Keeping someone safe
*****
It was supposed to be a nice weekend in the country.
Christmas with the Bartons. Hot chocolate and movie marathons and presents under the tree. Like something out of an old sitcom episode, the kind that made America look like some magical paradise back when she was a kid and didn’t know any better. Sneak into Missouri on the quinjet, with Natasha picking her and Vision up a few days later, then back to an oh-so-fun life as fugitives.
To be fair, it started out that way. Christmas Eve and Day were nice. Really nice. Even kind of magical. Sex with Vision under the covers as they kept as quiet as possible, a huge dinner with Laura, Clint, and the kids, and her giving Vis the gingerbread house as a promise of a home for the two of them someday, when (not if) the Accords got repealed and they could finally settle down. More sex that night, of course, and when they woke up this morning, the plan was to hang out and enjoy the peace and quiet – “hashtag farmlife”, Lila had called it with a smirk and eye roll – until Nat returned.
That was the original idea, at least.
Instead, Vision’s searching for a mop and bucket while Wanda’s chasing a naked almost-three-year-old, who has a rather scary grin on his face as he unspools a roll of toilet paper all over the place.
Nate finally stops dead in his tracks and begins tearing the tissue into tiny pieces.
Wanda collapses against the kitchen island and catches her beloved’s eye. “Remember what I said about maybe having kids someday? Forget it.”
Vision sighs.
Nate tosses TP into the air and squeals, “Snow!”
*****
Two hours earlier….
So, yeah. The morning is pretty good. After the very, very nice wakeup sex, she and Vis pack up their suitcase, and she has to use just a little bit of magic to fit her new parka and boots inside. Although she is perfectly capable of hauling it downstairs, what’s the use of a synthezoid boyfriend if not to carry the heavy stuff? Laura makes pancakes, and he even lets Wanda put a tiny drop of syrup on his tongue; the look on his face is practically another Christmas present. Then they spend a few hours playing a surprisingly intense game of Settlers of Catan. Wanda’s still not sure they’re all at the point where the Bartons could be considered her family, but it kinda feels like that.
Around noon, there’s a text from Natasha that she’s running late and will be there after midnight, or maybe tomorrow. Not that Wanda minds one bit: she and Vis will be heading back to Spain to hide out until Nat and Steve find them another semi-permanent safehouse, anyway. This is much better.
To her surprise, Clint – who’s still practically strutting from having won the board game – announces that he wants to head into town to hit up the after-Christmas sales. His wife and kids don’t even blink, but Vision does. “Forgive my impudence, but aren’t you meant to be on house arrest?”
Clint makes a show of shaking his ankle, encased in a tracking monitor. “What, you think I haven’t already figured out how to disable this thing?”
Cooper glances up from his phone. “Everyone in town already knows about us. They’re not gonna, like, call the FBI or whatever.”
Fair enough. Of course the teenagers are all for shopping, and Laura walks over to her and Vision with a look in her eyes that suddenly makes Wanda nervous. “Nate’s due for his nap soon. Plus, don’t tell him I said this, but as much as I love him, he turns into a little hellbeast out in public. Are you okay with babysitting?”
Wanda bites her lip. She’s supposed to say yes, right? But if his own parents can’t manage him, then how the hell is she going to do it? Not like she has any experience with rugrats, and she’s pretty sure child-minding skills weren’t encoded in Vision’s computer brain.
Though they’re supposed to be on the same page, Vision saves – or maybe condemns – her. “We’d be delighted to watch him, Laura.”
Oh, great. She doesn’t have to read his mind to know he’s thinking about those conversations they’d been having about kids and houses in the suburbs and all that crap. She pastes on a smile and nods her agreement, telling herself that he’ll be the one doing all the babysitting while she takes a bubble bath or something.
She glances over at the child in question, who is playing with a toy giraffe. How hard could it be? Feed him some lunch, give him a piggyback ride or two to tire him out, and then tuck him into his bed for a nap. It’ll be fine.
Famous last words.
And it is fine at first. Nate’s a cute kid. She crawls down onto the rug and plays with him while Vision makes sandwiches. From the kitchen, he calls out, “What is the nature of the story you two are enacting?”
That makes her laugh. “You mean, like, The Lion King or something?”
“Well, I assumed that his giraffe and your rhinoceros were meant to replicate an African safari or somesuch.”
Nate decides that his giraffe should attempt to ride the rhino. It does not work. She calls back to Vis, “There’s no story. We’re just playing.”
“Ah.”
To be honest, it’s pretty boring. Wanda’s not sure how she’s supposed to play with a kid whose idea of “play” is basically just scooting the animals around on a rug. She tries to remember all those times back at the orphanage when she was ordered to watch the little ones, but… well, there’s a reason why she has repressed those memories. All the sitcom plots she’s memorized over the years don’t help either. Those kids were always so well-behaved, or at least their parents knew how to handle them. Not that Nate is badly-behaved or anything. He’s just, er, not all that exciting. (Yeah, she feels a bit guilty about thinking that.)
Plates in hand, Vision joins them in the living room and, with a flourish, announces, “Luncheon is served.”
She shakes her head. “I think we’re supposed to eat at the kitchen table. Clint said something about building healthy behavioral routines or whatever.”
Vision’s expression indicates that it doesn’t make sense to him either, but then he frowns for a few seconds, followed by his “aha!” face that means he’s looked it up on the internet. He’s adorable. So, they all go over to the kitchen table, and she gives him a peck on the cheek in appreciation of her grilled ham and cheese, just the way she likes it. Over the past year and a half on the run, he’s gotten really good at sandwiches. And paellas. And tacos. And meat pies. And a much-better-though-still-not-perfect version of paprikash.
Whereas she’s happy about her sandwich, Nate frowns at his and says, “Cuss.”
Cuss? Isn’t that what Americans use for curse words when they’re too uptight to actually say them? Why would an almost-three-year-old know that?
He picks at the crust – oh, right, crusts – of his sandwich. Oh-so-seriously, Vision says, “My apologies, kind sir,” and cuts them off with the dull knife he’d used to slice the sandwiches.
Doesn’t work. Nate actually folds his arms and mutters, “Don’t want it.”
“Whyever not? Your mother said that peanut butter and banana sandwiches are your favorite.”
“No.”
Each of Vision’s entreaties is met by that same word, while Wanda fills her mouth with her ham and cheese to keep from laughing. After seven no’s, Nate finally takes a few bites of his sandwich along with several grapes, then walks away, as if he’s bored of the whole thing. Who knew that little kids could be such divas?
Her boyfriend sits up straight in his chair. “Should we go after him?”
Wanda shrugs. “Let’s just keep an eye on him. He’s supposed to take his nap soon, and maybe he’ll tire himself out.”
No such luck.
The two of them migrate over to sit on the living room rug, where Nate is wandering around, picking up toys then flinging them aside. She wonders if being a good guest-slash-babysitter means that she’s expected to clean up after him. Whatever. She’s usually the antsy one in their relationship, but she’s content to just sit there and watch him, whereas Vision gets increasingly anxious, calling out questions to Nate about what he might like to do next. “Would you like to watch television? Go for a walk in the snow? Play with your giraffe again?”
Nate doesn’t even bother looking back at them.
She turns on the TV and starts flipping through the channel guide for toddler-friendly shows, since she doesn’t know which streaming services the Bartons have. Behind her, Vis continues to cajole the kid, making suggestion after suggestion of activities that, frankly, don’t sound all that fun or even safe for kids, like a game of chess or chopping firewood (where the hell did that come from?). Then, his voice trails away, and Wanda feels him poke her shoulder. She turns around, and Nate’s lying down, a teddy bear as his pillow.
Whew.
Vision actually coos, “Time for your nap, young gentleman. Would you like a piggyback ride to your room?” (God, she loves him.) Before the toddler can say no again, Vis swoops him up and piggybacks him, in a move so smooth that phasing had to be involved. With Wanda following on tiptoe, they all head up the stairs. So far so good.
Once again, spoke – well, thought – too soon. At the landing, Nate suddenly lets go, and Wanda has to quickly create a cloud of red to envelop him, lest he tumble back downstairs and break his neck or something. Shit. Getting their kid permanently injured was definitely not on Laura and Clint’s list of instructions.
As Nate just stares up at them, eyes wide and mouth gaping, Wanda tries to make her voice sound both stern and kind. “No. You can’t do that, Nate.”
He practically glares at them, his face crumpled like he’s about to cry. Again, shit. The kid is pretty damn smart, because he suddenly takes off back down the stairs. Vis actually flies down there, beating him to the punch. Of course, that doesn’t stop Nathaniel Pietro Barton, who scurries through Vision’s parted legs and starts laughing.
Wanda is pretty sure that this is hell. Might even be worse than the Raft, and that’s saying a lot.
The two of them manage to catch Nate and haul him – gently, of course – back up to the second floor, and by some miracle he doesn’t start crying. In fact, the slight smirk on his face is the spitting image of his father. Definitely Clint’s least endearing quality. They carry him into his room and deposit him on the bed. He crosses his arms again and says, “No nap.”
“Yes nap.”
“No.”
“Yes.” Vision looks just like he does when he’s facing down an alien or monster or Tony Stark in a typically obnoxious mood. “It is time for your nap. No negotiations.”
The staring contest continues. Wanda blurts out, “He doesn’t even know what the word ‘negotiation’ means.”
Her beloved turns to her with a glare. Looks like she won’t be getting laid tonight. To be honest, she’s fine with that. Sex means the (very slim) potential for conceiving children, and the past two hours have pretty much killed any desire she might have ever had for them.
Still, Vision in a rare bad mood isn’t helpful for anyone. So, she puts on her cheerful voice and says, “Hey, Nate? Your mommy said that you like bathtime. Want to take a bath? Maybe even with bubbles?” Under her breath, she mutters, “Hey, it’s worth a shot.”
And… it works. As Sam used to say, glory fucking hallelujah.
The three of them walk into the bathroom. Vision starts filling the tub with water while she sits on the toilet lid and tugs on Nate’s arm to bring him closer. It’s been years since she was involved in a kid’s bathtime (the orphanage, and again, repressed memory), but it can’t be too hard, right?
Wrong.
She manages to help him take off his clothes, while Vision stands up and points to the bubble bath as if they’re all supposed to applaud his technique. Nate raises one leg like he’s going to climb in. Then, in a downright impressive move, he squirrels behind her, grabs a roll of toilet paper, and takes off at something close to warp speed.
Well, at least he’s honoring Pietro’s legacy.
Hovering a few inches above the tiles, Vision flies down after him. Wanda takes a deep breath and growls, “Fuck my life,” then follows. At least the kid left a trail of toilet paper in his wake.
By the time they regain something close to control of the situation, there’s a massive puddle of water in the kitchen – who knows where that came from – and tissue snow all over the floor. She leans against the kitchen island and watches while Nate runs around in circles. Finally, finally, his movements slow down, like a battery drained of juice. And when his eyelids droop, she moves in for the kill. Okay, bad choice of words, but it still feels like a triumph. Voice barely above a whisper, she instructs, “I’ll carry him. You stay on my six, just in case.”
Picking Nate up very gently, she feels an odd little thrill when he wraps his tiny arms around her neck and snuggles into her shoulder. It’s her turn to coo, “Veľmi dobre, srdiečko. Choď spať.”
She can feel Vision’s breath on the back of her neck as he reaches over her shoulder and pats the child’s back. “Yes, very good. Time for your nap.”
Carrying him up the stairs feels as tense and knife-edged as those afternoons before Lagos when she and Steve practiced their moves, though this is much more dangerous. And when Wanda lowers him onto his bed, he gives her a sleepy smile and burrows under the covers. No “no”, no protests, no escapes. Just a goddamned miracle. Even so, she briefly considers flicking a bit of red magic at him to make sure he stays asleep, but that would be wrong, right?
God, she’s so exhausted that she kind of wants to crawl into the guest bed. But nope, that is against The Babysitter Code, at least as far as she understands it. Not that she and Vision live by any code or whatever, considering the whole international-fugitives-in-hiding thing. She has to bite her lip to keep from laughing at how ridiculous her life is. Again, international fugitive. Magic at her fingertips. A boyfriend who is not human, but sure talks and acts (and fucks) like one.
On the other hand, she’s still alive, despite all the reasons why she most certainly should not be. She has friends who care enough to invite her and Vis to join their family Christmas. Her abs and reflexes and endurance have been a casualty of abandoning her workout routine due to the aforementioned fugitive thing, but her ass still looks damn good in the jeans she’s wearing. And she has a boyfriend who loves her beyond all reason, in spite of all the reasons he probably shouldn’t.
Okay, fine. Wanda Maximoff’s life is 72% ridiculous instead of the full hundred. After all she’s been through, she’ll take it.
Vision’s arms circle her chest, and he rests his chin on the top of her head. “I must admit that –”
“Shh,” she cuts him off. “Don’t wake him.”
“Ah, right.” She turns around to find him scanning the room with those mechanical eyes. A little gizmo that looks like a walkie talkie suddenly blinks on. Against her ear, he whispers, “I’ve tapped into the old baby monitor. Since I do not know where the receiver is, I’ve redirected its audio feed to my brain.”
Has she mentioned lately how much she loves him?
They tiptoe across the hall to the guest room, and she collapses onto the bed as quietly as possible. He slides in behind her and spoons her into his arms. “As I was saying, I must admit that Nathaniel Pietro Barton is rather adorable when he’s asleep.”
She places her palm on his hand, which, in typical Vision fashion, is nestled between her breasts. “Definitely adorable when he sleeps. Not so much when he’s awake.”
“Oh, I don’t know. He had his moments.”
Listing all the non-adorable moments would kill the mood, so she just hums her agreement. Despite that, Vision seems to want to kill the mood anyway, as he says, “Should I take you at your earlier word that you do not want children?”
Wanda flinches, but as the words sink in, she’s surprised that it doesn’t dampen her contented mood at all. In fact, she’s a little bit turned on. Just a little bit, though. Sex during naptime is most definitely against The Babysitter Code. “I might be willing to reconsider it, as long as our children are perfectly behaved at all times.”
She can feel his warmth all along her back and inside her heart. “Of course. She’ll be charming and obedient, while also being strong and independent and brilliant.”
“She?”
“A daughter might be nice. A miniature Wanda.” He pauses, and she knows him so well that she’s already grinning when he adds, “Well, that might be a bit much.”
Wanda elbows him, and his muted yelp is as adorable as everything else about him.
Another hour before Laura, Clint, and the kids are due home. Nate is still alive and in one piece, and okay, she and Vis should probably go downstairs and clean up the mess. For now, though, she’s content to lie here with him and whisper dreams about their future daughter. Or son. Or maybe both. Or neither. Their world is still fraught and dangerous and so complicated that even her boyfriend’s brilliant brain couldn’t possibly solve all their problems. And that’s okay. Right now, she’s absolutely, perfectly happy to just be. With him. And a toddler napping across the hall.
*****