, menacing screeches of gears in need of oil. Yet the deeper they get, moving from the cacophony of the main cavern and into the sparsely decorated maze of hallways and rooms, the taller Vision stands.

Wanda, for her part, is petrified, though she tries to mimic Vision’s stance and combine it with Ultron’s unmitigated sense of victory, understanding she has to successfully play the part of her former self to get out of this alive.

They reach the inner retreat, the area where only Ultron and his favorite disciples ever get to go...well and the people who are brought in here and leave in a burlap shroud. Compared to the rest of the building, this is a sanctuary, carmine couches and finely polished cherry tables illuminated by a hanging, tiered gas-powered chandelier, the windows to the outside inlaid with patterns of blooming marigolds. There are small rooms along the perimeter, shadowy, uncomfortably sized spaces where questions are asked and the answers thread the loom of fate. Wanda does her best to remain outwardly unperturbed when Ultron leads them to one of the rooms on the left wall.

“Mr. Vision, was it?”

The, “Yes,” is hollow, uptight, and mildly dismissive, the epitome of a well-trained butler.

Ultron grins, the scars on his face puckering into a grisly mask. “Wonderful. Are you good with riddles?”

For the first time, Vision slips up in his painstakingly constructed apathy, brow furrowing as he tries not to glance at her for guidance. “I believe so.”

“Perfect, this one had been bothering me for years.” The tone is light, peppy even, the words winding easily between friendly and threatening. “What do you call a man who is both alive and dead at the same time?”

There is a long pause as Vision tries in earnest to come up with a solution, mind calming into a focused consideration while his eyes finally turn somewhere other than straight ahead, instead studying the stained glass near the ceiling. Eventually he offers a skeptical, “Dr. Frankenstein’s monster?”

Ultron snorts followed by an unsettling chortle. “Well-read man, I see. I admire that.” The glee is executed promptly, the smirk descending into a scowl, “But wrong, try again.”

If Wanda knew the answer, she’d send it into his mind to stop whatever tactic Ultron is utilizing, instead all she can do is silently watch as Vision’s head moves in a slow, confused shake. “I do not know.”

“A liar, Mr. Williams.” The mask of indifference falls from the butler’s face, shattering at his feet while his eyes widen and he glances briefly at her. Wanda wants to comfort him, wants to reach out to his shoulder, whisper to him she never shared this information, but she knows her every action is being watched, so she holds back, deciding to stare at Ultron instead. The man rolls his eyes, voice nudging Vision’s attention back to him. “Oh please don’t give her any credit for this.” The acquittal of deceit should lighten the weight on her shoulders, not add to it. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to figure out who Victor Williams is? I mean his name is mentioned six times in the Stark Industry by-laws on corporate succession despite the fact an obituary states he died over five years ago.”

The explanation stalls, Ultron waiting on Vision for some sort of response, likely an admission of his cunning at figuring out the butler’s identity or a denial so he can bathe himself in the glee of dismantling the lie further. Vision offers only stony silence. “If it were me,” Ultron shrugs, voice growing patronizing, “I’d have also forged a death certificate, makes it a bit more convincing, you know. Stark’s not the best at following through though.”

“That would have been an excellent idea.” Vision’s attestation is dry, the shock and terror shoved deep into his mind.

“Maybe next time.” Wanda flinches at the off-handed comment, stepping back, hands tingling with pent up energy at the casual sway of Ultron’s body as he thinks, his actions often unpredictable. His head cocks to the side at the spark of scarlet that ekes out of her pinky, a smarmy arc forming on his face. “I suppose I was lying earlier,” a wink in her direction and Wanda’s fingernails dig into her palms to extinguish her powers. “Wanda was instrumental in my revelation,” her heart drops at the stoop of Vision’s shoulders, “if she hadn’t told Jocasta about your prowess with the Iron Man, I don’t think I would have connected the dots for a little while longer.”

“What do you want?”

Had she even contemplated the possibility of this meeting happening, Wanda would have prepped Vision for how to interact with Ultron. This affront to his power, this attempt to change the direction of the conversation, to deflect from his past life, is dangerous. Ultron frowns, motioning to the woman in white to help peel the glove from his right hand. “How rude of me to not introduce myself, I’m Ultron.” He extends his arm and grins at Vision, following the butler’s eyes as he takes in the thin steel fingers, hinged for gripping objects, and the aesthetic choice of a perforated floral design in the metal plate that makes up the palmA, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Exquisite.” The answer is honest, empathetic in a way she prays Ultron is ignorant of.

Vision goes to shake the hand and is met with a stern rebuke, “This is not a forum for discourtesy, Mr. Williams.”

A moment of confusion morphs into understanding, Vision gently sliding the glove from his own hand, eyes taking in his bare skin before reaching out and gripping the metal fingers still hovering in the air. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ultron.”

Ultron isn’t listening to the empty civility, instead studying the raised scars and discoloration of the butler’s hand. “You really were in that fire.”

“I was.” Vision tries to deflect again, twisting their gripped hands several degrees to the left, “Who manufactured this?”

The prosthetic is yanked away, amusement flickering in Ultron’s eyes the same way the fire danced in Tony’s memory. “I’ve been informed you know the Iron Man quite well.”

“I do.”

At least her claim is substantiated, a minor protection for their current well-being. Ultron, almost point for point the same as Tony this morning, slings his arm clumsily around Vision’s shoulders, only this time the two men are roughly equal in height and so the only discomfort comes from the tension in Vision’s jaw. “How are your drawing skills?”

They step into the room, too small to house more than the two men, leaving Wanda to remain useless in the doorway, eyes straining to simultaneously watch the room and the woman in white who stands a respectable distance away. “I…” Ultron guides Vision into a chair, his metal hand never leaving the butler’s shoulder. There’s a stack of parchment on the rickety table, an inkwell, and a polished, engraved pen. Vision runs his fingers over the pen before commencing in a staring contest with the paper. “I am afraid in my current state it would take me days to draw an accurately detailed plan set of the Iron Man.”

This sort of blanket refusal is typically met with acridity, yet Ultron seems to weigh the man’s words judiciously. “What if you simply drew the arc reactor?”

Another long gaze at the parchment, “Currently,” and then he looks to his trembling hands, “it would likely take five, maybe six hours for me to steady my hand enough to produce a passable drawing.” It’s usually unwise to make weaknesses known to men such as Ultron, an admission like this opens the door to a slew of unpleasantries that can be leveraged against you, but the characteristic honesty with which Vision presents his own failings seems to steer Ultron away from exploitation. For now, anyway.

“And if your body was relieved of this burden?”

Genuine surprise and academic contemplation wrinkle Vision’s forehead, the right half of his torso moving in a shrug that tosses away the hard-set rules of anatomical functioning to allow the whimsy of hypotheticals. “I would say two hours.” Vision pauses, palm coming to rest on the fresh-faced paper, “Three if you wish it to be fully annotated.”

Vision’s strategy of survival seems remarkably simple: acquiesce to all questions and demands calmly and unhesitantly. Each acquiescence blows out the fuse of the bomb known as Ultron. Logically it makes sense, if the fuse can’t stay lit, it can’t harm them. If only she could convince herself it will work because she’s seen the smile drawn on Ultron’s face far too many times to feel any sort of hope. “Wonderful. Wanda?”

“Yes?” Her voice somehow comes out at a normal volume and even has a somewhat authoritative heft.

Both men turn to her and, in the best interest of everyone in the room, she only acknowledges the storm grey irises of Ultron. “Do you remember how helpful you were to that banker, the one who had such a long day?”

The number of individuals she has seen come in and out of these rooms is far too large to count, their faces mingling and morphing into vague outlines of despair and agony. This banker, however, is different. She hadn’t thought of him for a long time, likely due to the wonders of repression, but now that his memory is stirred, she can’t unsee the blood dripping down his face, the way his left eye was swollen shut, and the unnatural bend to his left leg. Ultron had summoned her in the middle of the night, wrapped his arm around her waist, guided her closer to the man, and asked if there was some way she could help him not be so tired, his body shutting down and fulgurating between life and death. “I do.”

“Why don’t you show Mr. Williams here how we like to help with the betterment of our clients.”

Ultron runs his hand along her back as he walks out of the room, arms crossing while he intently watches her approach the table. “Vision.” Cerulean eyes turn to her, his mouth set in a grim, partial smile, and it’s the first time she’s gotten to make direct eye contact with him since the steamboat. There is still intense emotion in his gaze, only now it skews far more negatively. “I’m going to help you.” Whether Ultron remembers the fact she doesn’t need to touch her marks to fulfill her task is inconsequential, her desire to bring some level of comfort to Vision far outweighing the risk of being caught, so she reaches out, laying her hand over his. Smartly he doesn’t respond beyond a slight flinch of his fingers. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Wanda has no idea if his “I know,” is whispered or if he is projecting it into her mind, but she latches on to this steadfast trust as scarlet dances around their hands. The banker needed to be kept awake, still refusing to give Ultron information on the financials of Stark, therefore Wanda took from him the weight of his torture, the anguish of his injuries, leaving him no choice but to be alert. Now she does the same to Vision, locating the uncountable points of pain in his joints, fused into his bones, rippling in his muscles, and she clusters it all together, drawing it up his torso and down his arm until she can gently pry it from his hand. In the air between them it spins, the manifestation of his daily struggle, every slightly rusty edge of every rivet combining with his lack of sleep into a glistening, lively ball of red.

The change in his posture is immediate, eyes breaking from her gaze to study the peculiar calm of his fingers, his arms lifting as he bends his knuckles to test this newfound normalcy. Her heart constricts at the experimental shrug of his shoulders, at the stretching of his legs, at the borderline rapture filling each pain-free movement. “Mr. Williams, how are you feeling now?”

“I feel,” he grips the pen in his right hand, automatically using his left to hold his wrist, and then he removes the support, fingers lightly grasping the metal cylinder without any issue, “invigorated.”

Ultron’s gold plated teeth flash in a wide, pleased smile, “Fantastic. You have an hour and a half to draw me the arc reactor.” Before Vision can counter back at the decreased time, their captor has moved on, “Wanda, leave him be.” Reluctantly she steps out of the room, casting one last look at Vision before the woman in white shuts the door and stands in front of it. “Wanda,” Ultron’s voice echoes off the walls, “come along.”

Each step away from the room is harder than the one before, the orb of Vision’s pain weighing down her body, wrists starting to ache at the effort it takes to simply deal with its existence. How he is able to do this day in and day out is beyond her. “Wanda.” Ultron’s voice is harsher now, impatience seeping into his tone and it kick starts her feet into action, carrying her the rest of the way to the couches in the middle of the room. “Have a seat.” Following Vision’s strategy, she acquiesces, lowering herself down onto the plush couch, not caring about the way the bodice digs into her hips or how the hoop skirt is ballooning out due to the angle of her body. “Put that down.”

She stares at the scarlet bundle still in her palms, the only connection she has to Vision right now. “I can hold it.”

“Under love’s heavy burden does she sinkB.” The orb drops to the table, her cheeks stinging at the lash of his words and the daggers imbedded in his challenging stare. “You must be hungry, moja mala vještice.” Food sounds wholly unappetizing right now but what comes of refusing Ultron’s goodwill is far more nauseating. Wanda remains silently affirmative. “Jocasta,” the woman leaves her post, “why don’t you grab Wanda here some refreshments and also send Gideon over to encourage Mr. Williams to stay on task.”

“Of course.”

The woman leaves and Wanda waits, eyes never leaving the man across from her, the deep creases of his face even more pronounced in the dimming light of dusk, the shadows from the chandelier filling his scars in with a malevolent tint, and his hands rest calmly on his crossed legs, the intricate metal hand cupping the roughly carved wood of his other prosthetic. The first time she saw him sit like this, so open about the hardships of his life, she felt a kinship, a sympathy for his troubles, and an acknowledgement that this man understands pain. Only now she has seen what he has done with his own torment, directing it outwards with the philosophy that what he suffered, those around him should suffer tenfold. “She isn’t exactly a facsimile of you,” rancorous tenderness drips from his tongue, “but her loyalty and conscientiousness are welcomed after your unexpected exodus.”

“I left to pursue a lead on the reactor,” a lie she needs to maintain, having rehearsed this conversation countless times in her relatively sleepless nights since they first arrived for the Exhibition, “and then I came back.”

A man dressed in gray slacks, off-white shirt, and a navy waistcoat saunters in, his face familiar, and it’s only in the cocky tilt of his head towards Ultron that she recognizes him as the man she spoke to in the tent. No words are exchanged as he enters the room adjacent to Vision’s, the door slamming shut, sending reverberations around the room. “What’s he doing?”

Ultron blinks, a frown ruining his relatively jovial mood, “He’s lighting a fire under his feet,” just as quickly a smile returns to his face, body leaning back into the armchair with a self-satisfied air. “Escaping the eternal flames of hell is a relatively strong motivator.” His head quirks to the side, eyes narrowing to scrutinize her confused reaction, “You’ve clearly been away too long to be asking such naïve questions.”

Footsteps interrupt them, the woman in white returning, a silver tray balanced delicately in her hands containing two cream-colored porcelain mugs and a plate of assorted meats from the butcher located next door. “Wanda,” when she meets his eyes there is mischief and power waltzing arm-in-arm, “did you know Jocasta was created just for you, a perfect defense to a perfect weapon?” The woman seems unbothered at being treated like a novelty lamp or a glass sugar bowl carved like a diamond, an empty, placating curve fastened to her rose-colored lips. “Why don’t you show her.”

A nod and the woman reaches up, fingers curling into her hair. In a smooth, automatic movement, she removes it, the wig flopping limply in her hands. Wanda barely registers the discarded blonde strands, eyes fixated on the metal plates riveted to the woman’s scalp. It’s almost identical to the metalwork on Vision’s back, only this seems to not only be screwed into her skull but melded to her skin, puffed, reddish-brown scarring lining each plate. “Try to read her mind.”

Three times today Wanda hadn’t noticed the woman, three times she’d never registered her in the sweep of the crowd. Even now, with her pristine dress practically in arm’s reach, Wanda can’t feel her. “Why?”

Vision’s struggle to recover still sends ripples into his everyday life, his body, with the highest quality materials and, from what she has gathered, the best medical minds available, is unable to cope with what was done. Staring at the horrifying jigsaw puzzle on the woman’s head causes a shattering sense of loss to overcome Wanda, starting in her feet and sloshing up her body. Ultron, on the other hand, sits in awe, the look on his face similar to what is seen on the faces of people staring at paintings or Grecian statues or the dome of the Crystal Palace. “If you are going to unleash a mind reader into the world, you need a failsafe in case she goes rogue.” He sends a nod to the woman, dismissing her back to the role of a sentinel at Vision’s door, her hands expertly placing the wig back in place. “Don’t worry, Wanda,” the wink that accompanies his words sends her stomach turning and when he moves to sit next to her, his hand clumsily landing somewhere near her knee, her stomach plummets, “you haven’t been replaced yet.” When she doesn’t respond, he leans closer, hand rising to trace the curve of her cheek, “you will always be my favorite, my promised one.”

This affection needs to be abated lest her powers erupt and tear his hand off, “Now that I’m back, what’s next?” Wanda swallows her disgust and turns towards him, opening her shoulders for conversation. “Are we finally destroying Stark for good?”

“You know what I have missed most, moja mala vještice?” The words are spoken softly into her ear, his breath stirring the stray hair Vision knocked loose while they were tangled on the couch. “The joy of watching you partake of your spiritualism,” an activity he utilized as a cover for interrogations, inviting wealthy men into the hallowed halls of their operation, wooing them with strong brandy, and then placing them in the company of, he always said so proudly, the ethereal beauty of the Scarlet Witch. “Jocasta,” Wanda stares at the unguarded door, tempted to reach out just enough to feel Vision’s mind, but she knows she’d be signing his death certificate if she interfered now. “Will you please retrieve some tarot cards for Wanda here?”

“I have my own.”

“The best spiritualists need to be adaptable.” The best spiritualists never use someone else’s materials, otherwise they would lose the carefully placed manipulations in their own cards or crystal balls. Thankfully Wanda’s hidden tool is not so easily replaced.

He hands her the deck once it is retrieved. The backs of the cards shimmer with tiny gilded stars that mimic the appearance of the night sky in winter, when the cold seems to make everything crisper. “Is this reading for you?”

Ultron shakes his head, scooting closer to her so that he has to lean into her body to see where the cards will be laid on the table. “No, the fortune teller must tell her own future from time to time.”

There are rituals to using a deck of tarot, careful steps to align oneself with the energies, some suggest laying it in the sun, others putting it in a box with quartz, Wanda has never abided by said rules, always allowing the mind of the person she’s reading to guide her loose interpretations of fate. Only now, as she holds the deck in her hands, does she feel a need to cleanse the cards from the unholy touch of their owner. Carefully she shuffles the deck, eight times, a number she doesn’t think is spiritual, but one the elderly soothsayer who taught her insisted is best for randomizing the cards.

Whenever she conducts a reading, she informs the person to consider the complication or problem for which they are seeking guidance. Given it is herself, her mind focuses on Ultron, on the pestilence his presence has been and on how she can be rid of him. The problem clear in her mind, she fixes the three rings Natasha approved for her outfit, the only part of her attire that feels like home. “The Past.” Wanda flips the first card and swallows, the spire rising from the mountain a memorable scene, and this deck enhances the meaning with golden outlines of two bodies plummeting from the height of the structure. “The Tower, upheaval from a great loss.”

“Your parents and your brother.”

Usually no one else is allowed to interpret the cards, the argument typically that it throws off the flow of the reading. She doesn’t dare tell Ultron to still his tongue since he is one of the few people who knows of the falsity of her spiritualistic endeavors. “The Present.” As she lays the card, she first notes it is upside down and then she makes out the old man holding a lantern aloft. “The Hermit, reversed.”

A prickle alights along her spine as Ultron continues his role as backseat fortune teller, his voice level, yet almost a touch mournful, “A descent into seclusion, a deep dive into the mind that lurks with hidden, self-imposed horror. A dangerous crossroads, one that may either drag you farther into the abyss or send you catapulting into redemption.”

Nothing is wrong in his statement and if not for the fact she had carefully shuffled the cards, she would suspect a trick, but there is not enough proof yet. So, she forges on, treating his interruptions much the same as Natasha’s earlier, get it over with and move on with her life. Wanda turns the last card over as she speaks, “The Future.” The scales of justice tip in the hands of a robed king, the sword of truth held aloft. It means fairness and equitability, that the wrongs of the past will be righted, that all will resolve as it should. Whatever that means is unclear to her even now, the future murky and increasingly unpromising. “Justice will be had.” Wanda collects the cards, removing the numbingly honest read of her life.

“Shuffle them again,” it is an order and she hates herself for following it so readily. “Now tell Mr. Williams’ fortune.”

This time she shuffles the deck twelve times, even turning it over once to fan through the cards to make sure all seventy-two options are there, and then she mixes them together again. “The Fool.”

“How fitting.”

It is, her mind filled with the image of a young engineering student, naïvely approaching a mansion, partially in search of a job and partially there as a spy, mind distracted by boundless possibilities ahead of him. She moves on, wanting his reading to be done even faster than her own. The next card has two people, trapped in a passionate embrace and there has to be some way Ultron is controlling these cards. “The,” Wanda takes a breath, shoving the growing alarm down to keep it out of her voice, “Lovers.”

She goes to flip the next card, but is stopped by a wooden hand. “Have I mentioned how proud I am,” a light pressure pushes her hand down into her lap, trapped beneath his touch, “that you finally embraced my suggestion of utilizing,” Ultron pauses, head coming to rest on her shoulder, “the entirety of yourself to accomplish a job.”

Never in her life, not even with Tony Stark holding her hand, has she wanted to jagC someone so badly. “It did prove very successful.”

“Tell me, Wanda,” his voice fills her mind, so close and so stifling, inescapable no matter how far she runs. She shuts her eyes for a second, steadying the frantic beat of her powers in her chest. “When he saw you did the web fly and float wide, did the mirror crack from side to sideD?” Confusion is a common tactic, the utterance of nonsense draped in the delivery of intellectualism is meant to catch his marks off guard. Wanda remains silent, uncertain what to say. “You may continue, brave Lancelot.”

She swallows her rage, hands growing restless under this roundabout and unhelpful torture. “His future.” The card is practically thrown onto the table, her hand burning at the image of a man tied by the foot to a cross, only the card is upside down, the man appearing to stand instead of hang. In this position, the Hanged Man has a specific meaning with very little room for interpretation. In Vision’s future is a sacrifice that gains him nothing, that solves nothing for his life, a loss that he may not recover from. “How are you doing this?” The question is accusatory and foolhardy, exactly what Ultron wants to see, enough to confirm she isn’t fully impartial. “Don’t you dare sell me a dogE.”

“‘The curse has come upon me,’ cried, the butler of Tony Stark.”

Scarlet bursts from her arms as she stands, removing herself from the toxic contact with Ultron, able to stare down at the seedy smile on his face, at the coarse fabric he wears as if it is the finest silk known to man, at the unadulterated hatred in his eyes that never rests, that never dims, that merely changes who it is directed at. “What are you planning?”

A wooden groan tears her attention from his unctuous stare, Gideon approaching them, his waistcoat gone, sleeves rolled up, shirt unbuttoned halfway, and hair matted with sweat. “‘e’s almost done.”

Ultron doesn’t seem excited by the information. “How is he faring?”

“Surprisingly well, ya know, even with being all-fired. Lost the ‘at, gloves, vest, tie early on,” the man sounds truly impressed, bestowing an honor on Vision usually reserved for those who maintained their silence even into death. “Won’t unbutton anything though, sorry t’ say.”

Aggravation falls as a heavy sigh and a roll of Ultron’s eyes, “Can you make it hotter?”

Slowly Wanda is piecing together what is happening, recalling the installation of furnaces and pipes between the rooms around the time she vacated her position, a new way of interrogating people inspired by a particularly balmy summer and a steel room. Gideon, like herself, is horrified at Ultron’s request. “No ‘fense, but I’m ‘bout to pass out in me own room. Plus, not like ‘e’s not completin’ the task.”

“Insubordination is the fruit that banished Adam and Eve from Eden, my dear Gideon.”

The sweaty man tosses his arms in the air, muttering under his breath as he returns to the small room. Wanda swivels back to Ultron, “Are you trying to kill him?”

“God is in the details, my dear,” his arms spread out to the side, a gesture meant to make him appear jocular and witty, though it only serves to make him look more like a snake, “What better way to spur a man towards God than to introduce him to hell?”

Answers are never direct, always a convoluted journey to the outskirts of truth and she’s weary of it. Wanda braces herself as she willingly enters Ultron’s path of destruction, prepared to demand answers instead of being strung along like a puppet. “Just tell me what the plan is.”

His face sets into lines of unwavering resolve as he stands, even the limp created by having only one good leg doesn’t lessen the threat inherit in his swagger. “I’ve already informed you of how to get it,” he reaches down and shoves her hand towards his face, “you have to take it from me.” The last time she touched his mind it was filled with destruction, with annihilation, a terrifying, deafening scream of rage that still echoes around her late at night. Wanda shakes her head and then hates herself for betraying her weakness. “Down in the real world, we are faced with ugly choices, Wanda. You can’t expect to simply be given everything you want, sometimes you have to take it for yourself.” Revulsion and disappointment swell in the syllables he spits out, “Have I taught you nothing? You were given to me to supplant me, to carry on the legacy, you and I were meant to take down Stark.”

She believed this once, embraced it, coddled it, allowed it to convince her to tear apart the minds of lesser people, of those who were sympathetic to Stark, to governments that worked with Stark, to innocent people who happened to manage the bank where Stark kept his money. All of their blood runs through her veins, seeping out as scarlet energy when she can’t control the guilt. Ultron’s not wrong, sometimes the choices we make have to be ugly, have to disgust us. Wanda steps forward, gripping Ultron’s face as her powers ignite, diving deep into the mire of his thoughts. Laughter fills the air around her, his glee at her intrusion disheartening, only intensifying her anger as she navigates the innumerous plans he has, the people he intends to torture. Then she finds the center of his hatred, the glowing arc reactor that represents Stark. And she cries out at the hell-scape she encounters, the monstrosity of his intentions so hot it sears her palms and sends her backwards, severing her connection from his mind as she pants.

“You’re a monster.”

The sneer on his face confirms this, one often found in the murals of sinners painted on cathedral ceilings. “Hansel and Gretel were the true monsters, just like the industrialists, taking and taking everything from the witch before killing her. Someone has to control the vermin.”

“Um, sir?” Gideon is back, rocking anxiously on his heels, no doubt ruminating about his outburst from before and what it means for his increasingly short life.

“What?”

A cough and a thumb thrown over his shoulder explains the intrusion. “Drawing’s done. Should I let him out?”

Ultron waves the woman in white over, directs her to fix the bowler hat Wanda knocked askew in reading his mind. “Please.”

When Vision walks out, Wanda has to stop from gaping, the only other time she’s seen him appear so undone was when they came in from the storm, even then, his hair wasn’t as flat, his shirt as drenched as it is now, sticking to his body like a second skin, and she knows if he were to take off his coat, they’d all be able to see the outlines of metal. In his outstretched hand is a sheet of parchment containing a detailed drawing. “Here is your plan set.”

The woman in white collects the sheet and brings it to Ultron, holding it up for him to inspect, his frown upending into pleasure at what he sees. “Well done, Mr. Williams. Your invaluable contribution to the betterment of the world will be remembered with fondness.” The eulogic tone blanches Vision’s face and sends her own heart into a frantic beat. “Jocasta, shoot him in the head please.”

A pistol is drawn from the drapes of her skirt and Wanda immediately wraps the weapon in scarlet, rushing to stand between Vision and the others. “No.”

“Wanda.”

Warnings are useless now, her need to protect overriding the selfish instincts that pester her with thoughts of just letting this happen and finally being free of everything, escaping on the next train and following the lines to the other side of the country. She’s not that person anymore. “You kill him, Stark is going to institute a manhunt. Do you want police crawling all over this place? Do you want the Black Widow to find you?” Ultron holds up his hand to Jocasta, instructing her to lower the gun. “If you let him go back, I can control him, he won’t tell anyone what happened, I swear.”

Satisfaction oozes from Ultron and she realizes how easily she flew right into his web, trapping herself to be at his mercy once again. “A reasonable suggestion. But you know we can’t just let him walk out of here.” Vision hasn’t looked away from the ground, his chest rising and falling noticeably as he struggles to maintain some sort of composure. “Gideon?”

“Aye, sir?”

Ultron adds a touch of manufactured concern to his voice, “Are you tired?” The man nods, fanning himself with his cap as the acknowledgment of his exhaustion pulls his limbs down. “Wanda, why don’t you take that from him and give it to Mr. Williams?”

“I-”

“And make sure to give Mr. Williams what you took earlier, can’t have that sitting around ruining my table.” She glances at the orb still shimmering next to the tarot reading. “And actually, my workers have been toiling all day, please, help them by giving their fatigue to Mr. Williams here, as a reminder of my generosity in sparing his life.”

Wanda nods, throat constricting at the request, her hands remembering what it feels like to do this, a strategy they’ve only used twice before. Briefly she considers faking it, sending a rush of scarlet at Vision and instructions on how to act, but all it would take is one person in the operation to complain of a sore ankle or a mild headache and Ultron would kill them both without a second thought. She closes her eyes as she reaches out to the sixty or so minds around them, fingers waving through the air as she struggles to tie it all together into one manageable bundle.

Eight halting steps bring her closer to Vision. His eyes are no longer on the floor, locked now onto the rotating ball between her palms. For the first time since he was introduced to her power, there’s fear in his eyes, an acknowledgment of the harm she can cause and an understanding of the harm she has done to others, the actions he so nobly never seemed concerned with before. Except now he is staring at the possibilities and his face is not much different from all the others streaming through her memory.

She waits for him to look at her. “I’m sorry.” It’s a silent apology, mouthed to him as she begins sending the red into his body, and for what’s it worth, she thinks she sees him respond with an “It’s all right.” Unlike all the others, he never breaks eye contact with her—not when his legs buckle (her own hands shaking at the feel of his body giving out), not when his arms collapse (her muscles screaming in sympathy), not when a pained cry (which she mimics) comes out as the last sound he makes. He stares at her all the way until he tumbles face first to the ground.

Wanda steps as calmly as she can to his body, kneels down and immediately checks for a pulse. It is faint but present, a mild relief. Carefully she laces scarlet around his body, lifting him up so that she can bring his arm over her shoulders and then wrap her arm around his waist, the proper grip Stark showed her the night of the séance. It takes an enormous effort to turn them both to face the delighted Ultron. “I’m leaving now.”

“A terrifying beauty to behold.” She ignores him, moving at a stilted pace towards the back door. “Wanda, one more inquiry.” This time she doesn’t turn, worried if she does that she won’t have the strength to reorient their bodies again. “Rumor has it Stark has some precious metal walking around, I assumed it would be the Iron Man, but it wasn’t. If you see it, please let me know. It is of the utmost interest.”

She leaves without acknowledging him, understanding now the disappointment he had when Vision wouldn’t bare his body. Just one more fact she assumed Ultron hadn’t pieced together. It’s clear now she has grossly underestimated his tendency to be a step (or ten) ahead. That’s not important right now, it can’t be, all that matters is getting Vision away from Ultron.

Once they are out of the warehouse and on the street, the humid breeze refreshing on her face, she chances talking. “Vizh?”

A groan is all she gets. It’s better than nothing.

Her voice fractures as she talks, unable to keep up the façade of strength she managed in the warehouse. “Vizh, come on. I just need you to keep moving, okay?” Another groan and she realizes he needs more than just support, tendrils of scarlet loop around his ankles, easing his feet forward one after the other.

They continue like this down the sidewalk, the only saving grace at the moment is the fact night has descended, their pathway illuminated by the moon and the sputter of lamps along the street, allowing her to act as if he had a bit too much smash at the Exhibition. “Come on, Vision.” Five more steps and even her powers are strained, forcing them to stop, his back against the brick of a building and hers pressed against him to keep him upright. To anyone in the distance it must look like an indecorous meeting of lovers. If only that were the case. “You’re really heavy.”

A slurred, “Sorry” incites a strained laugh. At least his politeness remains even when he’s barely cognizant.

“What the hell are you two doing?” The admonishment in Natasha’s hushed voice is a blessing, a prayer answered, and the punishment, whatever it may be, is worth it.

Wanda steps away from Vision, her hand still braced on his chest to keep him steady. “Please,” suddenly the last stronghold of her resilience breaks, fat tears crashing from her eyes as her lungs spasm, the feel of Ultron’s mind, of his touch, overwhelming, but not nearly as much as the way Vision’s body folded beneath her hands. “Help us.”

“Shit.” Clint’s the first one to actually look at Vision, his hands gripping the butler’s cheeks as he studies his fluttering eyes. “We need to get back to Stark.”

Her mind sobers, even if her tears don’t stop, and a threat of scarlet sparks from her fingers. “No.” They can’t go back to the tower. Stark can’t see Vision like this, not again. “We’re not going back tonight.”

Disbelief exudes from Clint, her refusal stunning him into silence. “Okay.” The gentle, non-judgmental way Natasha concedes loosens the noose that’s made its home around her lungs. “I know someone around here.” The woman approaches her like you would a stray dog on the street whose mouth may or may not be foaming. “It’s safe, I swear.” Wanda nods and moves back to collect Vision.

Together she and Clint carry Vision, his feet barely moving as his shoes scrape against the stones, probably ruining the finish on them forever. Natasha leads the way, ducking into alleyways that connect to other streets and Wanda thinks they move in several circles. She assumes it meant to shake any of Ultron’s lackeys who might be trailing them.

After what must be the twentieth alleyway, they arrive at a two-story stone building, the door unassuming in its unfinished wood and iron handle. Natasha knocks five times, a distinct pattern to the way she taps out their arrival, and then the door opens to reveal a tall, muscular man, with gentle eyes and a fierce stance. “Nat?”

“Hey Steve, have room for some guests?”

The man glances past Natasha, lips falling when he sees Vision’s bowed head. “Come on in.” He steps back from the door, welcoming them inside. They immediately encounter a table where a brunette woman and a dark-skinned man sit conversing. “This is Sam,” the man smiles at them, producing a friendly wave, “and PeggyF.”

Peggy stands, face serious and forehead wrinkling as she steps up to Vision. “What happened?”

All attention turns to Wanda and she does her best to stutter out some sort of explanation. “He was tortured.” It’s not entirely false, in fact, it is likely the most accurate way to describe what she did to him and it is far easier to say than magically imbuing him with the pain and exhaustion of sixty people.

Peggy reaches out to touch the butler’s face, “He’s burning up, we need to cool him down.” The lull of her accent is similar to Vision’s, something that shouldn’t instill Wanda with the sense of safety she feels right now, but if Natasha trusts these people, so will she. “Bring him in here.” They’re led into a tiny spare room, big enough just for a mattress and a three-legged stool. “Will it be okay for him to sleep?”

Wanda has never actually stayed to watch someone recover from her mental assassination. Sleep can’t hurt, she thinks. “That’s probably the best thing for him.”

A nod and a friendly touch of her hand to Wanda’s wrist continues to work as a salve. “I’ll grab one of Steve’s nightshirts.”

Before the woman is out of the room, Clint guides Vision to sit on the bed and begins peeling off his jacket. “He’s soaking wet.” The observation only intensifies her guilt as she reckons with the knowledge Vision would be so much safer if not for her presence in his life. “Vision, I’m trying to help.”

The comment draws her back and she watches as Vision’s hand flops against Clint’s wrist each time he tries to undo the buttons of the butler’s shirt. Since she clearly can’t protect him, she can at least provide him some level of comfort. “Clint,” the fight over the buttons stops, “he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since breakfast, could you grab him something?”

“But I-”

“I can help him.”

Clint draws in a loud, annoyed breath, his eyes never leaving her face as he considers her command. “I’ll be back.”

As the man leaves, Peggy returns, handing Wanda a folded up nightshirt and then the woman steps back out. Wanda shuts the door, pulling the stool until it is under the handle, providing at least enough resistance to give them warning if anyone tries to enter. “Can I help you?” The little resistance he showed towards Clint melts away, arms falling to his side as she undoes the buttons of his shirt. He helps a bit, mainly in taking his arms out and then sliding on the night shirt.

A knock and she leaves Vision sitting on the bed, opening the door just enough to grab the plate and cup from Clint and then she turns back to find Vision with his head in his hands. Wanda places the food down and sits next to him, hand hovering behind his back, uncertain if he wants to be touched, especially by her. “Vizh.” He doesn’t look up but his body sags to the side enough that their shoulders meet, providing some level of permission to run her hand along his upper back. “You need to sleep,” a nod and his body begins to lay back prematurely. “Vizh.” Her hand stops him from continuing. “We should um,” every time she’s fantasized of this moment, she had it playing out very differently in her mind. “I um,” her voice grows more and more timid with each word, “I need to get your um, gas pipes off, let them dry out.”

“I can do it.”

Wanda nudges his chin up so that he can see her incredulity. What she hopes to find is one of his small smiles--the boyish, embarrassed tilt of his mouth--but his expression is empty, devoid of any marker that might help establish his thoughts. “I won’t look, I promise.” This garners an infinitesimal lift to the right corner of his mouth that she interprets as his acceptance of her offer.

“Okay,” she stands and wraps her arms around him, hefting him up onto his feet, “hold on to me.” Weakly he folds his arms around her shoulders, his head resting on top of hers as her hands dive beneath the nightshirt to unfasten the four buttons of his fly and then she helps ease the garment over his hips, not missing the bump of rivets against her skin as she goes. Wanda removes her hands from under his shirt and lets gravity do the rest of the work, her palm against his chest pushing him back down onto the bed so she can remove his shoes, socks, and pants. It’s not lost on her the way the lone lamp reflects off the metal that exists even on his feet, a stirrup fastened on either side of his ankle that joins together in the arch of his foot.

“Thank you.”

She tips his face up so she can look at him, examine the creases of exhaustion shooting from his mouth and the distant, barely there look in his eyes. “Do you want me to try and help?” Gently her hand moves to his cheek, scarlet beginning to grow.

He flinches and his cheek becomes an active steam pipe, her palm blistering as it flies away.

“Wanda,” his arms encase her waist, tugging her closer so that he can bury his face in her dress, his voice distraught as it croaks out, “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no,” she cups the back of his head, not wanting him to pull back and see the tears glistening on her cheeks, “no, Vizh, it’s,” dozens of words stream through her mind, veering from equally apologetic to guilt-ridden to merely pacifying, “it’s fine.” She bends to kiss the disarray of his usually well-kept hair. “You need to sleep now.”

“Okay.”

Wanda eases him down, helping him swing his legs onto the bed, and he’s too tall, feet hanging off the edge, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. After she covers him loosely with a sheet, in case anyone else enters the room, she kisses his brow, hoping he can feel her remorse. And then she leaves.

“How’s he doing?” Peggy asks the question the second Wanda closes the door behind her.

The only open seat is between Natasha and Peggy, a position that is oddly soothing and helps her breathe just a little bit easier. “He’s sleeping.”

This seems an acceptable answer, Natasha returning their conversation to idle chatter, “So Sam, I thought you were moving to Saratoga?”

Sam’s easy shrug goes along with his amicable explanation, “A houseG sounded nice but I felt like what Steve and Peggy are doing is a bit more important than owning some land, you know?”

Someone responds but the contents of the words don’t particularly matter to her, something about military operations, a railroad, Virginia, hidden closets, and daring escapes. Her mind isn’t at the table, it’s stuck in the spare room, her fingers itching to reach out and check Vision’s mind. But the carte blanche invitation has been revoked. One flinch and the cracks have formed, the damage too fresh to assess, and it is gnawing at her. When she can wrestle her mind away from the man in bed, her thoughts swing to Ultron, to every misstep and miscalculation she made. Of course he wouldn’t have followed a schedule, of course he would have bombarded them, she herself had been the agent of bombardment on numerous occasions. How could she have been so blind to his game? Even more, why did she assume he was ignorant, that he didn’t know exactly what he wanted or what she had. It doesn’t matter now, he has the arc reactor plans. The first part of his plot is complete. Wanda shivers at the inferno of his mind, at the deranged glee twisting with each path and step of the plan. From here she just needs to stop the rest.

“Wanda?”

When she looks up, the table is empty save for Natasha. “What?”

“Why did you break from the plan?” Anger wavers in between the syllables yet it never takes hold or moves into accusation, remaining merely a harsh curiosity. “We had a deal, why did you go against it?”

They did. They had a plan, one that was well thought out, one that would have mitigated the risk Wanda and Vision took in going alone, one that would have ended differently. Had Natasha and Clint been lurking within sight, Ultron likely wouldn’t have descended. All Wanda has left is honesty, too tired to try and come up with some partial lie to save face. “We just wanted time alone.”

“You could have asked us.” It’s what Vision had suggested as well. “I would have gladly helped you get some time alone back at the tower.” The mask of espionage is removed to reveal a sympathetic sheen to the woman’s eyes as she probes further. “What happened to him?”

Wanda’s lungs spasm, a guttural cry puncturing the silence of the slumbering house and she begins crying again, doesn’t even try to shrug off the arm Natasha curls around her. “They were going to kill him,” another sob shakes her body as she relives once again the feel of sending him to the floor, “the only way to get him out alive was if I-” her voice fails before she can finish.

A hand brushes over her hair, Natasha’s voice barely a whisper. “He’ll be fine, Wanda.”

“You don’t know that.”

Laughter isn’t commonly found with sorrow, but Natasha chuckles, running her hand through Wanda’s hair again. “It was a bad lie.” What is supposed to be a laugh comes out of Wanda’s mouth more as a strangled hiccup. “Will he recover?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” The spy sits back, removing her physical comfort while maintaining it in her voice. “I know what it’s like to run from an,” she winces, “unsavory past.” Wanda can’t seem to stare anywhere other than her hands, fascinated at the thud of her rings against the table as her fingers tremble. “The transition from being a weapon to a person is difficult.” The tap of her rings cease when Natasha grips her hand, “I promise you though, you don’t have to be defined by the red in your ledger.” Now Wanda looks to the woman, is momentarily frozen at the bare sincerity in her expression. “You have people willing to support you,” she stops and glances towards the closed door, “willing to love you. Don’t run from that,” a squeeze goes along with her plaintive, “please.”

Wanda rubs the tears from her face, nodding silently at the request, unable to commit to it now but willing to consider it. “I’m really tired.”

Whatever closeness grew between them dissipates. “Me too.” Natasha stands to grab a pile from the hearth. “Here, Peggy thought you’d be more comfortable in these.”

“Thanks.” The clothes sit awkwardly in her hands while she stares at the house. “Where am I staying?”

According to society, Natasha should insist Wanda stay with her, instead the spy smirks, head inclining towards Vision’s room. “I convinced Clint it would be okay just for tonight.” The woman turns and walks up the stairs with a “Sleep well,” and not a single care given to her complacency in shirking the rules of appropriate courtship.

As quietly as possible Wanda enters the room, endeavoring to remain silent as she shuts the door and struggles to get the offensively tight bodice off, resorting to using her powers to manipulate the fabric off of her body. For the first time all day, she breathes freely, a small, unnecessarily amazing moment of peace.

Even if she hates the dress, all that fabric will make for a decent bed. Wanda checks on Vision, mainly to confirm he is breathing, and then lowers herself to the ground, fluffing the skirt until it forms a pillow and changing position until she’s comfortable.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

In the dark she can’t make out anything from the bed, the silence stretching out long enough she assumes he fell back asleep. “Wanda,” she sits up at the summons, squinting into the darkness, “you can sleep in the bed.”

She wants desperately to be able to rest her head on his chest if only to listen to his heartbeat throughout the night, wants to believe he actually desires her closeness, but it is more likely his politeness dictating the offer. “If the roles were reversed you know you’d be insisting on sleeping on the floor.”

Quiet befalls again, elongating into an uncomfortable eternity, and she thinks he may be going in and out of consciousness, making his ability to stay on topic impressive. She wonders if that skill is part of Robert Robert’s guidelines. “And you would insist I join you in the bed.”

He’s not wrong and the logic behind their impasse actually brings a smile to her face. “You win.” Fabric rustles as she stands up, a swift kick to the skirt to get it off her foot far too satisfying, and then she assesses how exactly to join him. The bed isn’t necessarily small, but Vision is sprawled in the middle of it, leaving only the edges for her. “You’re taking up the whole bed, Vision.”

Embarrassment thickens the air and she is tempted to light her hand to see his face, then remembers the way he recoiled earlier and deems the dark just a small obstacle to deal with. “My body seems unable to move.”

Detachment of the mind and body is one of the side effects she’s seen in people affected by her power, at least at the trials they had her complete while she and Pietro were still at the research facility. “It’s okay.” She settles along his side, experimentally draping her arm over his waist, waiting several seconds for any sign of dissent. When there is none, she allows her muscles to relax, cheek coming to rest over his heart, “See, I’m good.”

Her arm rises and falls with his breathing, a soothing, albeit shallow rhythm that she latches onto, her own inhales and exhales synchronizing with his. In the solitude and serenity of night she finally feels a relative safeness.

“Wanda?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you work for him?” They’ve covered this before, briefly, and at that time Ultron was an abstraction, a nameless, faceless boss for whom she regretted working. Now Vision has a name, has a face, has abhorrent memories that will no doubt haunt him the way they will haunt her.

Confessions in the dark always seem to hold the most weight, a lack of visual information freeing her tongue to be wholly honest. “Because when he found me all I wanted was to kill Stark.” She can’t remember if she’s ever been this blunt, usually erring for words like destroy or ruin, death far too polarizing. “That’s all Ultron wanted as well and I was able to justify every horrible action by convincing myself it was a necessary step to my goal.”

What is likely seconds of silence feels like an hour. “What made you leave?”

“There was a job we had been planning, a burglary of Stark’s Manhattan factory.” Excitement had thrummed through the entire organization at finally being able to attack Stark where it may actually hurt him. “Ultron seemed particularly distant and his orders were vague, it made me suspicious.” She remembers bringing a bottle of sparkling CatawbaH to Ultron’s room, his lips looser when inebriated though it also made his hands even more eager, a scale weighing how willing she was to be uncomfortable and how much she wanted the information tipping towards the latter. “I looked into his head that night and saw what he actually had planned.”

“What was it?”

She’d been ten years old when she watched her parents die in the inferno of the factory, could never, even after more than a decade, shake the sight of the dancing, ravenous flames or forget the heat that made the winter feel like spring. That night with Ultron, she experienced it again. “He was going to set the factory on fire, during the evening shift, barricade the workers inside, and force Stark to live through another public tragedy.” A sniffle fills her ear. She reaches out her hand to touch his cheek and meets a river. “I couldn’t-” now she joins him, his response allowing her to mourn anew, pulling his body closer and burying her face in the nightshirt to muffle her sob.

They lay like this until her throat is hoarse and her tears slow. Vision hesitantly furthers the conversation, providing his inquiry as a statement. “Mr. Stark received an anonymous tip about a plot against his factory.”

He did. She went to a random street vendor, asked if they could write, and had them make the note. Then she delivered it and hopped on a train north, only a small bag of clothes and a few mementos coming with her. “Yes, I couldn’t let that happen again”

Absolution is unwarranted, forgiveness is questionable, all she can truly hope for is some level of understanding. “Thank you.” Wanda has no idea if he is thanking her for sharing, for being honest, for saving the lives of the workers, and she isn’t going to ask for clarity because he owes her nothing after what she’s done.

“You should sleep.” Like a true witch, her words act as a spell, putting him into a slumber, his breathing deepening as his body sinks deeper into the straw mattress.

By the time the sun streams through the cream-colored curtains, his heart has beat twenty-four thousand times, give or take. When she realized that sleep was never going to befriend her, Wanda decided the best way to keep her intrusive thoughts at bay was to count the hum of his life, the task both comforting and distracting. As his heart beats on towards the next thousandth benchmark, the door cracks open, Natasha’s face coming into view. “We need to head out soon.”

“Okay.” The door shuts and Wanda extricates herself from the bed, careful to remove her arm from his waist in a way that won’t stir him, wanting him to get as much sleep as possible. With the sun illuminating the surroundings, she discovers a small mirror in the corner, her reflection mildly terrifying, coaxing her hands to fix the mess of frizzy braids, half of them falling down towards her shoulders and the other half either in place or jutting out to the side. Once her hair is somewhat presentable, she inspects the clothing Peggy provided, a quartz colored blouse not unlike the one Wanda usually wears (though this one is far nicer and had been well-pressed based on the stiffness of the sleeve cuffs) and a chestnut skirt that is a snugger fit than is typical of women’s fashion. It’s far preferable to the other outfit, which Wanda intends to accidentally forget on the floor.

Vision, when she turns back to him, lays in a peaceful state, face lacking the tension of the night before, his hair still wild but it adds to the serenity. She hates that she has to wake him up. Haltingly she walks back to the bed, easing herself to sit next to him, and then gingerly she shakes his shoulder with a quiet, “Vision.” Light sleeping must also be a hallmark requirement of a good butler, his eyes shooting open then immediately tightening into a cringe. Wanda’s nose scrunches in empathy, her fingers combing through his hair as he brings a palm to his face and cringes again. “How are you feeling?”

True to his nature, he contemplates the answer before speaking, likely assessing each part of his body to give a full picture. “Have you ever had a loose cog fall on your head and split it open?” Her finger runs along his hairline in search of the scar she discovered the day before, guessing this might be its etiology.

“I have not.”

“Oh,” his eyes haven’t opened since the first attempt, “it is like that only infinitely worse.” A muted thankfulness wraps around her at the knowledge he can’t see the guilt stitched into her expression. “I also just feel,” he stops, hand lifting into the air before plummeting back onto his face, “dense, like my bones have been filled with lead.”

Wanda considers apologizing again. Really, she feels as if she could apologize every minute of every day for the rest of her life and it would never actually help her eschew the shame she wears. “We have to head back to the tower,” she allows a few seconds for some sort of response, continuing when he doesn’t move, hand still affixed to his face, “I can help you get dressed.”

This lowers his hand and opens his eyes, his irises dim, like clouds invading the sky on a sunny day. “I would like to do it myself.”

“Vizh-”

“Wanda, please,” he grips her hand, his fingers bungling the action so that only half her hand is encased within his own, “I need to do it.”

Need is a strong word, want is likely better, until she remembers watching him in the calm of the morning tying a perfect knot, the joy on his face and the pride in his eyes at being able to complete the small action. Sometimes what one person perceives as a preference, another considers a lifeline. If he needs to prove his autonomy, particularly after last night, it is only to himself, and that, she reckons, is a good enough reason to let him do it. “I’ll just step out and find out what’s happening. Will you-”

“I will inform you if I need help.”

Outside the room, Natasha and Clint are eating at the table while Steve and Peggy stand near the hearth, his hand lightly on her lower back as he watches her pour out a drink. Wanda slinks over to the table, sliding into the seat next to Natasha.

“Well good morning, Wanda.” Clint’s cheeriness is a bit grating. “Sleep well?”

A plate is placed in front of her, nothing showy like at Stark’s, just a hunk of bread and some cheese. “Thank you.” Steve smiles at her and returns to Peggy, leaving Wanda to answer Clint’s question. “No. When are we leaving?”

Natasha sips her coffee before responding, not nearly as chipper as Clint, which is preferable. “As soon as Vision is ready. Steve’s set up transportation for us.”

“Well, Sam’s setting it up now,” the blonde-haired man shrugs as he corrects the comment, crossing his arms while he talks, “Is, um, Vision,” his voice slides up when he reaches the n and Wanda nods to confirm he’s correct, “okay with enclosed spaces? Figured you all might want to use some underground transport in case of prying eyes.”

This isn’t information she’s ever gathered from Vision, the topic not one that seems easy to slip into conversation. What she does know is that he utilizes the somewhat claustrophobic secret passages in Stark’s homes on a daily basis. “I think he’ll be fine with it.”

“Good.” There is something about the man’s smile, it’s charming but not in a romantic way or in Stark’s narcissistic way. It provides a fact about his life that, like many others in the room, he has seen nightmares brought to life and consciously decides each day to remain positive. That’s it, there is a purposeful, non-manipulative kindness to his smile. “Then once Vision’s all set, I’ll get you all home.”

As she nibbles on her breakfast, Wanda can sense the anxious way the others are holding themselves—tapping fingers, restless legs, eyes bouncing to each other—a plan having been set and all of them simply waiting to enact it. “I’ll go check on him.” The chair scratches against the floor as she stands and she tries not to look back when she opens the door, sure everyone is watching her.

Inside Vision is mostly dressed, pants on and shirt three-quarters of the way buttoned, though it’s not tucked in. His hands move in a tired frenzy, each one holding an end of the bow tie, looping, pulling, and then dropping to his side in dismay, the knot existing but lacking the bow. “Vision?” He turns defeated eyes towards her and it breaks her heart to see him like this. “We need to go.”

A tug undoes the sloppy knot and he shoves the offending fabric into his pocket, bending (with a grunt) to grab his coat, shrugging it on with his eyes still closed, and then he looks down at the loose laces of his shoes. “Would you be willing to help with my shoes? It will take me at least ten minutes more if I do it on my own.”

“Of course.”

He sits on the bed and she bends down, making quick work of the laces. “Thank you.” It is a nicety laced with vitriol not at her, but at himself, even his eyes glaring at his hands for betraying him.

Wanda does her best to ignore his tone, refusing to stoke the fire of self-hatred. “Come on,” she offers him her hand and he takes it, standing with a slight wobble that she corrects with an arm around his waist. Then she removes the support. “Do you want help?”

The shoes seem to act as the first domino, tipping forward and leading to the next fall of his resistance, “Please.” Her arm returns to his waist and he in turn drapes his arm over her shoulders as they walk (with a bit of sideways maneuvering) through the door.

“There he is!” Clint is still enthusiastic, leaping to his feet with a wide grin and outstretched arms.

Attention is not at all what Vision desires, his body shriveling at the sudden onset of four pairs of eyes. Wanda tightens her hold and encourages him into the room. Eventually he acclimates to the environment and responds with a brief, “Thank you.” The words are meant for everyone; mostly, however, they land on the shoulders of Steve and Peggy, both of whom act as if nothing unusual occurred.

“We were happy to let you all stay,” Steve’s voice contains both authenticity and conviction. “Friends of Nat’s are friends of ours.”

“Plus, it’s nice to hear a familiar accent around here.” This is Peggy, lips spread into a friendly smile and the effect of her comment is instantaneous, Vision’s muscles losing a touch of tension. “Northern London?”

Vision’s face finally breaks from its gloom for a moment, “Hertfordshire.”

“Ah, a farm boy,” Peggy grins wider, voice slightly teasing, “always was jealous of the idyllic life.”

“Only in my youth. And you?”

“London proper, military family though, moved around a lot.” The conversation feels as if it is only beginning, yet the somewhat impatient stance of Steve cuts it short. “If you ever want to commiserate over the horrid tea here,” Vision chuckles, the only one who seems to find it amusing, “come back when you’re feeling better.”

Natasha stands which leads to Clint following suit. “Thank you again, for everything.”

Nothing more is said beyond general checks to make sure everyone is ready, and then they move to a room in the back. A large tapestry hangs on the wall and when it is removed they find a doorway. One by one (or two, when Wanda and Vision enter) they enter a dank, lightless tunnel, Steve’s voice instructing them to touch the sides if they need guidance. This is far worse than the passageways at the manor, at least there Vision has set up lamps to light the way. It seems inconvenient for Wanda to learn right now of her strong dislike of closed spaces, the only saving grace is the feel of Vision against her, his presence helping remind her why they are doing this. When they reach the end, they come out another door, stepping into a small church, one that appears to not have the most active or wealth congregation, the pews rotting, the crucifix slanted, and the stained-glass windows in desperate need of a cleaning.

They also find Sam, sitting in the back pew, “Ready for round two?” I

At this point Steve leaves them, returning to the tunnel, and Sam leads them out the back of the church and into a wagon, the sides and top covered with a heavy brown tarp, though at least in this setting some sunlight streams through the seams. No one speaks as they bump up and down with the cobblestones, the sound of other carriages and the shouts of vendors providing little information on where exactly they are at the moment. And then the movement stops. A creak comes from ahead of them, likely Sam getting down from his seat, his voice reaching them as he informs someone, “Got a delivery for Stark.”

Happy’s face is contorted in bewilderment when he lifts the tarp to find the four of them, confusion tugging his eyebrows down and his lips up into a thoughtful pucker. “You know we have a carriage, right?”

“We know.” Natasha exits first, brushing the butler aside, and helps the rest of them out, her arm bumping Wanda’s as they steady Vision’s descent.

It appears they are behind the tower, in a back alleyway Wanda assumes is meant for use by servants and delivery carriages. Wanda checks over her shoulder, finding the only sight lines the lone opening to the alley and rooftops of the buildings adjoining the tower. From here, there doesn’t appear to be anyone watching them.

Happy corrals them towards the back door of the tower, Natasha staying behind for a couple minutes to talk with Sam while the rest follow the increasingly nervous, curly-haired butler towards the main seating room. Throughout the trip, Vision has to stop multiple times, gather his breath and composure, and re-set Wanda’s arms to better support him, each turn and each step slows him down, only the continued promise of “Just a bit farther and you can sit,” coaxing him along.

When they reach the main room, Happy lets out a “Huh,” and leaves them, searching for something that is apparently lost. Moments later, however, it is found, Tony Stark stomping into view, his eyes set on one person and one person only. “Vision, where the hell have you been?” Per his usual conversational methods, he’s not actually wanting an answer, using the question to dive into a rant that has clearly been simmering overnight. “One, do you know how long I’ve been waiting in that chair?” An angry finger points to a chair that is usually in Stark’s study, a leather-backed seat that swivelsJ depending on the movements of the person sitting in it. “All I wanted was to have a big dramatic turn around to accuse you of being a horrible butler, but no, you can’t even give me that. Instead you take forever and I get hungry.” This seems trivial and a bit mean, if Wanda had any say, which she does not and will not intervene beyond squeezing Vision’s waist in even intervals as his muscles continue to tense under Tony’s anger. The ranting man holds up two fingers as he continues, “Two, since you clearly forgot about setting up a meeting that was meant solely for your well-being, I met with Cho and Palmer alone this morning.” Vision almost loses his balance at this information. “Guess what, it was a lovely time and Cho even brought her entire damn display from the Exhibition to show you. But apparently you sipK one third-class spiritualist and suddenly your commitments mean nothing. That’s something to expect from me,” Tony’s eyebrows lift as his fingers tap his chest in a moment of clarity and honesty, “not you. You’re the responsible one in this household. And three,” another finger is added to his gesticulating, “why didn’t you-,” it’s only now that Tony seems to actually look at Vision, take in the untucked shirt, the messy hair, the utter exhaustion of his face, and his ire shifts just a smidgen. “I swear to God, Vision, you better look like this because she’s been bagpipingL you all night.”

Silent horror is the most apt way to describe the response of the group. No one is going to respond other than Vision, his the only word Stark cares to hear. “Vision, why aren’t you doing the whole ‘Please sir’ or gasping with a ‘Mr. Stark!’?” Tony approaches the butler, his hands grabbing his shoulders so he can stare him in the eyes, forcing Wanda to move away to give him space. The fury of before—one she recognizes as being birthed from concern and unconditional love, Stark’s intonations almost matching her own father’s the one time she and Pietro were caught playing amongst the active furnaces at the factory—gives out the longer they stare at each other and morphs into a dangerous, wild animal seeking some new outlet of blame. Tony steps away from Vision and swings his glare to the rest of them. “Can someone please, for the love of God, tell me what the hell is going on. What happened to him?”

“Tony,” Natasha says his name in the soothing sing-song often used on tantruming toddlers, “we should sit down.”

This is not what he wants to hear. “No. You all have been sneaking around for days.” He pauses and then re-emphasizes the timeframe, “Days. Tell me what is going on, right now.” The way he says it implies a threat, an unfinished or so help me, I will ruin you.

“Mr. Stark,” Vision finally manages some words, voice weak, the syllables a bit muddled compared to his typically crystalline pronunciation. “I would really like to sit down.”

A frustrated, incomprehensible sound comes from Stark’s throat, but he acquiesces, blocking Wanda from touching Vision and helping the butler over to the couch himself. The two men whisper to each other, too low for anyone to understand what they are saying. Whatever passes between them seems to allay Stark enough that his face is back to a frigid confidence when he sits down. “Tell me what’s going on.”

They all default to staring at Natasha and she graciously accepts the baton of authority they hand her. “A very credible threat is targeting the arc reactor.”

“Who isn’t these days?”

“Tony,” she continues with gravitas, “we have every reason to believe this is an actual threat. The people wanting it have already infiltrated the guest list for your exhibition,” knowledge Wanda suspected but had no idea had been confirmed, “they have been staking out you, Vision, and Pepper since you walked off the boat,” Stark’s goatee sinks at the information, “and they kidnapped Vision last night,” it sinks even deeper into a menacing scowl.

Wanda hasn’t been completely open with everything from the night before, not because she was attempting to conceal, but because her mind hasn’t been focused on Stark. It’s imperative they all know the truth. “And they have the plans for the arc reactor.”

“Excuse me?” Even Natasha’s face mimic’s Tony’s complete inability to fathom the stupidity of what she just said.

Vision, his face in his hands, provides more detail, “I was forced to draw the plans for them.” He grimaces as he looks up at Tony, “So I drew them the original plans for the arc reactor.”

“What did you just say?” Dubiousness still resides in his voice undercut by an unusual uptick that might be hope.

“I drew them the original plans, the ones you first showed me.”

Tony is out of his chair in seconds, three and a half steps bring him to Vision’s knees. In one swift movement he bends down, grabs Vision’s face, and lays a heartfelt, smacking kiss to the man’s forehead. “You are the most brilliant, cunning, fantastic person I have ever met,” another kiss and Stark drops the butler’s face, standing tall, “just don’t tell Pepper I said that, okay?”

A minuscule tilt forms on Vision’s lips, “Your secret is, as always, safe with me.”

“So,” Clint, who is lounging in an armchair with his boots on the glass table, asks the question on Wanda’s mind, “can you maybe explain why that’s so good?”

Tony laughs, tossing an affectionate look at Vision, and then sits back down, body freer, more laid back, and his hands bounce as he explains. “The original plans for the reactor had the wires wrong. It boggled me for years. I could never get the damn thing to work and then this angel,” he waves his hands towards the blonde-haired not-wholly-angelic-looking-at-the-moment angel on the couch, “comes up to me and is all like ‘Mr. Stark, sir, I beg your pardon, but your diagram is wrong.’ Turns out I’d had the wiring backwards.” Stark is beaming, voice matter-of-factly stating, in the most aggrandizing way, “So what he gave to these assholes won’t ever work.”

This should be enlightening, should be happy and fortuitous news, except once Ultron realizes this flaw it means the target on Vision’s back will be branded into him until he finds his way into a body bag. “That doesn’t change anything,” Wanda hopes her voice conveys the peril they are in, that this one positive development is meaningless. “He is coming for the arc reactor, even with the plans, he is still going to do everything in his power to get the one you are showing in three days.”

“And how, pray tell, do you know this, Wanda?” Stark’s fingers steeple, likely how he intended them to be for his dramatic swivel that never happened.

Wanda can’t stop her hands from rising, her fingers from curling in frustration at dealing with this condescending man. “Because he doesn’t stop. He never, ever stops. Once he wants something, he will do anything, and go through anyone to get it.”

The click of Tony’s tongue sounds like the cock of a gun, his eyes finding hers as he aims, “I noticed it was phrased as Vision was kidnapped, not Wanda and Vision were kidnapped despite the fact you were the only one with that juicy little tidbit about the drawing.”

“Sir.”

“Vision,” Stark says the name as a warning: speak again and all good will is gone. “How did he end up like this and you are unscathed?”

Sometimes Wanda wishes instead of reading minds and manipulating matter, she had the power to just sink through the floor and disappear. Sadly, she doesn’t, so she sits up straight, squaring her shoulders, trying to match Stark’s confidence under the weight of the curious stares around the room. “Because I did it to him.” Tony’s face contorts into a hellish rage, mouth opening to speak, though she refuses to let that happen, continuing until she can provide context. “Ultron gave me a choice, either Vision gets shot in the head or I incapacitate him. I chose for him to live.”

“Did you say Ultron?” The rage pales, giving way to a troubling edginess. Wanda nods in affirmation. “Is that his God given name, by any chance?”

For a man with a butler named Vision, it seems an odd question. “No.”

Tony stands, hands rubbing together. “Vision.” He claps loudly, walking to the butler and offering his hand, “Come on, you look like hell.” Not only does Vision accept the help up, he also graciously accepts Tony’s support, leaning into the shorter man’s frame as they walk away. “We’ll all chat later, okay?”

An eerie silence descends, confusion cozying up with apprehension, the stakes suddenly elevated if Tony Stark is this terrified of a name. Compounding this new development is the sickening feeling Wanda gets watching Vision be led away, a premonition of sorts, a sign of a future where he’s always just out of reach, always with his back to her, where the fractures from yesterday are irreparable, and the only person she has to blame for this bleak fortune is herself.

Victorian Language and Culture decoder:

Over on AO3 there is a link to a picture of a real Victorian prosthetic used as inspiration.

Slightly amended quote from Romeo and Juliet

Jag: the desire to use a knife on someone

Referencing Tennyson’s “Lady of Shalott” poem.

Don’t sell me a dog: Don’t lie to me

Fun fact, Peggy was a nickname for Margaret by this point! I was worried it didn’t come into existence until the 1900s, but nope, around the mid-1700s it was recorded as a common use nickname.

In the early 1850s, Saratoga Springs was the first place in New York that allowed Blacks to own land. The reason behind it was to draw in more people to work in the stables, Saratoga being famous for their horse races.

In 1842, in Ohio, the first successful winery existed in the U.S., where they grew Catawba grapes and accidentally created a pinkish, sweet champagne when the grapes fermented for a second time.

In case it is not clear, Steve and Peggy are part of the underground railroad. Sam came up through the railroad from Virginia and decided to stay and help them instead of moving on north. There is a lot more to their background than that, but that’s all that’s needed for the story.

The swivel chair was created by Thomas Jefferson and supposedly he was sitting in his swivel chair when he signed the Declaration of Independence in 1776.

Sip: synonym for kiss.

Bagpiping: In Victorian times this term meant fellatio. Today it has a very different sexual meaning, which you are welcome to look up if you want to.

#scarlet vision #vision #wanda maximoff #alternateuniversescarletvision #thescarletvisionnetwork #mine #AOS #AO3 #AU #only two more chapters!#it's almost done

9 notes · View notes