"I've got you"
*****
On the evening of June 5, 2015, The Vision decides to mark the one-month anniversary of his birth.
A frown creases his brow. The semantics are incorrect: anniversary is the commemoration of the elapse of one year since a significant date. He has only been alive for thirty-one days (to be precise: 728 hours and 39 minutes). A quick internet search reveals that “monthiversary” is not correct either, as it is a colloquial term used by a romantic couple who have been dating for one month. He is not currently half of a romantic couple, nor does the event of his birth apply to such coinage. No matter. Calling it an anniversary might not be technically correct, but it will do in a pinch.
He is well aware of how birthdays are meant to be celebrated; as J.A.R.V.I.S., he observed quite a few of Tony Stark’s galas on May 29, along with much smaller (and significantly less debauched) office parties for various employees’ year markers, plus one event for Ms. Potts’s six-year-old nephew that the lad did not appear to enjoy one bit. Birthday parties involve music, cake, and friends. Well, he cannot consume baked goods, and his relationships with the few people around tonight are more collegial than truly friendly. Music remains an option, though. His brain quickly creates a YouTube playlist of jazz standards that echo through his head. Nice.
Where to go, though? He should probably select a place of personal significance; however, few such places exist given his brief lifespan. The tall windows where he hovered in his first minutes of life don’t hold much appeal at present. Instead, the helipad might be nice. Just as he activates his phasing abilities, he remembers Mr. Stark’s admonition that “poofing through walls and ceilings is weird, okay? Don’t do that.” Not that his creator is around at present, but the elevator will suffice. Best practice conformity, yes?
As The Vision walks out onto the helipad, he is greeted by two sights: a vast array of electric lights from the buildings surrounding them, and Wanda Maximoff perched at the edge of the railing.
Her back is to him. He pauses and considers whether to leave. Of all his new colleagues, she is certainly the most standoffish, to put it mildly. Over the past month, she has been ensconced in the hotel room that Stark Industries has provided for her until the new compound upstate is completed. Indeed, he can count on two fingers the times he has seen her here at the tower, not including tonight, and he is at a loss as to if he should approach.
One benefit of his mechanized nature is his stealthiness; last week, Colonel Rhodes likened him to an electric car. The Vision had laughed, but the hopefully-unintended slight did sting a bit. Tonight it comes in handy, as it provides him with an opportunity to observe a woman who has remained an enigma since the night of his birth. Wind whips her skirt and hair in waves, though her body is entirely still. The image is rather reminiscent of a carved statue at the prow of a ship, guiding sailors to shore. Everything about her is dark, almost blending in with the inky sky. Maybe it is merely his mind playing tricks – although it is incapable of such – but he can almost make out the faintest red glow around her. She is, quite frankly, stunning. His past month in Stark Tower has provided him with scant opportunities to explore the outer world, so he has a limited frame of reference, but Wanda Maximoff is easily the most beautiful being he has yet seen.
Then… perhaps it is the wind, or perhaps something altogether darker… but she sways. Jerks to one side then the other. On a literal precipice a thousand feet above the ground. And although he is well aware that she is capable of saving herself, he flies across the helipad and grabs her, pulling her down to the tarmac.
The two of them tumble approximately three meters before coming to a stop, all the while Wanda wriggling in his arms in a way that reminds him of nothing more than a slippery eel. Of course he quickly regains his equipollence, at which point Wanda kicks him in the shins in a manner that would genuinely hurt if not for his vibranium semi-exoskeleton. She sits up and growls, “What the fuck!?”
“You were about to fall to your death.”
She stares at him as if his face has been replaced by a sea monster. “No, I wasn’t.”
“By my observation, a gust of wind at 52 kilometers per hour disrupted your equilibrium, resulting in a spiraling motion of your arms, along with one of your feet losing contact with the railing. According to multiple laws of kinetic energy, this would have –”
“Vision.”
“Yes?”
“Did you think I was about to jump?”
Oh.
He has no experience with this particular shift in emotional and interpersonal context, but he believes he has, as the adage goes, stepped in it. “No, of course not.” (Truth be told, perhaps it was there in the hidden folders of his mind.)
“Because I wasn’t going to jump.”
“Right.”
Wanda rolls her eyes. “I mean it. Maybe I wasn’t really….” Her voice trails away, and her hands come up to scrub at her face. “Fuck. I don’t know. You didn’t have to do that, though. I can take care of myself.”
“Of course you can.”
Her eyes open in a glare, and… oh, dear. This is not going the way he’d intended, not that his repetitive responses brook any nuance at all. He really needs to become better at chit-chat, or whatever this is.
Her expression does soften a bit, though, which is a good sign. “Thanks. Sorry. Whatever.”
“All good,” he chirps in the manner he’s heard before when Ms. Potts attempts to smooth over awkward situations.
“I was just… I don’t know. It’s a nice evening. I just wanted to look at the city.”
He glances away at the glittering lights surrounding them, though none are as bright as her, even in this condition. “It is indeed beautiful tonight.”
She sits up straighter, her legs folded into a pretzel shape that he mimics, though it appears to be more comfortable for her than it is for his physiognomy. “What are you doing up here, anyway?”
He chances a smile. “Ah, right. I thought it might be a pleasant location to commemorate my monthiversary.”
The way her nose crinkles in confusion is rather endearing. “Monthi-what?”
“I was brought to life exactly one month ago today.”
Instead of wishing him a happy birthday, her nose un-crinkles, and she turns away. How odd. Birthdays are causes for joy, yes? Or, well, not the sadness he can sense in her. Once again, he has apparently said the wrong thing, and Wanda does not give him any hints as to his misstep. For a moment, he considers consulting the internet for advice; however, he has no idea what search terms to use. Best suss it out for himself.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No – I mean yes – but it wasn’t on purpose.” She glances over at him. “It’s been a month since….”
Her voice trails away, and the proverbial lightbulb goes off in his mind. “Oh, goodness. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you of it.” (Should he specify the antecedent? Again, best wait for her cue.)
Wanda’s laugh is devoid of mirth. “You think it hasn’t been on my mind all day? And yesterday, and every minute of every day since then?” She shakes her head. “Sorry. Like I said, not your fault. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Are you certain? I’m under the impression that talking can be therapeutic.”
“Vision.”
Well, then. “Understood. Please know, though, that I am happy to help in any way I can.” He frowns. “Perhaps not happy, but I assume you know my intent.”
She almost smiles, and it makes him feel slightly better for overstepping. “Maybe someday, but not now.”
“Very well.”
They sit in silence for seventy-three seconds. Then, her mien contemplative but not marked by her prior sadness, she says, “There’s something I’ve been wondering.”
He nods then remembers he’s supposed to give verbal consent to her inquiry. “Yes?”
“Why do you let them call you ‘The Vision’?”
Oh.
Without prior initiation of the action, his jaw drops, which is strange because it is not a question that should shock him. Still, it is unexpected, and he does not have a ready reply. The first thing that comes to mind is, “It is my name.”
“No, not ‘Vision’ itself. That’s a good name. Kind of cool.” She shifts position to stretch out her legs, leaning back on her hands. “I mean the ‘the’.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Her face scrunches again, and he resists the urge to interject that he finds it quite endearing. “Okay, my English isn’t as great as I pretend it is, but putting ‘the’ in front of your name is… ugh, I don’t know how to explain it. It makes you seem like a thing instead of a person.”
Ah. He thinks he understands her point, and it unlocks something almost existential in his mind. Actually… it is quite literally existential, as it gets to the heart of what – who – he is. “Given that I am not human, I suppose that I am indeed a thing.”
The sudden furrow of her brow surprises him. “No, you’re not. You’re a person, alright? You walk and talk and have an incredible body and are kind and thoughtful and, okay, I haven’t heard you crack any jokes, but you seem like you might be funny. As far as I’m concerned, that makes you a person.”
The Vision – or, perhaps just Vision – is flummoxed. And, to be honest, touched. “That is the loveliest compliment I’ve received in my past month of existence. Technically,” he smiles, “it is also the only compliment.”
She frowns again, but this time it does carry a hint of mirth. “C’mon, people should be paying you compliments all the time. You’re amazing.”
He smiles and considers reaching for her hand but dismisses the thought, choosing instead to say, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
One of her compliments did not escape his notice, and this might be an occasion for a joke. “You believe my body is incredible?”
She blinks, jaw dropping just as his had a moment ago. Leaning over, she elbows him lightly and mutters, “Shut up.”
Vision gives her his brightest smile, and it feels rather nice.
Another fifty-six seconds of silence, then she asks, “So, how were you planning to celebrate your monthiversary?”
“Oh! I hadn’t given it much consideration.” (A lie, but she does not know that.) “I simply thought it might be nice to look out at the city.”
Wanda rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. You can do better than that.”
“Well, what do you recommend?”
Her head tilts to the side, as if she is giving it the utmost deliberation. “You can’t eat cake, but I can. Want to get some delivered? Maybe the restaurant even has a candle that you can blow out.”
Vision feels a faint glow fill his body, rather like the aforementioned candle. “Yes, that could be arranged.”
They look at each other, both nodding their heads as if they’re making a blood pact instead of simply celebrating a one-month birthday that should be trivial but feels as if it is everything. Finally, he rises to his feet and holds out a hand. “Shall we?”
The smirk on her face is wholly genuine and, as before, the loveliest thing he has ever seen. “Yes, we shall.”
When she stands up, she wobbles slightly. On instinct, he reaches over to steady her. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
Wanda Maximoff looks at Vision and smiles. “Yeah, I know.”
*****