scarlet shoes

Tony Stark lives in a Park Side apartment building, on 69th and 5th, almost directly across Central Park from Lincoln Center, so Wanda opts to walk. Class has ended early, and the day is cool, the September air smoothing gently along her cheeks. Google Maps tells her it will only take twenty-five minutes to walk, unlike the crosstown bus, which is fifteen minutes delayed.

She realizes her mistake when the rain starts. Not a heavy rain by any means, barely a mist, but she doesn’t have an umbrella, or a hood on her old sweatshirt and her face quickly becomes damp, the hem of her jeans soaking in the mud that has formed on the path through the park.

She deviates to a cobblestone path, but the damage has already been done. She contemplates just going back to the studio and waiting until she gets another free moment to catch the bus, but a part of her is curious about where Tony Stark lives, and the other part of her, the anxious part, wants to make sure Pepper is alive and well.

After twenty-five long minutes, she exits the park, her hair now dripping in tendrils around her face, her sweatshirt half a shade darker from the rain. She locates the apartment building, its exterior made of sparkling grey stone with real gargoyles suspended from the roof, snarling at passersby. 

Wanda is surprised at how old the building is; somehow, she had pictured Tony living in a brand-new building, one of those weirdly shaped architectural marvels made entirely of glass. 

Instead, as a doorman pushes a revolving door for her, she sees a plaque proudly announcing the building's construction date: 1922. 

The lobby is white and silver marble, plush seats clustered together in one corner, an honest to goodness piano player softly playing a song Wanda vaguely recognizes from a musical, she thinks might be West Side Story. 

Wanda had texted Pepper that morning, telling her she’d be by after class and to inform Tony. 

But Pepper hasn’t responded or confirmed that she’s seen Wanda’s message, so Wanda approaches the front desk anxiously, fully expecting the doorman to kick her out on her nose when she tells him she’s here to see Tony Stark.

She stands next to the cool marble top of the desk, polished until it gleams, observing a small, gold sign that reads: “NO SOLICITORS”. She’s wildly self-conscious of her ratty jeans with the hole torn in the right knee, her messy hair, and the puddle of water she’s dripping all over the floor around her feet.

However, before she can stammer out who she’s in the building to see, the doorman looks her up and down and asks: “Tony Stark?”

Wanda blinks. “Uh,” she says. “Yes?”

The doorman nods, standing from behind the huge marble desk, his coat riding up slightly across his protruding belly as he reaches under the desk for a small key fob. He impatiently tugs his coat down and gestures for Wanda to follow him to one of the huge elevators.

She follows behind him, like a lost puppy, her muddy shoes squeaking across the floor unpleasantly.

The lobby is cool and quiet, and Wanda smells a hint of lavender and lemony cleaner as the man in front of her moves with easy confidence.

He hits the elevator call button, the sleek silver doors reflecting their bodies momentarily before the doors ding open. The man gestures for Wanda to step into the elevator, but instead of entering behind her, as she expects, he leans in, swipes the key fob across a small pad, and hits PH2 on the panel of buttons.

The doors slide shut before Wanda can ask him any questions, his back the last thing she sees before the elevator shoots up.

The elevator has a golden interior, the walls paneled with warm wood and a gold hand rail. Wanda leans her back against the rail as she waits while the elevator dings through floors one to twenty, then PH1 and finally PH2.

Whatever Wanda had been expecting when the doors opened, it isn’t a sprawling apartment, the entire opposite wall covered in windows.

She blinks, stepping out of the elevator uncertainly, before the doors slide closed behind her and she’s left standing in Tony Stark’s living room.

There is a large, grey, L shaped couch situated in front of her, a coffee table and a TV facing the couch. To her right, there is a huge kitchen, the appliances gleaming stainless steel, and a kitchen island with bar stools neatly lined up on one side to create a casual place to eat.

Sitting at one of the bar stools, his blond hair messy, a yawn caught on his lips, is Vision Shade.

“Wh-!” Wanda jumps, her hand jumping to cover her heart.

Vision Shade has also jerked at her unexpected appearance, his right hand smacking the bar with a thump.

“What are you doing here?” they ask each other at the same time.

Wanda shuts her mouth and waits for him to speak, but he just eyes her from the tips of her hair to her toes, mud almost certainly caked across her old shoes.

“Did you walk here?” he asks.

“Yes,” Wanda lifts her chin, trying to be as poised as she can as water drips off the tip of her nose.

Vision stands from his perch and Wanda can see that he’s wearing a blue sweater, just slightly too tight across his biceps, and a pair of dark wash jeans that hug his muscular thighs lovingly. “What are you doing here?” he repeats.

She swallows. “I-,” she clears her throat. “I-,” she clears her throat again as she notices how brightly blue his eyes are.

He narrows his eyes and turns to fill up a glass of water from a pitcher in the refrigerator.

His jeans cup his ass in a way that causes Wanda’s face to heat up and she gratefully downs the water he hands her. “Thanks,” she gasps. She closes her eyes and takes two deep breaths before she’s able to rationally put together a sentence. “I’m here to see my friend, Pepper.”

“Ah,” Vision says. “The blond.”

His tone isn’t complimentary and Wanda feels some of her nerves subside in favor of annoyance. “Yes, her. What are you doing here?”

“Tony and I are friends.”

“I know that,” Wanda rolls her head around to the right, hearing her neck crack as she focuses on a painting of a sunny countryside. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

He raises an eyebrow. “At the party?”

“No, at the circus,” Wanda snaps. “Yes, at the party.”

“I’m not obligated to tell you who I am,” Vision studies his fingernails.

“You’re technically my boss,” Wanda says.

“Only if I cast you,” he points out.

It’s a low blow, Wanda can feel it hit her gut unpleasantly. She’s tries not to let it show on her face, but something about her expression must have changed because he opens his mouth.

“Where’s Pepper?” she asks before he can speak.

“She’s-,” Vision is cut off by a loud voice coming from the left.

“Hey, V!” the voice booms. “I didn’t even hear you come in! I’ll be ready to go to lunch as soon as Pepper’s friend gets-,” the voice dies as Tony Stark rounds the corner and sees Wanda clutching her empty water glass. “Oh,” Tony Stark says, brown hair artfully teased and wearing a t-shirt with a robot stamped across the chest. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Wanda says.

There is a long, awkward pause.

“Is it raining?” Tony asks.

Wanda drops her gaze to her feet where water droplets shine on his pristine hardwood floors.

“Right,” Tony laughs, the sound uncomfortable. “I guess that was a stupid question.”

Wanda coughs. “Sorry, where is Pepper?”

“Oh!” Tony says. “She’s in the guest room. Down the hall, second door on the left.”

“Thank you,” Wanda says. She’s halfway across the living room floor before she remembers the mud smeared across her feet. “Sorry, can I take off my shoes?”

“What?” Tony is shaken from a weird non-verbal conversation he seems to have been having with Vision. “Oh, right, yes,” he waves at a shoe rack tucked next to the elevator doors. “Please.”

Wanda toes off her sneakers as gracefully as she can, which of course means she nearly falls on her face as she does so, her right hand flying out to catch herself against the wall.

When she rights herself, she catches eye contact with Vision who is about three feet closer to her, his arms outstretched as though he was ready to catch her.

She smiles self-consciously. “Watch out,” she says stupidly. “The floor’s slippery.”

Neither man has anything to say to that, so Wanda just pads towards the hall Tony indicated, before she remembers her manners and turns back around again, seeing a line of damp footprints from her shoes to her feet, her socks almost as wet as her shoes.

“You have a lovely home,” she calls to Tony.

“Thank you!” he replies, though he keeps his eyes on Vision.

Wanda continues to walk away, feeling awkward tension tingling in her fingertips as she leaves the two men in the living room.

The hallway is long and bright, the walls completely bare, the white paint pristine and untouched by wear. Wanda lets her fingertips drift across the righthand wall, the smooth texture of the dry wall comforting against her skin.

She passes one door on her left, slightly ajar to reveal a home office with at least four computer monitors perched precariously on a desk.

The second door on her left is shut tight and Wanda approaches it cautiously, raising her hand to knock gently.

“Come in,” Pepper’s voice says and Wanda pushes open the door.

“Woah,” she breathes before she can catch herself.

Tony Stark’s guest room is enormous, two large windows dominate the back wall, framing a huge bed with fluffy white pillows. Pepper lounges in the middle of the bed, her golden hair spread across the pillows, an oversized Yankee’s t-shirt tucked against her torso lovingly.

“Wanda!” Pepper beams at her, patting the bed next to her.

“Oh no,” Wanda shakes her head, eyeing the white linen. “I’m wet.”

“Did you walk?” Pepper asks, her eyes drifting to the windows where rain is clearly coming down.

“Yes,” Wanda rolls her eyes.

“You shouldn’t stay in wet clothes,” Pepper pulls her body into a seated position.

“Pepper, it’s fine-,” Wanda begins.

“Tony!” she calls.

Within two seconds, Tony Stark appears in the doorway, his brown eyes bright and expectant. “Yes?” he asks.

“Can Wanda borrow your dryer for her clothes?”

“You have a dryer?” it’s out of Wanda’s mouth before she can stop the words and she claps a hand over her mouth.

Luckily, Tony laughs, his shoulder shaking with mirth, a surprised look caught in his eyes.

“Sorry,” Wanda mutters, her face bright red. “It’s just, I have to haul my laundry four blocks.”

“Dryer is in the guest bathroom,” Tony says, the laughter still in his voice. “There’s a spare robe in there you can use while your clothes dry.”

Wanda follows him to the guest bathroom, out the hallway and to the first right hand door, marveling at the clawfoot tub and double sink vanity, and he shows her where the dryer and robe are before leaving her alone, the white marble of the bathroom spotlessly clean.

Wanda takes her time, peeling off each layer of clothing: her sweatshirt and jeans, followed by her leotard and tights, until she’s left in her underwear. She pulls her hair down from its French twist, removing the pins one by one until the wet mass of her hair collapses in a red curtain around her face.

She then drapes the robe around her shoulders, ties it tightly at her waist, and loads her jeans and sweatshirt into the dryer, hanging her leotard and tights across the sides of the tub. Only then, does she step out of the bathroom, hugging her arms around her torso, the delicate fabric of the robe rubbing against her bare skin softly.

The apartment is quiet, it seems like Vision and Tony have left, so Wanda skitters across the hall and pushes open Pepper’s door, a grin on her face.

“Feel better?” Pepper asks her.

“Holy shit,” Wanda sighs, clutching the robe tighter to her body.

Pepper just grins and pats the bed next to her.

Wanda crosses and drops next to Pepper on the bed, the mattress cocooning her body. “Holy shit.”

Pepper giggles. “You already said that.”

“It’s worth repeating,” Wanda snuggles deeper into the bed, her overused muscles groaning with relief. “Is this what it’s like to be rich? Cause I understand the appeal now.”

Pepper sniggers, shifting her weight so that her body faces Wanda more comfortably. “How long can you stay?”

“I have rehearsal at one,” Wanda says.

Pepper eyes her phone. “Not long.”

“Not long,” Wanda agrees, settling further into the mattress.

“How was class today?” Pepper asks.

“Nope,” Wanda shakes her finger in Pepper’s direction. “Don’t mistake my bliss for distraction. I want to know how you’ve been doing.”

Pepper’s cheeks are pink and she studies her nails. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Wanda raises an eyebrow incredulously. “Your ankle? We can cover this millionaire lovefest thing later.”

Pepper delicately lifts her left foot, her brow wrinkling. “I think it’s fine?” she says. “Tony insisted on an X-ray and probably would have demanded an MRI if I hadn’t reminded him that my insurance would only go so far,” she twists the joint slightly to the right and then to the left. “But even without a doctor, it’s pretty obviously just a bad sprain. It’s annoying, but not life threatening.”

“She shouldn’t have pushed you,” Wanda says.

“She didn’t mean it,” Pepper says soothingly.

“You’re too nice.”

“I hope you weren’t too mean to her,” Pepper says.

“Just enough,” Wanda says.

“The famous Maximoff silent treatment?” Pepper asks.

“The one and only,” Wanda sighs. “Are you really okay?” she asks. “Like actually?”

“He’s taking such good care of me,” Pepper’s face practically glows. “I didn’t think it was possible someone could be so nice.”

“You bring out the best in us,” Wanda admits.

Pepper flushes pink again, shifting so that she lays down further into the pillows.

Wanda imitates her position, sinking down into the duvet, yawning. “Keep talking,” she says. “Or I’m going to pass out.”

Pepper twists her head so she’s looking at Wanda directly, her blue eyes sparkling. “Tell me,” she says mischievously. “How did Lily respond when she found out I was out last night?”

Wanda snorts. “Do we have time? I need to make sure I give her tears justice.”

***

She’s haunting him.

It makes sense that he would run into her around the studio, dancing by herself to unheard music, her face screwed up in concentration, or on the stage, her body flowing in an ethereal dance caught in the tulle around her hips.

In the last twenty-four hours alone, he’s begun to flinch when he sees red hair; he could barely look at her during the company class without feeling like his carefully constructed mask would crack.

He doesn’t want to like her.

Wanda Maximoff.

She of the loud giggle, tardy feet, and the greenest eyes he’s ever seen.

And he doesn’t want to admit she’s good.

Excellent really.

He had been following the hallway in search of an empty studio where he could release some of his frustration and social anxiety, when a light at the end of hall had flickered on.

Curious, he had approached it, peering through the tiny studio window at a red headed woman furiously dancing, her eyes closed, her mouth set in a straight line.

Something about her dancing stirred something inside him. A flint sparking a fire he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

He wanted to dance with her. He had wanted to throw open the door and grab her by the waist.

Instead, he had watched until her eyes had flown open to spot for a fouetté and he’d felt fear zip through him at being caught.

So, he’d hurried away to find his own studio, getting lost in his own dance.

Though even behind his closed lids, he could see red hair and graceful legs.

It got even worse that night when he’d snuck backstage to watch the beginning of Jewels and had caught sight of Wanda’s red hair and dreamy expression, her green skirts catching the lights.

He wonders if her costume matched her eyes as perfectly as he imagined.

He really does accept the fact that he’ll see her constantly at work, plagued by her graceful neck and overly perceptive eyes.

But her stumbling into Tony’s living room, soaking wet, her red hair darkened to a deep auburn and her cheeks slapped pink by the September air, is a new level of torture.

At least he’s reminded that he doesn’t like her.

He watches as she walks away, heading down Tony’s hallway, her wet sock feet leaving tiny, damp footprints, her hips swaying ever so slightly to an inaudible melody.

She walks on her toes, he realizes dumbly. Like a bird about to take flight.

Vision watches until she vanishes into the guest room, before yanking his gaze away, his eyes zipping to Tony, who is staring at him with a smirk that speaks volumes. “Dude,” he says.

“Don’t,” Vision shakes his head, feeling his cheeks flushing pink.

“Oh, no,” Tony shakes his head. “Don’t you ‘don’t’ me. You were just staring at her ass for a minute and a half.”

“I wasn’t staring at her ass!” Vision protests.

Tony just raises an eyebrow and Vision feels more heat sweeping up his cheeks uncomfortably. He pulls on the collar of his sweater. “Weren’t we going to lunch?”

“Hell ye-,” Tony is cut off by a husky voice calling his name from the guest room. “I’ll be right back,” he tells Vision before practically running away.

Vision rolls his eyes. Tony is the last person who should be lecturing him on women, diving to meet the blonde’s, Pepper’s, he mentally corrects, every need.

Vision knows he’s probably being unfair to Pepper, but in his defense, Tony Stark has very poor judgement when it comes to romance.

He knows, deep down, that Tony is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but he has a tendency to make a fool of himself when it comes to women. Specifically, women who capture his interest for longer than twenty-four hours.

And Vision doesn’t trust this Pepper girl further than he can throw her.

Tony returns a few minutes later with a soft smile, his dark hair tousled. “Ready?” he asks, a little breathlessly.

“Are you?” Vision asks.

“I-,” Tony’s phone begins to ring and he holds up a finger to Vision as he roots around in his pocket for it. Whatever number flashing across the screen has him frowning. “I have to take this,” he says. “Give me five minutes,” and disappears into his office.

Vision shuffles around for a few minutes, trying to remove the image of Wanda’s green eyes flashing with indignation, and settles on the couch to wait.

About five minutes later, he hears a door open and he twists silently, thinking it’s Tony’s office, but instead he almost chokes on his own spit when Wanda exits the guest bathroom clad in a robe, the deep V of the neckline plunging to her naval, and her red hair in long, damp curls down her back.

He averts his eyes immediately, terrified she’ll catch him staring, terrified he’ll never be able to see anything but Wanda in that revealing robe.

He hears the guest room door open and close before he lets the breath out of his lungs.

She’s actually going to kill him.

Tony arrives a few minutes later, his frown etched deep in his face, but he doesn’t say anything, just gestures for Vision to join him and calls the elevator.

It’s not until they’re both seated in a booth of one of Tony’s favorite restaurants, the smell of pizza causing Vision’s stomach to growl, that Tony’s face relaxes. “I’m getting a beer,” he announces. “Want one?”

“I have to be at work at three,” Vision says, gloomily.

Tony looks at his watch and focuses his attention to their waiter, a young girl with bright blue hair and a short pink dress. “Two of whatever you have on tap.”

“Tony!” Vision protests.

“It’s barely twelve-thirty,” Tony tells him. “One beer isn’t going to knock you to the floor, is it? Besides, for the conversation we’re about to have, you’re going to need it.”

The blue haired girl arrives quickly with two, foaming pints and Vision wraps his fingers around the cool tankard nervously.

Tony takes a deep sip and fixes Vision with a look. “So,” he says. “You and Wanda.”

Vision mirrors him, swigging the bitter beer, and locking eyes with Tony. “I don’t like her.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why?” Vision challenges.

“Because you haven’t looked at a girl like that in a long time,” Tony says.

“I don’t like dancers,” Vision insists.

“Then, you’re going to die alone, because dancers are all you meet.”

“Look,” Vision takes another swing of the beer. “Is she an excellent dancer? Yes. Do I find her passably attractive? Yes. Do I like her? No.”

“Passably attractive?” Tony raises an eyebrow.

“Passably,” Vision hides his face behind his pint as he takes a drink.

Tony studies him for a long moment. “I don’t believe you,” he repeats.

Vision takes a long slow breath, smiling at the waiter as she drops off a basket of breadsticks. “Who was on the phone?” he asks, trying to steer the conversation away.

Tony lifts a breadstick and bites into the end. “Don’t think,” he says as he chews. “I don’t notice the subject change.”

“You were meant to,” Vision mutters, lifting his own breadstick and chomps on the end. Immediately his mouth is filled with the overwhelming taste of garlic and salt and a little bit of rosemary and he groans appreciatively.

“Right?” Tony asks, jabbing his half-eaten breadstick at the basket. “These things are a gift from God.”

Vision hums appreciatively. “We’re ordering more.”

Tony nods. “To answer your question,” he says, taking another breadstick. “It was my contact in England-.”

Vision freezes, the breadstick turning to dust in his mouth. “What?” he asks carefully, his eyes searching Tony’s.  

“Yep,” Tony confirms.

The waiter arrives holding an enormous pizza at her side, the top dripping with sausage and onions.

“It’s a big city,” Vision reasons. “It’s unlikely we’ll actually see him.”

“I doubt that,” Tony says. “But I’m happy to remain optimistic until the end.”

Vision peels a slice of pizza away from the pie, his fingers smarting from the sizzling heat, and drops it on his plate.

He’s suddenly not hungry anymore.

Tony digs in with gusto, apparently emotional turmoil makes him hungry. “This is so good,” he moans.

“I believe you,” Vision pokes at his slice before raising it to his mouth.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds are the crunch of the crust and the occasional swallow of beer.

“Hey, V?” Tony wipes his mouth with a napkin and reaches for a second slice. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Vision says, hoping it’s not another question about Wanda Maximoff.

“What do you want to do?” Tony asks. “You know, after this job is over?”

Vision swallows his bite of pizza. “Uh,” he says.

“I mean,” Tony continues. “I know you really only took this job for Darc, and I know the pay is great and you’re a big macho man out there in the dance world, but you hate this.”

“I don’t-.”

Tony lifts a hand. “You hate it, V, please don’t insult my intelligence. Everything about this job makes you cringe.”

Vision chews thoughtfully. “I-,” he says.

Tony grins. “Come on. Tell me what the famous Vision Shade would be doing if he wasn’t contractually stuck for the next six to eight months.”

“You can’t make fun of me.”

“Why would I do that?” Tony asks.

“Just-,” Vision takes a deep breath, speaking the words he’s been kicking around in his head for months. “I want to start my own dance company.”

“That’s-,” Tony begins.

“For children,” Vision cuts him off.

“Oh-,” Tony tries again.

“For underprivileged, inner-city children,” Vision finishes.

Tony folds his hands expectantly.

“That’s all,” Vision says.

“V,” Tony says.

“I want it to be a nonprofit,” Vision warns. “It’s going to be insanely expensive.”

“It’s perfect,” Tony insists.

“Shoes,” Vision ticks off his fingers as he talks. “Costumes, leotards, tights, rehearsal space, teachers, I don’t want the kids paying for anything.”

Tony is expectantly waiting until he finishes, a half-smile on his face. “How much is going to cost?”

“I don’t know yet,” Vision admits.

“And where will you be opening this studio? Here or London?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“When you know,” Tony says. “I’ll be here with a check book.”

Vision lifts his pint with one final swallow of beer at the bottom. “I’ll drink to that,” he says.

Tony lifts his own glass taps the glass together, a pleasant ping ringing out. “Cheers.”