scarlet shoes

You’re an idiot.

The phrase has sadly become a common mantra for Vision over the last week.

You’re an idiot.

He tells the voice to shut up, though he knows it’s completely correct.

He is an idiot.

No one but an idiot would dance with Wanda Maximoff the way he had. No one but an idiot would use partnering practice as an excuse to hold her that close. No one but an idiot would sing in her ear.

God, he groans in his head.

He’d sung to her yesterday. Actually sung to her like they were at a middle school dance and he was trying to get to second base.

You’re an idiot.

He could barely look at Agnes through the entirety of their meeting, miserably studying his feet as she chirped about costumes and lights and ticket sales while he morosely took notes and replayed the moment in his head when he had almost kissed Wanda Maximoff for real. When those green eyes had fluttered open and dipped to his mouth. She’d been in his arms and he’d been play-dough in her capable hands and he’d leaned in, determined to kiss her. Really kiss her. 

Thank god he hadn’t.

She would have run screaming from the studio.

Hell, he’s surprised that she’d stuck around after his impromptu vocal performance.

The worst part about it is that, if given the chance to redo the whole afternoon, he wouldn’t have changed any part of it.

He can’t shake the warmth he’d felt in those moments of holding Wanda, anticipating her every move as they flew around the studio.

She might confuse him to no end, and every time she’s around him, his stomach knots, but he can’t deny that dancing with her yesterday is one of the best things to happen to him since he arrived in New York.

Vision pushes the thoughts away as he steps out of the subway, bracing himself against the cold wind that swirls around his ankles and kicks up leaves on the sidewalk.  

He’s lucky to have a day off to collect his thoughts. To have a full day free from Wanda Maximoff. And besides, he has much more pressing issues to think about.

He’d gotten a very cryptic text message from Darcy the night before, asking him to meet her on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art at eleven to talk and while he thinks that is a strange place to meet for a conversation, he knows he’s just lucky Darcy reached out at all.

She has been ignoring, or at the very least, avoiding him for the better part of three days and while he knows he deserves it, he hates the feeling of immense guilt and anger that continues to churn around in his stomach as he walks towards the museum, shivering with nerves.

It’s incredibly cold for October.

Vision has worn his warmest pea coat, the grey fabric hugging his body comfortingly, but the frigid wind that whips up Fifth Avenue still seeps into his bones.

So, he burrows in his coat and watches a group of tourists pose on the enormous concrete steps climbing to the imposing front of the Met, a large poster out front advertising a traveling Van Gogh exhibit. He scans the crowds, but doesn’t see Darcy anywhere.

Another gust of wind blows his coat around his thighs and he shudders violently.

His phone clock ticks past eleven and Darcy is officially late.

Vision tries not to be annoyed, he knows he deserves to stand in the cold a little longer than expected after the Hank Pym shit, so he just stomps his feet and tunnels further into his green scarf. 

A flash of scarlet catches his eye and he turns his head in time to see a woman with a bright red beret and a long black coat climbing the stairs to the museum. She stops at the top and turns to look around, clearly scanning the area for someone, and Vision’s breath catches in his lungs.

It’s Wanda Maximoff.

He can’t deny the tiny thrill that zips through him as he observes her standing above him, her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat, her large green eyes the only thing visible above her dark grey scarf.

He takes a few moments to just enjoy being able to watch her without her noticing. She has such natural grace, even in stillness, her body poised over the tips of her toes, ready to explode into any dance step she sees fit. As he watches, her hands come out of her pockets, and she pulls her red hair forward, fashioned into a messy braid, and fiddles with the ends of it, her gaze continuing to scan the crowd.

Maybe she’s on a date, the unwelcome thought pushes into his brain just as there is a screech of brakes behind him and a chorus of curses as a car swerves to avoid a group of pedestrians jaywalking. 

Wanda’s gaze has been drawn to the commotion and she makes eye contact with him, her green eyes widening.

He considers ducking behind a food truck parked a few feet away, but that seems cowardly, so he squares his shoulders and climbs the steps.

“Hello, Wanda,” he says as he gets closer to her, admiring the way the sunlight illuminates her green eyes.

“Vision,” she looks confused. “What are you doing here?”

“Darcy asked me to meet her,” Vision pulls out his phone. “At eleven. She’s running late.”

Wanda tilts her head, the movement causing a red curl to break from her braid and dance around her cheek. “Darcy asked you to meet her here?” she asks.

“Yes,” Vision is distracted as he notices her eyes have tiny flecks of gold surrounding the pupil. He clears his throat. “Yes, on the steps,” he gestures at the concrete around them.

“Huh,” Wanda chews on her lip and his eyes immediately go to her mouth.

He kissed that mouth.

Focus! he scolds himself.

“Uh,” he says intelligently. “What are you doing here?”

Wanda’s mouth tugs up in a half smile, her fingers releasing her braid. “Darcy is supposed to meet me here at eleven,” she says.

“What?” Vision is tugged away from his study of the pattern of freckles splattered across the delicate skin of her cheek.

“I’m supposed to be looking at art with Darcy,” Wanda confirms.

“Strange,” Vision murmurs. “I suppose she wanted to kill two birds with one stone.”

Wanda’s phone dings and she scrambles for it.

Vision looks away to give her privacy but she snorts and thrusts the phone in his direction. “Or maybe not,” she says.

He takes the phone gently and glances down at the screen. 

Darcy Lewis: Hiiiii. Wanda!! I’m so sorry, something came up and I can’t make it. But here are the tickets, please use them and enjoy some art. I’ll send you both of them, just in case ;)

“Well,” Vision says, handing the phone back to Wanda.

“She’s about as subtle as a sledgehammer,” Wanda mutters.

Vision’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he lifts it to see his own message from Darcy:

Darcy: You’re welcome.

“Yeah,” he agrees, shoving his phone in his pocket before Wanda can see. “Subtle as a sledgehammer.”

“She planned this,” Wanda groans. “Interfering busybody.”

Vision smirks. “You have to admit,” he says. “She’s crafty.”

“She needs a hobby,” Wanda mutters.

“I can agree with you on that,” Vision nods.

A group of tourists barrel straight through their conversation, Wanda getting cut off from Vision completely until they pass.

Once they do, Wanda and Vision exchange awkward smiles, neither seeming to know how to proceed.

“Well,” Wanda shifts. “I’ll leave you to your day then,” and begins to walk down the stairs.

It takes Vision two extra seconds to realize she’s not heading into the museum and bolts after her. “Wait!” he calls.

She turns around and the sun hits her right in the face, illuminating her skin until she’s glowing. “What?” she says impatiently. She’s stopped on a step lower than him, her neck craning upward to see him.

Vision has to swallow to speak. “Where are you going?” he asks.

“Home?” Wanda says. “Darcy isn’t here and I’d rather not go to the museum by myself.”

“Well, um, wouldn’t it be a waste of the tickets if we, I mean, you don’t use them today?” Vision stutters out.

“Oh,” Wanda’s cheek pinken. “I’m sorry, Vision, I was being dumb. Do you want them?”

“What?” Vision blinks. “I mean, yes, but-.”

“Okay,” Wanda taps on her phone screen and hands it to him. “Here, plug your number in and I’ll send them to you.”

“No,” Vision types in his number but keeps a hold of the phone. “Why can’t we go together?”

Wanda narrows her eyes at him. “What?”

“I’m just saying that if Darcy took the trouble to send you the tickets, then clearly she wants you to go. And seeing as my afternoon just fell through too-.”

Wanda raises an eyebrow. “But wouldn’t we be doing exactly what Darcy wants?”

“Well, yes,” Vision acknowledges. “But why should that stop us?”

“Don’t you have more exciting things to do on your day off?” Wanda asks.

“I’ve never been to the Met before,” Vision confesses. “This is very exciting for me.”

“Oh,” Wanda’s mouth falls open slightly. “Well, then,” she steps up two steps above where he’s standing so she’s at his eye level. “Let’s go see some art.”

The lobby of the Met is as imposing as its exterior. Vision gawks up at the marble pillars and arching ceilings as he and Wanda are ushered through a metal detector. 

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Wanda asks. 

He turns to see her smirking slightly at the undoubtedly dumbstruck expression on his face. “It’s huge,” he confirms. 

A large group of people jet by them, bumping into Vision hard enough to propel him into Wanda’s personal space. She smells like oranges and curiously, cinnamon, and he wants to bury his face in her hair. 

Instead, he takes an exaggerated step backwards, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep them from wrapping around Wanda’s waist. 

Wanda looks blissfully unaware at how close she is from being shoved against a marble pillar and kissed; she’s busily pouring over a map of the museum. “Where should we start?” she asks him. 

Vision clears his throat. “Wherever you want, you’re the guide.”

She snorts at that but closes the map with a decisive snap. “Let’s start with Egypt,” and leads him to the right of the main entrance into a cavernous side room filled with ancient Egyptian art. 

Vision quickly learns that Wanda is an efficient museum visitor. She doesn’t linger over what she’s not interested in, but she has no problem leaving him behind when he stops to read a plaque or study a painting. 

They fall into an easy rhythm, meeting at the end of a room or keeping tabs on where the other is. Vision finds it easy to locate Wanda amidst a crowd, she’s removed her red beret but her hair shines like a beacon in the beige tones of the tomb art. 

They meet at the end of the Egyptian exhibit and Vision is pleased to see that Wanda seems to have broken through her initial resistance to going to the museum with him and is chatting excitedly about two gods depicted on a sarcophagus. 

“They’re twins,” she points at the piece, reading off of the information card. “And also married, but that’s neither here nor there.” She sees Vision’s confusion and flushes. “Oh,” she says. “Sorry, I’m a twin. My brother and I used to make it game to find twins in history or movies.”

Vision feels himself take one careful step forward, worried he might be toppling their tentative tower. “What was your brother like?”

“He was-,” Wanda breaks off and looks at him, her eyes narrowed. “Who told you?”

“What?” Vision asks.

“You referred to him in the past tense,” Wanda says. “Who told you?”

Vision fiddles with the end of his scarf. “Agnes,” he admits. 

Wanda sighs. “I should have guessed,” there is a long pause and then in a smaller voice, she asks. “What else did she tell you?”

“She told me about your parents,” Vision is regretting the conversation. “But it wasn’t like she was gossiping; she was just telling me about what happened with your foot.”

They both look down at her right ankle, neatly incased in a black boot.

Wanda smiles, but there’s no humor in her expression. “I would have thought she’d have given you all the gory details.”

Vision chews on the inside of his cheek, unsure of what to say.

They walk a few steps in silence before he hears Wanda sigh. “I have a habit of pushing myself physically to ignore uncomfortable feelings,” she confesses.

Vision ignores the urge to wrap his arm around her and instead says. “I never really knew my parents.” He feels her eyes on him but he keeps his gaze forward, navigating them through the crowd. “My father was always working and my mother was definitely not ready for the responsibility of a child,” his lips quirk. “I was taught right and wrong by wardrobe assistants and stage managers.”

Something soft and warm touches his arm and he looks down to see Wanda’s small fingers curving around his forearm. “That sounds lonely,” she says.

“It was,” he agrees.

She removes her hand from his arm but he feels the heat of it long after her fingers release him.  

They emerge into another enormous room, sunlight pouring in from skylights and illuminating enormous show cases filled with suits of armor. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes out without realizing. 

Wanda creases her brow at him but he barely notices. “Wanda.”

“What?” she asks. 

“Do you see this?” he asks pointing at the suit of armor directly in front of them. 

“Uh, yes?” she looks confused. 

“That’s Henry the VIII’s armor,” Vision practically elbows a tourist out of the way, barely restraining his urge to press his face against the protective glass. 

He hears her snort behind him. “Wasn’t he a massive ass?” she asks. 

“Well yes,” he admits. “But look at the craftsmanship on his breast plate. That was all done without any real machinery, I mean look at the detail!”

He becomes aware of Wanda looking at him with an amused twist to her mouth, a fondness in her eyes. 

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Wanda says, stepping up next to him to study the suit. “How come you know so much about this stuff?”

“I danced Romeo for the first time when I was nineteen,” Vision explains. “The company hired a fight choreographer from the Globe Theatre to come help us learn the sword play and he noticed I was really into the historical background of the fighting so he recommended some books for me. I never looked back.”

Wanda snickers. “So, you’re an enormous nerd is what you’re telling me.”

“Guilty as charged,” Vision twists his body so that he’s looking down at her gently. 

She twists her own body to look up at him, her lashes so long, Vision is amazed they don’t get tangled when she blinks. 

Her cheeks grow pink as he stares at her and she clears her throat, looking away. “I need the bathroom,” she says. “Can I leave you alone with the armor for a bit?” 

“I think I’ll survive,” Vision says cheekily and is rewarded with her smile. 

“Back in a second,” she promises, heading off. 

Vision watches her walk away. She’s removed her long coat and scarf, draping both over her arm and giving him an unobstructed view of her entire back as she navigates through the crowds, her bright hair dancing around her shoulders like flames.  

***

As Wanda leaves Vision to find the ladies room, she can feel his eyes on her as she walks away and allows her hips to swing just a little more than she normally would. It is a pity that barely any of her clothes fit her properly, but she can’t complain when she is so close to her goal. 

As she’s washing her hands at a marble sink in the bathrooms, the door is pushed open and Julie Tyler Tremble walks in, her brown hair in long, waving curls down her back, a blue dress wrapped around her thin frame. 

“Wanda!” she says, astonishment on her face. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking at art,” Wanda says, not wanting to volunteer that she’s spending time with Vision outside of a professional setting. “What about you?”

“I’m on a date,” Julie smiles. 

“Oh, so fun,” Wanda says, trying to muster up enthusiasm.

“It is,” Julie gives her a genuine smile as she steps into a stall. “Enjoy your afternoon!”  

“You too,” Wanda agrees, pushing open the heavy door, wondering who Julie could be on a date with. 

She’s so preoccupied, she almost hits someone with the bathroom door. “Oh god!” she exclaims. “I’m so sorry, are you okay?” 

“Wanda?”

Wanda’s jaw drops. “Hank?”

Hank Pam is in a white button down and khaki trousers, a long coat slung over his arm casually. His eyes are wide as he takes her in. “What are you doing here?” he asks. 

“Enjoying my day off,” Wanda says. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m, uh, on a date,” he admits. 

“Oh,” Wanda says, blinking. “That’s, uh, that’s great.” 

“Really?” Hanks looks as though he was expecting her to start hitting him. “I mean, yeah, yeah it’s a first date but I really like her.”

“She’s a lucky girl,” Wanda says. 

“Thank you,” Hank says. “She’s-,” the bathroom door opens, cutting him off and Julie Tyler Tremble emerges. 

“Okay,” she smiles at Hank. “Let’s-,” she catches sight of Wanda. “Oh, hi again Wanda! Do you know Hank?” 

Wanda’s jaw has dropped. “I, uh,” she clears her throat. “Yeah, a little.” 

“Wanda and I are friends,” Hank confirms. 

“Yep,” Wanda nods. There is a moment of silence before she realizes they probably want her out of their hair. “Um, well, see you tomorrow, Julie. Bye Hank!” she twists around and makes for the stairs before she can feel too awkward.

She’s not sure what to feel, she might have pretended nonchalance when telling Vision she wouldn’t date Hank Pym, but she can’t deny the little pinch of disappointment knowing that he isn’t interested in her any longer.

Plus, she feels a little bubble of anxious energy about Vision and Hank coming face to face in a museum full of priceless artifacts.

But as she arrives on the first floor and begins to push her way through the crowds to the armory, she sees Vision standing next to a collection of helmets. He’s removed his coat, a thick cream sweater covering his torso, not masking the muscles in his arms and chest. A single finger of sunlight drifts in through the skylights and touches his gold hair, and she feels something shiver in her lower belly, all thoughts of Hank flying from her head.

“No, you see,” Vision is pointing to a helmet in the case, a little old lady next to him peering through the glass. “The nose piece wasn’t added until much later, when they realized it was a necessary protective feature. This helmet is from an early part of the century, as you can see from the curvature of the top.”

The old woman is nodding, her wrinkled face pinched as she studies the helmets.

“Having fun?” Wanda asks, approaching them.

“Oh, Wanda!” Vision’s head pops up. “This is Mrs. Martin; she and her husband donated a large percentage of the guns in the room over there,” he waves towards the side, smiling down at the old lady.

Mrs. Martin smiles worshipfully up at him, patting his cheek. “Thank you for the history lesson, dear,” she says, her voice smokey. “I’ll let you get back to your date.”

“Oh, no, we’re not-,” Wanda begins, but Mrs. Martin is gone, shuffling off to another part of the room.

Vision watches her go fondly. “She’s been coming here almost every weekend since her husband died,” he confides in Wanda. “She says it’s good for her to remember him while also being forced to stay active.”

Wanda smiles gently at Vision, unfolding her map. “You know,” she says as he bends his gold head over the large rectangle of paper. “You’re much better with people than you give yourself credit for.”

“What?” Vision looks up at her, his ears pink. “Oh no, I’m really not,” he protests.

“Mrs. Martin was eating out of your hand,” Wanda tells him.

“Well, okay,” Vision acknowledges. “But that’s because she doesn’t scare me,” he meets her eyes and she suddenly feels like she can’t breathe.

“Uh,” she swallows and looks down at the map. “Ready to see some religious paintings?”

“I’m following you,” Vision says, his voice a touch lower than before.

“Right, okay,” Wanda snaps the map shut and squares her shoulders. “Let’s go.”

Wanda notices that since the armory exhibit, Vision has begun touching her more and more.

Nothing obscene or uncomfortable, but he has begun to touch her arm to alert her of his presence, he’s placed his hand on the small of her back to guide her through a crowded room, or brushed his hand against hers while they stand observing a painting together.

All completely innocent touches, but every time she feels the warmth of his hand, her heart-rate rockets and she feels the walls that she’s built to keep him out, slowly break apart.

She also notices that he begins to be far more forthcoming with information about himself. She learns that his favorite artist is Monet, he’s not a fan of the religious paintings of the early fifteenth century, and he’s definitely more of a cat person.

She learns by observing that he loves the more historical parts of the museum, especially the American history wing, and that he can’t stand people who stand in front of the art and take pictures.

As he guides her away from a Degas painting, she hears him sigh. When she looks at him questioningly, he gives her an embarrassed smile. “Sorry,” he says.

“Why the sigh?” she navigates around yet another tour group before turning to look up at him.

“I miss ballet being that straightforward,” he explains, gesturing back at the painting of a ballerina relaxing on the side of a studio, her gaze lowered to her turned out feet, a long tulle skirt with a blue sash hanging around her legs.

“Was ballet ever simple for you?” Wanda asks.

He opens his mouth, then closes it ruefully. “No,” he admits. “But I miss thinking it could be.”

She snickers. “Me too,” she confesses.

“You know,” Vision drops his hand from her back as they escape the crush of tourists and she mourns the loss of its warmth. “I’m thinking of opening my own dance studio.”

“No way!” Wanda says, grinning up at him. “Really?”

“You’ve got to keep it on the D.L. right now,” Vision warns her. “I’m not sure if it’ll work out, but I’m in the final talks of purchasing a studio in Brooklyn.”

“Oh, I’ve always loved Brooklyn,” Wanda sighs.

“Really?” Vision laughs. “Tony says it’s a bit of a cesspool.”

“Well, Tony’s a bit of a snob,” Wanda says pertly before realizing what she’s said. Her hands fly up to cover her mouth. “Oh, god I’m sorry-.”

But Vision is laughing, his eyes twinkling and looking down at her with such fondness, she feels herself melt. “Don’t be sorry,” he says. “You’re correct.”

“Do you want to start a company?” Wanda asks as they navigate towards the modern art.

“Nothing professional,” Vision shakes his head. “I want to open a nonprofit for children who can’t afford to go to an actual dance school.”

And Wanda feels the last bits of her wall against him crumple at her feet.  

***

When they exit the museum a few hours later, Vision doesn’t want the day to end.

He’s already begun to mourn the loss of Wanda’s secret smile and the warmth of her fingers against his.

So, he suggests a late lunch.

“There’s a Mexican place around the corner,” he says, zooming in on Google maps as they step out of the museum and into the cold. “Want to get a taco?”

Wanda is huddled in her coat, the spark he’d seen in her eyes just moments ago has faded. “Uh, sure,” she agrees.

“Are you certain?” Vision says. “If you have somewhere else to be, I understand.”

“No, no,” Wanda shakes her head. “No place to be, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Vision is still unsure, but he offers her his arm, emboldened by the fact that she hasn’t shrugged off any of his touches so far.

She links her arm with his, giving him a smile that zips down his spine pleasantly, and they fight the wind down Eighty-Second street to Madison Avenue.

The Mexican restaurant is warm and dark, with tiny booths that look out over the street and a low ceiling that Vision just barely manages not to bump his head on.

The waiter drops a couple of menus and two glasses of ice water on the table before zipping away and Wanda lifts the menu gingerly.

Vision opens his eagerly, breakfast had been a long time ago, and begins to browse the menu gleefully. “Oh,” he says. “The enchiladas look amazing.”

Wanda makes a noise of agreement in the back of her throat, but her eyes continue to scan the menu.

“Or the shrimp tacos,” Vision grins at her. “I love seafood.”

“Me too,” Wanda confesses before her lips press together, her face red, like she didn’t mean to reveal that fact about herself. Her eyes flick back to the menu.

The waiter arrives and Vision orders four shrimp tacos and some chips and guacamole for him and Wanda to share.

Wanda worries her bottom lip as she studies the menu before looking up at the waiter with a sheepish smile and orders a salad with no dressing.

The waiter takes their menus and disappears and Wanda takes a long sip of her water.

Vision clears his throat. “So,” he says after a moment. “That was the Met.”

Wanda smirks up at him. “That was the Met,” she agrees.

“It was big,” he says stupidly.

“It’s the fifth largest art museum in the world,” Wanda says.

“Is it really?” Vision takes a sip of his water.

The waiter comes over and drops a large basket of chips and guacamole on the table and Vision wastes no time in digging in.

Wanda is far more hesitant, barely dipping the chip in the guacamole and nibbling on the end of it dubiously.

“Oh,” Vision says. “Do you not like guac? I’m sorry, I should have asked before ordering.”

“No,” Wanda says. “No, I love guacamole,” she crunches the chip and smiles at him.

“If you’re sure,” he says uncertainly.

“Of course, I am,” she takes a big sip of water. “Tell me more about your studio.”

It’s a carrot dangling in front of him and he gladly snatches it, not realizing how much he wanted to talk about his plans once he finally had the space to start.

He’s going on and on about donors and programing and tutus as Wanda leans her chin in her hand and watches him with a fond expression in her green eyes.

It’s only when the food is dropped in front of them that he realizes he’s been talking for about ten minutes straight with no interruptions. “Oh, god,” he says gathering a taco in his hand. “Quick, you talk so I don’t feel like I’ve monopolized the whole conversation.”

Wanda laughs, unrolling her silverware delicately and spears a piece of lettuce. “You aren’t monopolizing,” she assures him. “Your plans are amazing.”

“Thank you,” he bites into the end of his shrimp taco and manages to bury a groan of satisfaction. “Damn these are good, how’s your salad?”

“Great,” Wanda says cheerfully, though it looks like she’s barely touched it. “Tell me more about the programming, you said you wanted to offer all mediums of dance training?”

Vision wipes his mouth and launches into another monologue about gathering local artists to teach various classes, Wanda grinning at him.

“What?” he asks after he pauses to take a sip of water.

“Nothing,” she says. “I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you this passionate about anything.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I never really wanted to be a dancer?” he asks.

She tilts her head to one side. “Yes,” she says.

He feels something like relief blossoming in his chest. He’d just voiced one of his worst kept secrets and she hadn’t even flinched. A grin stretches across his face. “I like you, Wanda Maximoff,” he says.

Her eyes widen and she looks around. “Don’t let anyone else hear you say that,” she hisses theatrically. “It’ll ruin my image.”

He snickers, chomping the last bite of taco.

“Can I clear any plates for you?” the waiter has returned.

Vision is still grinning as he hands over his empty plate when he sees Wanda drop her napkin on top of her almost completely full salad bowl, handing it over to the waiter.

His brow creases. “Wanda,” he says as the waiter disappears.

“Hmm?” she asks.

“Why didn’t you eat any lunch?”

Her head snaps up. “What are you talking about?” she asks. Her face is neutral, but her voice wobbles.

“You barely touched your salad,” Vision says.

“Yes, I did,” she argues. “You just didn’t notice.”

Vision feels a chill dripping down his spine as he sits back in his chair and observes Wanda openly.

She’s tiny.

The low lights of the restaurant throw the hollows of her cheeks into a full shadow, emphasizing the outline of her skull. Her wrist, as she reaches for the water glass, is only skin and bones, thin enough to be snapped with little to no effort.

She must have lost at least fifteen pounds since he arrived two months ago.

Fifteen pounds she really couldn’t afford to lose in the first place.

His brain flashes to an image of Wanda a few nights ago, pale and skeletal in the stage lights. An uncomfortable pit settles in his stomach and he swallows against it, wondering if it’s just a coincidence that Wanda seems to be melting away into nothing. 

Do you usually not eat lunch?

More so now.

“Wanda,” he says carefully, though he wants to shake her. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“I am!” Wanda protests. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m an athlete, I have to eat.”

He looks pointedly at her wrist, lying on the table and she pulls the sleeve of her sweater down self-consciously. “Why aren’t you eating?” he asks again.

“Just leave it, Vision,” Wanda’s voice has dropped, her eyes blazing.

A horrible thought flashes through his brain. “Is this why you’ve been going to yoga?” he asks. “To Pilates, to the gym?”

“This is none of your business,” Wanda informs him.

“It is my business if you faint onstage because you’re starving yourself!” he cries.

She rears back, her eyes narrowing. “That’s rich, coming from you,” she hisses at him.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“You know, Vision,” Wanda gathers up her coat. “I work my ass off every day, and every day I delude myself into thinking I’m a little bit closer to success. But sometimes, when British assholes show up, I’m reminded I’ll never be good enough,” she heaves to her feet and starts to leave but Vision snags her wrist as she walks by.

His hand dwarfs hers, the bones in her wrist as insubstantial as a bird’s. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demands.

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” she snaps. “You tell Agnes that I’m too big to be your Juliet, but now you’re telling me I’m too thin. Pick a lane and decide what you want, but until then, leave me out of it,” she twists her wrist free of his hand and marches away.

“What-,” Vision is too stunned to move for two seconds before surging to his feet and dropping a couple of twenties on the table before rushing after her. “Wanda!” she’s not far ahead, though she picks up the pace when she hears her name. “Wanda!” Vision breaks into an outright run. She might be in shape from all the extra exercise she’s been tacking on, but his legs are still longer and he catches her easily. “Stop!”

“Why?” she asks, her pace not slowing.

“Because we need to talk about this like adults,” he puffs.

“I’ve told you how I feel,” she says. “I don’t think I have anything else to say.”

“Well, I have many things to say!” Vision bellows, not caring that people on the sidewalk are beginning to stare.

Wanda slows. “Fine,” she says. “You have until we reach the 6 train. And then you can kindly fuck off.”

He growls under his breath. “Fine,” he agrees. “Why the hell are you starving yourself?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got limited time and that’s how you want to waste it?”

“Yes!” he cries. “I mean, no, I just-,” he breaks off, fighting for words. There is no other way to say it, he feels horror tangling around his throat as he stares at her, shining with a fierce light even in her discomfort.

How did he miss this?

“Why are you starving yourself?”

They’ve reached the 6 train.

“Why don’t you ask Agnes?” Wanda says bitterly. “Since the two like to talk about me when I’m not around.”  

They both hear the train shriek into the station and she gives him a humorless smile before twisting around and vanishing underground, leaving him with more questions and no answers.