Synthesis

Chapter 10: A Privilege to Be Among Them

Avengers’ Tower, New York City, May 12th, 2015, 10:05am

The streets of New York City are bustling, even eighty-seven floors above from where Vision is staring out of the large expanse of windows within the Avengers’ tower. It had been a fairly uneventful six days since Sokovia, Captain Rogers and Mr. Stark dealing with the political fallout and aftermath of the battle, leaving Vision little to do.

He had been instructed not to leave the tower, as there had been several photos taken of him both in Sokovia and aboard the helicarrier, and now hundreds of news articles exist guessing at who he might be. Vision had only scanned a few headlines before growing unsettled by the titles— Stark’s New Superbot? Robot in Cape Suspected to Be On the Side of the Avengers, Superfreak! Catch our Juicy Exclusive on the Bot that Brought Down Ultron, Artificial Intelligence That Walks and Talks? Look No Further than Park Avenue.

Skirting the memories, Vision focuses his eyes to scan the streets below, as he has done for the past six days, observing human life from afar. Down below on Park Avenue and 44th Street, facing west, Vision sees the usual: hotdog vendors and sleek black towns cars. Yellow taxis that zoom in and out of traffic. Even closer, Vision sees various men flanked in business suits, women in heels, a couple strolling hand in hand, their young child running up ahead, until the woman grabs the frolicking boy and pulls him closer to her. Tourists take photos with their phones. Cyclists blare music. Businessmen meet for lunch. 

The city is alive at all times, in a stark juxtaposition to the lifelessness of the Avengers’ tower. He was instructed the Avengers compound in upstate New York would be complete in a week’s time, where he, and Miss Maximoff, would move to. Everyone else seemed to have somewhere else to be, or, rather, had something else to do. Despite this, however, Vision had only caught a glimpse of Miss Maximoff twice since arriving at the Avengers’ tower once more. Once when Director Hill had shown them each to a bare, nondescript room to stay in, and the second time in the middle of the night when Miss Maximoff had been peeking into a communal refrigerator when Vision was doing his nightly patrol of the building. He had frightened her then, he remembered the way she had clutched her chest, and even though he had apologized, he had not seen her since. He had the suspicion her powers allowed her to elude him, although he could not be certain.

Lost deep in thought, he was half a second too late in detecting a presence entering the main landing, the telltale click of heels suggesting a woman, although as he turned, he realized it was not Miss Maximoff- no, it wouldn’t be. She always wore boots — but...Vision quickly pulled up the memory file from JARVIS, Miss Potts, the CEO of Stark Industries. He quickly hovers upward to be beside the woman, and he watches her eyes go wide at his appearance—a common first occurrence, he has found, in the humans he has met so far—before clearing she clears her throat and nods.

“Ummm, Vision, that’s what we’re calling you right?” She asks, looking down at her tablet before glancing up at him once more. He nods again. Out of habit now, everyone has dropped the “The” from his name, and he suspects it is because a singular name makes him seem more human, although he had no surname to speak of. 

“Miss Potts, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he says, after quickly determining this to be the most appropriate salutation for the present social circumstance. She says nothing for a moment, only blinks a few times, before shaking her head a little.

“God, you really do sound exactly like him,” she murmurs, the downturn of her lips apparent on her features.

“I take it you mean JARVIS,” Vision says respectfully.

“Yes,” she responds.

“You knew him well,” Vision offers.

“I...well, yeah,” she says, nervously tapping something into the tablet. He searches quickly through JARVIS’ memories, and finds many that suggest the nature of the AI’s relationship with the woman. 

“And why do you do it? Watch Shakespeare?”  

“Although I have downloaded the knowledge of the collective works of Shakespeare, I am also aware that Shakespeare’s plays are best experienced, not read.”

“You were kind to the AI,” Vision states, and Miss Potts frowns a little, before straightening her stance.

“Since Director Hill and her staff have already moved out to oversee finalization of the completion of the compound, I’ve been asked to help out on this end. I came to tell you, Dr. Cho has arrived from Seoul. She’s made a full recovery, thanks in part to her own technology, and Steve’s recruited her and her team to the Avengers initiative,” Miss Potts says through a curt nod. 

“I am glad to hear she has recovered,” Vision responds, and he detects the woman’s smile is strained.

“If you wouldn’t mind, while she’s here, taking inventory of the rest of the equipment to move to the compound, she said that she would like to run some...tests,” she responds, glancing down at her tablet for confirmation once more.

“I take it that she is doing this in replacement of Mr. Stark,” Vision states. Unlike Miss Maximoff or Captain Rogers, Vision has not run into the man who had a hand in his creation since the helicarrier, and, after their terse conversation on the QuinJet, Vision suspects Stark would want to keep it that way.

“Not exactly. Although, yes, Tony asked her to copy him on her findings,” Miss Potts responds.

“When will these tests commence?” Vision asks.

“Well, anytime you’re free,” Miss Potts says, with a shrug of her shoulders. 

“I have not been tasked with any responsibilities as of yet, so I am always...free,” Vision says simply, and this time the smile Miss Potts wears feels real.

“Then now, I guess. She’s in Dr. Banner’s...old lab,” she says, and Vision nods dutifully at her.

“Thank you, Miss Potts,” he says, lifting himself up off the ground again, intent on phasing through the walls to Banner’s lab. He barely makes it five feet before he hears Miss Potts call after him once more.

“Vision…”

“Yes?” He says, twirling back around to face her.

“He’ll come around. Tony, I mean,” she says nervously, fidgeting with a gold bracelet on her wrist. Vision does not react, before choosing the best course of action in answering.

“Whether or not Mr. Stark chooses to converse with me is a matter entirely up to him. It does not affect me either way,” he says, before turning back around, although he hears the woman sigh before the click of heels disappears in the other direction.

With little other thought in regard to Miss Potts, Vision easily phases two floors down, landing gracefully in Dr. Banner’s abandoned lab, as the man is still MIA since Sokovia. The lab is empty, save for a single woman perched at a computer desk, staring at several JPEG images on the screen, her black hair pulled back tightly in a bun and her posture poised. 

“Pardon. Dr. Helen Cho?” he asks quietly, noticing he has a tendency to startle people, which is upheld, when the woman swivels in her chair and her eyes fly wide open in surprise.

“Oh goodness! Vision! Umm, hello. Sorry, you startled me,” she responds, and Vision mentally notes he must work on how he enters a room, before switching to Korean out of courtesy.

“당신을 겁 주려는 뜻이 아니에요,” he responds quietly.

“Oh, that’s very gracious of you, but English is fine, and it wasn’t your fault. I was immersed,” she smiles at him, gesturing idly back to the computer screen. “Would you like to take a look?”

Vision pauses for a moment, before hovering over to her, still keeping a polite distance, performing a quick search to understand what he is looking at.

“Epithelial cells?” He asks, and she looks up from the screen at him again, smiling through a nod.

“Nice work. They’re yours, by the way,” she says again, and Vision frowns, staring at the tiny row of pink, elongated ovals once more, even as he backs up a pace as the woman stands.

“You speak like a native,” she says simply, striding over to a table where there are several packing containers, as the woman procures a leather case out of one of them. 

“I am capable of speaking any language fluently,” he murmurs, eyes still on the cells as Dr. Cho walks back over to where he is standing, placing the leather case on the desk.

“I was able to obtain the hard drive from Stark’s computer, even though the cradle was destroyed,” she says, picking up a mug and taking a sip of what Vision’s olfactory receptors detect is strong, Colombian coffee.

“My...apologies,” Vision murmurs, as he realizes he was the one guilty of destroying the cradle in the first place.

“None taken. Stark is paying U-GIN back. Although I guess it doesn’t matter at all, really. Now that I’ve been hired by your team,” she says through a shrug. “Do you mind…” she drops off, glancing around the room, before grabbing a spare metal chair and dragging it over to the computer workstation, “taking a seat?”

Vision frowns, realizing he is still hovering off of the ground several inches. He slowly puts his feet on the floor, and awkwardly sits down in the chair, unsure of where his legs or arms should go, so he keeps his arms at his side, feet firmly on the floor. Meanwhile, Dr. Cho pulls the office chair a little closer to him, pulling a stethoscope off her neck and placing the eartips in her ears.

“Do you mind?” she asks, edging closer to him, and Vision shakes his head, as she gently places the drum over the left side of his chest, directly over his heart. Other than when he carried Miss Maximoff to safety, this is as close as he’s been to a human that he’s catalogued, and as he listens to the woman breathe, can hear her own pulse clearly in the closed space between them, even as she listens to his own.

“Amazing…” he hears her whisper through a smile. She now moves the drum to the center of his chest, instructing him to breathe in, and he does so, hesitantly, before breathing out more steadily. She instructs him to do so again, then again. Something about it all feels odd, although he can’t quite decide what it is he is feeling. As she removes the drum, she quickly grabs a legal pad and writes several Korean characters, and Vision lifts a brow in curiosity, like he had catalogued Captain Rogers doing on board the helicarrier. 

“You truly are a miracle, do you know that?” she says, setting down the notepad. Vision says nothing, although something in him warms at this woman, who has not once, despite the tests she seems to be conducting on him, treated him in a negative or cautious fashion. 

“Your heart is pumping blood to your extremities, allowing oxygen to your brain,” she says, quickly typing something into the computer, bringing up several more images of his own body on the screen, leftover readouts from the cradle, most likely moments before his birth.

“I was under the impression that such systems were superfluous, that even if my heart stopped, I would be able to function,” he says quietly, staring at the inner workings of his own body once more on the computer monitor. Dr. Cho nods, taking another sip of coffee as she does so, turning back to Vision.

“Theoretically, yes. We’re not still entirely sure how the Mind Stone powers your body though, so I wouldn’t go testing that theory just yet,” she laughs. At this, Vision looks down, almost sheepishly. He has only known her a matter of minutes, but something about her makes Vision desperately want her approval, scientific or otherwise.

“I may...already have. 54 hours ago I tested sustaining 18 hours without breathing. No changes in my physiology or cognitive abilities,” he says quietly, and it’s her turn to raise a brow at him.

“Well, that is something,” she replies, although she is frowning. “But no more rogue tests. I don’t care how much information you have access to. Until you hold a medical degree, I wouldn’t try it. And even then doctors don’t usually perform tests on themselves,” she says through another coy smile, and Vision nods dutifully.

“Even so, if your cardiovascular and respiratory system are, what did you call them? ‘Superfluous,’ they are biological. Along with some of your musculature and obviously your skin. As is your central and peripheral nervous system. I’ve been looking at my...work. Under Ultron’s control,” she says, through a small frown, before turning back to the screen. “Your brain truly is a thing of beauty. Your neural activity is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Beyond human.”

At these words, something in him falls, and, although he is certain nothing in his face changes, she seems to detect the change within him, and softens her next inquiry. 

“What I mean is that... you have the ability to access any memory you choose, yes?”

“Yes,” Vision murmurs, and she begins quickly writing more down on her pad of paper, gesturing for him to elaborate.

“Based on memories from JARVIS, my best estimation is that his operational matrix, along with Ultron’s, makes up the core of my operating system. And if your scans are correct, that system, along with the Mind Stone, is what stimulates my cellular neural and cranial activity. I am able to access and store data from the internet, virtually without limitations, process the data and place explicit memories in an organized and labeled fashion. My guess is that my hippocampus must be involved, somehow,” Vision reports, and the woman smiles at him again.

“And what about the emotional attachment to your memories?” Dr. Cho asks, not even looking up for the pad of paper where she is quickly writing.

“Pardon?” Vision inquires, blinking at her, and she finally looks up, an odd smile on her face.

“Your amygdala, Vision. From previous scans when your body was being crafted, I’ve confirmed you have one. Have you felt any emotional attachment or connection with any of your memories so far?” She asks carefully, and Vision continues to only blink at her, before searching his mind for such a connection, frowning as he does so.

“I...not from JARVIS’ databanks, no,” he responds quietly.

“And since?” she presses, and Vision’s frown deepens, as quite suddenly he is pulled into a memory from eight days ago, aboard the helicarrier. 

She is sitting on a makeshift cot amidst the other refugees, sipping quietly from a plastic cup of water, somehow seeming smaller, so very different than the powerful woman that had been fighting Ultron’s robots mere hours before. He approaches her hesitantly, moving to stand just beyond her.

“Miss Maxmioff,” he says quietly, and she looks up at him cautiously, her eyes and face red, her free hand fumbling with the cuff of the red jacket she still wears. 

“I thought it prudent to show you I’ve returned,” he murmurs.

“Did you do it?” she hoarsely whispers, and at her inquiry, he merely nods.

“I guess I should thank you,” she murmurs, and he realizes she speaks of pulling her from the plummeting city, not for succeeding in finishing off Ultron.

“You wished to die,” he says simply. 

“I still do,” she says blankly, tearing her gaze away from his. At this, his mind goes blank for .58 seconds, not a single stray thought entering into his consciousness, before it quickly jolts back, summoning up a list of potentially appropriate responses.

“I could not allow that to happen,” he finally murmurs the words, and he realizes she clutches the plastic cup more tightly between her thin fingers.

As the memory fades, Vision refocuses his attention on Dr. Cho and the lab he is currently still sitting in.

“I...I am not certain. I am not sure, exactly, how to pinpoint such phenomena,” he finally responds, casting his gaze downward. It is then he realizes the woman has placed her smaller hand on the top of his right palm. The action startles him, but he tries not to show it, as it is the first time, he’s realized, a human has ever deliberately touched him before. Her skin is soft and warm, and he hardly hears her next words over the meaning of the gentle, kind gesture.

“Try not to be concerned, Vision. It’s just another area we can study, yes?” she asks, and he looks up to her once more as she removes her hand and takes a sip of coffee. 

“Yes,” he says, before she goes back to her pen and paper.

“So, to verify. You can access the internet, can move into the internet, at least partially, but you cannot move your consciousness into another space, such as a computer,” she says, still fervently writing.

“No,” he replies.

“Which may help confirm your theory about your operating system being inherently tied to your biological brain. Although of course we should run more tests,” she says. “I’ve also been instructed you have the ability to willfully alter your molecular structure.”

“To a degree, yes,” he responds. At this, Dr. Cho looks up from her notes.

“What are the limitations that you’ve encountered?” she inquires, and Vision struggles to put the concept into English words.

“It is simply that...inwardly I have the ability to space the molecules outward, to become less or more dense,” Visions begins, and Dr. Cho nods knowingly.

“But...in terms of outward appearance, it takes quite a bit more concentration. I can, for instance, phase the appearance of a uniform, as I am doing now. But I have run into...complications in other areas,” he drops off.

“How so?” she asks quietly, looking up from her notes to look him in the eye.

“I have attempted, for example, to look more... human. To alter the color of my skin, to simulate hair, but I have found the details to be incredibly difficult. So far, I have not succeeded,” he ends.

The woman is quiet for a moment, pausing her notetaking while considering him carefully.

“May I ask... why... you were motivated to do such a thing?” she asks.

“I...have not been allowed outside the building to test the limits of my other powers, due to my appearance, as it has been explained to me,” Vision responds, and he can tell that the doctor doesn’t approve, even as she opens the leather case, plucking a syringe from the packaging. 

“It’s vibranium, just in case. Also sterile,” she responds at Vision’s widening eyes, before he complies, phasing away the right sleeve of his uniform so that the woman has better access to his veins. Dr. Cho carefully ties a latex turnicate around his upper arm and tells him to make a fist, and he deliberately does so. Once more, she feels the inner portion of his lower arm in an attempt to find a vein. To his surprise, she locates one easily, and skillfully slips the needle into his arm, a twinge of pain as the metal pierces what he assumes to be his durable skin. She then pulls the tunicate from his upper arm and tells him to relax.

“Why were you instructed to stay in the tower?” She asks, distracting him momentarily as Vision had watched, amazed, as a deep red liquid fills the vial in the syringe.

“Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers have agreed that doing so will draw less attention than is deemed necessary right now, considering the fallout of Sokovia and the current news circulating about my existence,” Vision says, as the woman removes the needle and moves to fill three vials with the blood she’s collected, frowning as she does so.

“Well, always know that is a suggestion not an order, Vision. And I am sure you’ll get to see more of the world after the move to the compound,” she says through a warm smile, placing the vials on the table and disposing the needle in a spare sharps container, Vision keeping the question of how much money she just disposed of for one blood draw to himself.

“I also have a homework assignment for you,” she says through another smile, opening up her briefcase and handing him a fairly used paperback copy of War and Peace. 

“Tolstoy?” Vision asks curiously, gingerly taking the book from her. 

“Yep,” she says. Vision flips through the book curiously, noting the softness of the worn paper and the fine print of the blank ink printed onto the pages.

“I can download the full text and realize its contents in a matter of half a minute,” he says, confusion clouding this particular task she’s given him. 

“That’s not the assignment. I’d like you to read it. Line by line. At your own pace, of course,” Dr. Cho says, and Vision tilts his head in confusion at her.

“Oh, don’t look so nonplussed; it’s a good read,” she says through a smile.

“I have no doubt,” he says, mimicking her with the upturn of his lips.

“I’d also like you to practice walking, on the ground. Preferably outside, especially after we make the move. I suspect it will help your musculoskeletal system, help you develop better muscle memory, even considering most of it relies on machinery,” she says.

“You wish for me to act more human,” he says flatly.

“No. I wish for you to be you. But I’d like to study and observe how all of you works. We need to more properly understand how you process sensory input, since that is new. I’d also like to study how you learn information in the same manner,” she says, moving to stand, stretching as she does so.   

“I am able to upgrade any system I choose at any time, as I can rewrite portions of my programming as I see fit,” Vision clarifies, mirroring her motion and standing as well, although he remembers to keep his feet firmly planted on the floor. 

“I didn’t say upgrade. I said learn, ” Dr. Cho says through a grin.

“I...see,” Vision murmurs, although it is not entirely clear to him that he does understand the difference between the two concepts. Dr. Cho seems to sense his confusion, and points at her own skull.

“That amygdala we were talking about, Vision. It’s important. It’s presence indicates that you’re processing sensory information like anyone else. The level of its activity determines whether the information travels to the lower, involuntary, reactive brain, which you have don’t you dare think you don’t,” Dr. Cho says, practically reading his thoughts before continuing on, “or up to the reflective and memory-storing ‘thinking brain,’ where your operating system is most likely nestled. I wanna know how you take in sensory data, and how you interpret it,” she says, beginning to rifle through her bag, pulling out a leather bound journal with a felt-tipped pen clipped to the front.

“What is this?” Vision asks, as she hands it to him.

“A gift. And the second part of your homework,” she says through a grin, as Vision carefully takes the item from her.

“I’d like you to log any vivid emotions you detect, and, if possible, what thoughts or external stimuli caused them.”

“Emotions?” Vision says blankly, looking up to the woman, and the woman crosses her arms determinedly.

“Yes. Since you possess all the anatomy, there’s no reason for you to not feel them.”

Vision remains quiet, glancing down at the journal in his hands.

“I know. Analog feels barbaric, but physically writing is another way to get you to engage in more sensory input. It’s sure to help.”

“But...emotional responses to stimuli tend to cloud judgement and procure irrational behavior,” Vision responds, and, at this, Dr. Cho stands up from the desk she was learning on, pushing a dark tendril of hair that has escaped it’s hold further out of her face. 

“Yes, they do. They also make us human,” she says, patting him softly on the shoulder. Vision realizes he has no retort for this, and lets her continue. 

“We’ll set up a time to reconvene in two weeks. By that time, we’ll be fully moved into the compound, but, in the meantime, I’ll make the results of the bloodwork available on the Avengers’ private server, only accessible to your eyes. Is that alright? Can I expect a full report from you by then?” she asks.

“Yes, Dr. Cho,” he murmurs, awkwardly holding the journal and book in his hands, realizing he hasn’t mastered the art of phasing objects with him, and begins to head towards the door.

“And Vision,” Dr. Cho says, and he turns to meet her eyes once more.

“I’m happy you’re here. Tests or not, feel free to stop by the lab anytime, especially once we’re all settled,” she says. 

Vision nods in her direction, gripping the journal and novel in his hands and turns to leave, rounding the next corner, just before practically bumping into the woman about to make her into Dr. Cho’s lab.

“Miss Maximoff!” He says, partially phasing his arm through her to avoid a collision, and turning back round quickly to face her. She is wearing a long sleeved cotton shirt, in black, and dark jeans. She looks better than the last time he had seen her, like maybe she had eaten. She has freshly showered, and his olfactory receptors immediately detect the scent of lilac in her hair.

“Oh, uh, hi, Vision,” she murmurs, fiddling with the silver rings that adorn several of her fingers, staring down at the floor. “I assume they’re poking and prodding you, too?”

“Yes,” Vision replies, shuffling the journal and book from his left arm to his right. “Dr. Cho drew my blood.”

At that, she looks up to him in surprise.

“I...I didn’t know you had blood,” she murmurs, and he offers her a small smile.

“Neither did I. At least, not outside of a theoretical framework. It was...quite a shock when I saw it,” he said, and, for a moment, he thinks he sees a half-smile grace her lips, before her expression falls once more.

“Fellow lab rats, eh?” she murmurs dejectedly.

“Dr. Cho did not treat me as such. I believe you’ll find her bedside manner to be...quite professional,” Vision finishes, and he know he should let her be, leave the hallway, but for some reason his limbs don’t seem to want to function, betraying the command of his brain to move them. He can tell she is uncomfortable now, but finds himself still speaking. Hoping to convey…. what exactly?

“Miss Maximoff,” he murmurs, eyes focused on her downtrodden ones.

“Yes?” she asks, finally looking up to him, and he commands himself to blink, so his gaze is not ‘off-putting,’ as Director Hill had said four days prior. 

“I wished to inquire… how you are feeling?” he asks, and he knows that it is the wrong thing he has said, because she is frowning once more, and does not respond. 

“I wanted to offer my condolences about your brother’s death,” he presses, and now there is pain in her features, as she crosses her arms and begins to turn toward the lab.

“I...thank you, Vision. Excuse me,” she says, striding quickly down the hall.

He had said the wrong thing. He had meant his words to be genuine, but, yet again, he had missed the context clues, the intricacy of the social situation, and had only succeeded in driving her further away from him. 

Vision finds himself gripping the journal more tightly, now lifting off the ground, to phase through several walls to place the materials in the bare guest room he had not frequented more than once, before phasing upward two floors, taking up his daily vigil at the windows of the Avengers’ tower once more.

—

Avengers’ Compound, Upstate New York, May 17th, 2015, 7:53am

The flight upstate is a brief, quiet one, Captain Rogers manning the jet, Miss Maximoff in the copilot's seat, per Rogers’ suggestion, Vision seated toward the back. Once every few minutes, Captain Rogers points something out to Miss Maximoff, a historic landmark or another township, although the young woman doesn’t seem all that interested in the scenery. Vision has not spoken more than a handful of words to Miss Maximoff since their encounter outside of Dr. Cho’s lab, and that does not seem to be changing anytime soon. He feels himself frowning, even as he downloads countless academic articles on the subject of grief, easily moving through the peer-reviewed literature, although he feels somewhat lost in the abstract concepts he finds there. He has just downloaded an article by Shear et al outlining the four key features of complicated grief, when he realizes, with a jolt, that the QuinJet has landed, and Miss Maximoff has already walked off the jet through the exit ramp, Vision catching a glimpse of her clutching her bag with her few belongings more tightly to her. 

“Vision. You coming?” Captain Rogers asks, and Vision nods, carrying with him the two items that he possesses currently. The leather bound journal, its pages still empty, and a the loaned copy of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, having already made his way through Tolstoy’s work. 

He quietly exits the jet, hovering behind Captain Rogers and Miss Maximoff, as his eyes adjust to the blinding sun of mid-May. Before him, a long, rectangular building, only five stories high, stretches out before him and as they make their way through a side entrance, Director Hill is there to greet them.

“Wanda, Vision,” she says through a smile, and Miss Maximoff offers a half-hearted wave, as Captain Rogers says his goodbyes, due in Washington DC later that day. 

“Follow me,” Hill says, and the pair trail behind the determined woman, Miss Maximoff’s steps quiet and unsure, Vision taking up the rear, still hovering a few inches off the ground, momentarily disregarding Dr. Cho’s orders to walk.

As they are offered a tour with the facility, Vision is not surprised with its size or impressive accommodations, knowing full-well the current balance of Mr. Stark’s bank account, but he can’t help but notice Miss Maximoff seems quickly overwhelmed. They are shown a state-of-the-art training facility, a wide swath of offices, Helen Cho’s new laboratory, although she has not arrived at the compound yet, and then they are brought upstairs to the main living area. The furniture is pristine and every surface gleams with cleanliness, as they are taken through an in-home theatre room, several dining and sitting areas, a large and expansive open-concept kitchen. Vision is mapping and memorizing the layout as he glides behind them, and soon enough they reach the living quarters, a long hallway with a row of doors evenly spaced ten meters apart. Three-quarters of the way down the corridor, they stop at a doorway, and Director Hill shows Miss Maximoff inside.

“I hope everything meets the specifications you requested,” she says as she walks Miss Maximoff into her room, as Vision waits just outside the entrance. A few more words are exchanged, and the automatic door shuts behind Hill, frowning slightly at Vision, before moving one more door down, opening up the door for him by typing a code on her tablet.

“This is the room at the end of the hall. We hope that’s alright. There shouldn’t be too much background noise, as we’re on the west side of the building, a long distance away from the landing pad,” Director Hill says as Vision steps inside. 

“I know you said you don’t require much, but I was mandated to order you some furniture,” she says, as Vision takes in slim office desk and leather office chair facing the east wall, the two sleek brown leather chairs, set at an exact 45 degree angle from one another, with a slim table between them. Across from the armchairs, is a rather large painting, his mind clearly confirming it is Vincent Van Gogh’s The Mulberry Tree. Vision blinks at it for a moment, turning to face the woman once more.

“Steve said you mentioned Van Gogh, so we thought it might be suitable. Of course, it is just a replica, although Tony had it commissioned by one the most famed artists in Europe,” Director Hill responds from behind him.

“It is...beautiful,” Vision blinks, turning slowly around, eyes darting to the en suite to his right. 

“I have no need for such facilities,” he says, insinuating that to offer him a room with such amenities was excessive and altogether pointless.

“TMI, Vision, but, noted. They all come with en suites, but you never have to set foot in the bathroom, if you don’t want to, although you’ll find it complete with a jacuzzi, shower room, and double sink. Our cleaning staff will be by once a week anyway,” she says, striding towards the door, before turning back around.

“Oh, I was going to hand you a tablet, but Steve says you already have access to our private network and can open the doors your authorization grants you so you don’t trip any alarms walking through walls” Hill says from the doorway.

“I can make sure the alarms are never disturbed in the first place,” Vision responds.

“Uh huh. Well, for now, let’s try to not to give FRIDAY a headache, yeah? And she’s available 24/7, if you require anything. Other than that, our joint-training commences in roughly two weeks, once all the other members arrive. Until then, breakfast and lunch are at one’s leisure, and dinner is at 6pm each night. I know-“ she cuts him off from speaking.

“You don’t eat. But Steve insisted you join us, each night if possible,” she finishes.

“What for, then?” Vision asks softly, through a small frown.

“Camaraderie, is how he put it,” Hill says through a shrug. Finally, she glances down at the book in Vision’s hand, before looking up to him.

“Can I...get you any more books, at least?” she asks, and the question surprises Vision. He almost immediately declines, before remembering Dr. Cho’s assignment, having thus far enjoyed the process of reading.

“Yes. I am working my way through nineteenth century Russian literature,” he responds. 

“I’ll place an order for British and American literature too,” Hill says through a small smile.

“May I...also suggest the classics? As well as Plato and Aristotle complete works?” Vision asks.

“Consider it done,” she says, before exiting the room, the automatic door sliding shut behind her. Carefully, he sets down the book and the journal on the office desk, before turning back to look at The Mulberry Tree. He moves a little closer to it, his eyes following the brushstrokes of the oil paint on the canvas, caught up in how the colors transform from a butter yellow to a burnt russet to the richest of blues, and Vision blinks once more.

It’s a...sense of something, and before he can find the word, his mind finds it for him.

<Awe. Define. Based on previous search history: a feeling of reverential respect mixed with fear or wonder.>

It is not new, then, and as soon as he realizes it, the remnants of the feeling already come alive in his mind from deep in his memory banks, bits of data that piece themselves together, slowly, to create a murky, ghostly feeling of the word, and Vision realizes, all at once, that the AI that preceded him felt something similar, from the expanse of space, a canvas of pinpricks of white light on a inky background, another emotion, something Vision can’t quite place, also just riding under the current.

Vision closes his eyes for a moment, clearing the memory, before turning back and carefully picking up the journal, opening and bending down to write, realizing the felt-tipped pen feels a bit awkward in his right hand, before switching it to his left, determining it is much more comfortable there. Carefully, he writes the letters in small, slightly slanted, but otherwise perfect handwriting. 

Awe. 

It’s the first word he’s ever hand-written on paper, and he stares at it, unblinking, as the word stares back at him, and, before he can regret the action, he closes the journal without another thought.

—

Avengers’ Compound, Upstate New York, May 18th, 2015, 5:22pm

“Loss and grief are fundamental to human life. Grief can be defined as the response to the loss in all of its totality – including its physical, emotional, cognitive, behavioural and spiritual manifestations – and as a natural and normal reaction to loss. Put simply, grief is the price we pay for love, and a natural consequence of forming emotional bonds to people, projects and possessions. All that we value we will someday lose.”

All that we value we will someday lose, Vision frowns as this information enters his mind, Dostyoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov forgotten in his hands. Slowly, he backs up, noting each of the forms grief affects as it applies to Miss Maximoff, one by one. Physical. That he had witnessed easily with the young woman, her frail form and gaunt face indicative that she was not eating or sleeping enough. Emotional. This was harder to detect, as Vision was struggling with the very same phenomenon. But it was obvious that a smile rarely graced the woman’s lips, let alone a laugh. Cognitive. Behavioral. She rarely left her room, although he did not have a proper baseline to know if this was different than her previous behavior or not. Spiritual. Vision had the knowledge of all the world’s religions, all their dogmas and practices and belief systems, however illogical they seemed, in his mind. He did not know if Miss Maximoff subscribed to a certain religion or not. And even if he did know, the way that humans had faith, the way they believed in gods or goddesses, was something he doubted he would ever fully comprehend. Although, in the last few days he had begun to draw conclusions about the similarities in the faith he subscribed to in science. He had never witnessed a black hole or a dying star, yet he knew, theoretically, they were likely to exist. Striking hypotheses was a sort of faith, wasn’t it? Although, the difference being, the scientist would, of course, be willing to be proven wrong. 

And what of the Mind Stone? What of its mystical presence, of the limitless power it bestowed upon him? Had galaxies long since extinguished worshipped it? Had humanity itself not called Thor and Loki gods, because their power and access to technology could not be explained? Miss Maximoff and himself were capable of extraordinary, impossible feats of power. For Vision’s own purpose, it is easy to understand he is not human, and there for a moot point, but what of Miss Maximoff? For she certainly is human. She was conceived, grew in her mother’s womb, alongside her brother, and was born. Powers aside, Miss Maximoff was then potentially capable of having a faith Vision determined he most likely never would. And yet he wasn’t aware-

“So this is where the magic happens!” The voice almost startles Vision, as he quickly stands, turning to the point of origin, and discovers a dark-skinned man in New Orleans Saints t-shirt and track pants marveling at the kitchen. Quickly, he scans him, and discovers that he is Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers’ confidante and friend, and among the new Avengers, the newest, it seems, to have arrived at the compound. Sam suddenly notices Vision, although he is the first that does not appear startled by Vision’s appearance.

“Oh hey man. Sorry, didn’t see you there. What’s up?” Mr. Wilson asks, and Vision phases through the couch, book still in hand, as he approaches the man, offering his right to shake.

“I am Vision,” he introduces himself, and the man takes his hand, but doesn’t shake it, instead grasping it firmly and patting Vision once firmly on the back. 

“So I’ve heard. Sam Wilson. Sam’s fine,” he says, offering a genuine smile, before turning back to the kitchen.

“Captain Rogers speaks highly of you,” Vision offers, and Mr. Wilson only laughs. 

“Steve speaks highly of everybody, but I appreciate that. And vice versa, by the way,” he says, grabbing several utensils from the drawers, plucking two onions and a bulb of garlic from the vegetable basket in the corner.

“You are cooking,” Vision points out. “Even though the staff provides dinner.”

“I told ‘em to call it off. What better way to impress the new folks than by whipping up something better?”

“You enjoy it?” Vision asks, and Mr. Wilson smiles.

“Immensely. Haven’t been able to cook much in the crummy kitchenette in Queens I’ve been renting from a subletter,” he mutters. Meanwhile, Vision phases partially through the kitchen island to more easily sit at a bar stool there, and Mr. Wilson offers a low whistle.

“That’s a nifty power set,” Mr. Wilson says.

“It does have its...benefits,” Vision responds, unsure, yet again, what to do with his hands, as he has discarded the book on the counter, so he joins them, each finger touching the mirrored other.

“I’m sure it does,” Mr. Wilson says, before fetching his phone from his pocket. “Now let’s see here. There has to be a Bluetooth speaker somewhere around this fancy place, right?” He asks.

“FRIDAY,” Vision summons the AI.

“Yes, Vision?” she dutifully responds.

“Would you kindly connect Mr. Wilson’s iPhone to the speaker system?” he asks gently.

“On it,” she responds in her subtle Irish accent, and then suddenly the melodic notes of... Motown, Vision’s mind supplies him, fill the kitchen and living room.

“Whoa, now that’s...fancy. And like I said, call me Sam,” Mr. Wilson, or Sam, responds.

“Sam…” Vision attempts, the name feeling strange and foriegn on his tongue.

“It isn’t so hard, see? And you’re already on a first name basis with your girlfriend, anyway,” Sam responds, and Vision eyes widen.

“Who?” Vision blurts out, and Sam is unsuccessful at stifling a laugh, most likely at Vision’s naïveté. 

“Calm down, it was a joke,” he says, before he clandestinely points to the ceiling above, a pointless action, as Vision realizes Sam means FRIDAY, and if he does, FRIDAY is more than capable of seeing and hearing everything they are currently discussing.

“That is her only name, and yes, we have spoken,” Vision responds, mildly uncomfortable with where the conversation seems to be leading. Sam lifts an eyebrow suggestively at him, even as he plucks a large slicing knife and a cutting board from a drawer and cabinet in front of him

“Bet you two got a lot in common, yeah?” Sam asks, and Vision can’t help but also glance up at the ceiling from where the music is playing, frowning a bit as he does so.

“She is...new,” Vision responds carefully. At this, Vision is surprised to see Sam laughing again.

“Hey, man, hate to break it to ya, but so are you,” he responds through a knowing smile,. Vision wants to explain the vast difference of an AI in its infancy compared to what he finds himself to be now, head full of eighteen years of memories but decides against it, mildly distracted as Sam snaps his fingers along to the beat, dancing to himself a little as he plucks a large stock pot from a cabinet.

“No offense to your woman, Vision, but we need a record player in here at some point,” Sam responds, and Vision’s confusion deepens.

“FRIDAY cannot be offended, at least, I don’t think she can. And she is not.. my woman. Her voice and operating system are programmed to be as female, but she isn’t a woman at all,” Vision says, and, thinking about it for a moment as his eyes scan upward, adds, “No insult was intended by Mr. Wilson or myself, FRIDAY.”

“None taken, Vision. You are quite correct,” she responds, and Sam whips his head upward, now staring at the ceiling with a certain paranoia.

“Can she hear us...like... all the time?” Sam asks timidly, and Vision can only help but smile a little at Sam’s naïveté. 

“Yes, of course. It is her duty to maintain security of the compound. She is able to be many places at once, and is also currently assisting Mr. Stark at his private residence in Santa Barbara on drafting a multi-led effort to provide aid to Sokovia,” Vision responds, but Sam, however, still seems to be confused.

“So you used to be one of those, right?” He bluntly asks, and something in Vision’s limbs feels... heavier, somehow.

“In part, yes,” Vision murmurs. Sam looks at him suggestively, a smirk now on his features. 

“So you probably had to witness...I dunno...hundreds of those sexcapades Tony brags about in his former life, huh?” Sam asks.

Vision’s eyes widen, terrified at the very thought, realizing that yes, JARVIS most likely witnessed much of Stark’s former life, and his shock must show on his face, because Sam is now wincing in sympathy.

“Oh, hell, sorry, man. Now that I think about it...that had to be awful,” he shudders. “Just ugh .”

“Some of my memory files are encrypted for a reason,” Vision says through a slight smile, and Sam turns to him once more, grinning like a madman.

“Did you just... make a joke?” He asks, and Vision blinks at him, entirely unsure if he just did so or not.

“It was indeed a joke, Sam. A very funny one,” FRIDAY chirps in, and then Sam busts out into a fit of laughter, as Vision glances up toward the speaker system in paranoia. Typically AI did not just but in when they felt like it without being summoned. JARVIS would with Mr. Stark sometimes, but that was after years of trust and respect was built between them. At the thought, something twinges inside of Vision, and he tries to explore the feeling, before Sam is raising an eyebrow suggestively at Vision again.

“You might watch out for her. She might have a crush on you,” Sam says in a false whisper, and Vision’s frown deepens, before he clasps Vision on the back. “Oh, brother. I have a feeling we’re gonna get along fine, as long as we can get you to relax a bit,” Sam says through another grin, turning back to his kitchen, and Vision cannot help but mimic the man’s knowing smile.

Twenty six minutes pass, and for the most part Vision watches Sam cook, while listening to the loquacious man talk about where he has recently been and what he has recently done. He speaks a little of his former life in the military, and how he met Captain Rogers, and the more relaxed the man seems, the more Vision detects a slight southern drawl reminiscent of the coastal portion of Louisiana in his words. At one point, Vision mentions it, and then Sam is talking about living most of his childhood on a fishing boat, and of his sister, Sarah, “back home” and how he should really call more often. It is the most a human being has ever opened up to Vision, requiring little effort from Vision himself at all, and, at some point, Vision realizes this is what it must mean for someone to be “easy to be around.” Regardless, Vision finds he is enjoying the man’s company.

Meanwhile, the smells of old bay spice and simmering garlic and onion are acrid in Vision’s olfactory receptors, although the more the air permeates with them, the more accustomed to them he grows. Under the lull of Sam’s accent and the melodic richness of the music, he is .87 seconds late in detecting another human heat signature enter from the far right, glancing up just quick enough to notice that Miss Maximoff has quietly walked in from the hall.

“So the mystery girl is out of her room!” Sam teases, and Miss Maximoff only offers him the slightest of smiles.

“Hi, Sam,” Miss Maximoff offers him, and the man returns with a tip of an invisible hat to reply with, “Miss Wanda.”

“You two have previously met?” The question slips from Vision's lips before he can stop himself.

“Loaned her a box set of DVDs when I stopped by the tower ‘bout a week ago. Think you were working with Helen at the time, V. How’s the Brady Bunch treating ya? Likin’ it?” Sam asks Miss Maximoff, stirring the pot in front of him, as the woman slips into a seat beside Vision, offering him another slight smile as she does so.

“Very much. Although I had forgotten how ridiculous some of it was,” Miss Maximoff says, and Vision flits his eyes to take in her appearance more adequately, noticing the rings that still grace her slender fingers and that ears are pierced twice, small silver hoops adorning them. 

“How have you been settling in decently, Miss Maximoff?” Vision, again, discovers himself saying, now daring to look in her direction.

“I am...alright,” she murmurs, and then, noticing the book still discarded on the kitchen island counter, she adds, “Dostoyevsky? That’s Russian, no?”

Vision looks up to her, surprised, before nodding.

“Yes. Dr. Cho suggested I read a printed copy of various works of famous literature. As...a sort of homework,” Vision explains, his fingers now running over the worn edges of the book. At this, Miss Maximoff looks up to him inquisitively.

“She gave you homework too?” she asks, and when Vision cocks his head at her, he can detect the pooling heat in her cheeks, and blush apparent along her pale skin.

“Mine is just...meditation. A bit of yoga,” she responds, both of them looking up when Sam speaks once more.

“Meditation does wonders,” Sam offers. “I used to work with some fellas at the VA doing that. You listen to Depak Chropra yet?”

“Who?” Miss Maximoff asks, and Vision does a quick search.

“Depak Chopra is an Indian-American author and alternative medicine advocate. He sees the human body as undergirded by a "quantum mechanical body" composed not of matter but of energy. Although it must be pointed out he is regularly criticized by the Western medicine community,” Vision adds, and Miss Maximoff stares at him, seemingly taken aback by his access to such information.

“I don’t know about all that, but he has meditation videos on YouTube. Look him up. Voice of an angel, will lure you right to sleep,” Sam says, and, at this, Miss Maximoff only offers a pained smile. Vision is fully aware of why she offers both people in the room this look. In his newly-formed habitual nightly rounds, hovering the length of the building and back again, he hypothesizes that she is not sleeping, or not sleeping well. He often hears music from her room at late hours and the rapid breathing of a wakeful state. The dark circles under Miss Maximoff’s eyes help to further prove his suspicions.

“Dinner is served!” Sam interrupts Vision’s thoughts, handing Miss Maximoff a plate which seems to be composed of rice, a tomato-based sauce, and seafood.

“This looks delicious Sam, thank you,” Miss Maximoff says, picking up her fork. “What is it?”

“Etouffee. My mama’s recipe, straight from the coast of Louisiana,” he says, and as the smells once again accost Vision’s olfactory receptors, he realizes he enjoys the smell. That is comforting, savory. Meanwhile, Sam offers him a plate, and Vison’s eyes go wide, before he politely declines.

“You’re not eating?” Miss Maximoff asks, stealing a glance up at him.

“I do not have the capacity to,” Vision responds simply, and he realizes both Sam and Miss Maximoff are now looking at him with a sort of pity.

“That... sucks ,” Sam responds, taking the plate back. 

“You don’t sleep either,” Miss Maximoff offers, and Vision looks to her quietly.

“I...no,” Vision trips over his words. It is not a problem he usually has, and yet, around this woman, it seems to be becoming a habit.

“I sense you, sometimes, in the hallway,” Miss Maximoff says so quietly under her breath Vision has to dial up his hearing to understand each word. He doesn’t know what to make of this information. He knows full-well Miss Maximoff has the capacity to read minds, even his, but he also has not felt her mental presence brush up against his own since that moment in the QuinJet, before the downfall of Novi Grad, before the loss of her brother. 

“I’m...gonna go get the rest of the gang and tell ‘em chow’s on,” Sam is meanwhile saying, offering them both a nod as he strides off toward the hallway, and yet, Vision has not taken his eyes off of her. 

“Miss Maximoff, I…” he begins, and she looks at him, before he cannot stand it and breaks eye contact first. She frowns, but says nothing as she eats, only taking a few bites, before mostly shuffling the food around with her fork.

“Why is it, Miss Maximoff, that you cannot sleep?” he finally asks, and, again, she doesn’t respond, and Vision suddenly feels the defeat of another failed attempt to converse with the woman.

“My apologies, I’ve overstepped-“ he begins, but she is looking up to him once more with pained eyes, but with determined features.

“No, no . It’s fine. It’s just hard to get to sleep and when I do, I always wake up, mostly from dreams,” she says softly.

“Dreams?” Vision finds himself echoing.

“Well, bad dreams. What’s the word for it in English? кошмары…”

“Nightmares,” Vision translates, and she glances up to him, now in curiosity over anything else, once more. Neither one of them speak for a time, Vision pleased to see Miss Maximoff eating a bit more, as his thoughts drift slightly, wondering, not for the first time, what it might be like to dream, to have an imaginary world descend upon his senses, tormenting his thoughts, manifesting his own fears or desires. 

And then, there is laughter and the sound of several voices from the hallway, and Miss Maximoff immediately puts down her fork.

“I should...I’m done,” she says, walking her plate around the counter and carefully wrapping it with a roll of Saran Wrap she finds before putting it in the fridge. “I’ll eat the rest for lunch tomorrow,” she adds.

“I’m sure a new lunch will be provided,” Vision offers, and, once more, she blushes.

“I don’t like...wasting things,” she says, hugging her arm slightly, her accent just a tad thicker than it was before. With that, she turns to leave, before Vision hears his voice again.

“Miss Maximoff…”

“Yes?” She turns to him, pausing.

“Should you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask,” Vision says simply, and, for a moment, she offers him a real, albeit slight, smile.

“I...Thank you, Vision,” she says, and then she turns on her heel, sneaking off just as the Captain Rogers, Director Hill, and Sam return to the kitchen.

—

Avengers’ Compound, Upstate New York, May 20th, 2015, 8:14am

His perusal of psychological literature surrounding grief takes up much of his processing power in the following days, and he even turns to other means when he exhausts all options from medical journals. He reads of Emily Post, and the historical Western traditions of mourning, social practices long since forgotten in the flow of time. He reads of various religions and their burial practices, spiritual practices. He reads of how so many religions refer to the soul, of Hinduism and reincarnation. All of it is new and enriching, all of it wondrous and curious, all of it sacred. 

Vision, too, engages in taking in as much sensory input as he can, often finding himself grazing his fingers over the smoothness of glass or the creased feeling of leather. He watches insects pollinate flowers from the window. He senses the breeze and how it caresses so many receptors of feeling that grace his skin. He is staring out at the campus sprawling around him, more and more people entering and making their home at the facility. It has been two days since Sam’s dinner, since he last spoke to Miss Maximoff, and he is not surprised when he senses Sam coming to stand beside him in the early morning, a mug of coffee in his hand.

“Nice day, yeah?” Sam gestures with his mug to the weather outside.

“It’s an optimal 72 degrees, with only light wind,” Vision acknowledges. Then, he feels Sam’s eyes dart in Vision’s direction, and he turns to Sam curiously. Sam wants to say something, Vision surmises, but he is not as of yet saying it.

“Have you ever thought about just, I don’t know, standing?” Sam asks, and Vision then realizes that he is, once again, hovering several inches off the ground, as he tends to do when he is in the deep recesses of the internet or lost in thought. Guiltily, he frowns, lowering his feet to the ground once more.

“That’s better,” Sam mutters, through another drink of his coffee, and Vision looks at him once more. 

“Does it put you more at ease? For me to act, more human?” Vision asks, and Sam offers him a breathless laugh.

“Honestly, a little. Yeah, man. You kinda remind me of Casper the ghost when you silently float around all over the damn place,” Sam says, and, for some reason, Vision finds himself appreciating the man’s honesty.

“I get a sense from others, including Captain Rogers and Director Hill, that they also feel similarly,” Vision says, once again casting his gaze outward toward the campus that lay beyond the compound.

“I mean, no one’s saying you can’t be, well, you. But…I don’t know. Maybe experiment a little, you know? For instance, uhh, you ever try, not wearing...well...that?” Sam asks, gesturing towards the dark teal of Vision’s uniform and the yellow and red of his billowing cape.

“I am not sure if I understand your question,” Vision states. He had surmised at his birth that he should be clothed, as it is a common practice among most humans, and now that he is, he cannot surmise why Sam would still be bothered. 

“Well,” Sam laughs. “That’s the uniform. And you’re hardly fighting the big three right now.”

“The big...three?” Vision asks through a downward turn of his lips, a quick internet search of the phrase suggesting it means the three great allied powers during WWII, and Vision quickly calculates that Sam can’t mean that.

“Aliens, androids and wizards. You know, the big three,” he says, as if this is commonplace. “You got plans to bring anybody like that down today?” 

“Well, no. Not that I can anticipate,” Vision responds quietly, although he is more encouraged by Sam’s knowing smile.

“Sooooo... maybe...I don’t know. Wear something a little more casual,” Sam says. Vision says nothing for a moment, before nodding, phasing into an exact replica of what Sam is wearing, which happens to be an Adidas sweatshirt and lounge pants.

“Uh whoa . Not that that ain’t handy, but uh,...not quite your look. Maybe a little more formal? For a guy so...I don’t know... proper like you?” 

Vision frowns, cataloguing in his mind what Sam means, and decides to put together a combination of what he has witnessed two former SHIELD agents wearing during a briefing with Director Hill yesterday, settling on a navy blue sweater and dark charcoal slacks.

Sam smiles, nodding, before clasping a hand on his shoulder, as Visions’ eyes go wide at the unexpected touch.

“Better. Much better,” he says through another sip of his coffee. Neither says anything for a few long moments, both of them staring out at the window once more, before Vision hears Sam speak again. 

“You know, the best way to enjoy a day like today would be to go outside and soak it in. A little vitamin D never hurt anybody,” Sam offers.

“I do not require vitamin D,” Vision says flatly and finds Sam shaking his head a little.

“Not the point, Vision. It does the mind good,” Sam clarifies, and at this Vision turns to him, still partially confused.

“You suspect my mind is in turmoil?” he asks.

“No, but Wanda’s is,” Sam says matter-of-factly, and at this knowledge, Vision frowns again.

“Yes,” he murmurs, glancing past Sam toward the hallway that leads to the living quarters.

“Look, I was gonna invite her for a walk, but maybe you should do the honors,” Sam suggests, and Vision tilts his head at Sam inquisitively, as is becoming his signature gesture when he doesn’t take someone’s inferred meaning.

“You’re both new to the team, and Steve’s gonna start training us soon. We gotta build up trust, one way or another,” Sam nods, jerking a thumb back toward the hallway Vision just had been eyeing.

“You suspect Miss Maximoff does not trust me?” Vision asks quietly.

“I think she doesn’t know you. None of us do. You’re either reading or just...hovering about, and no one’s gonna get to know you that way. You’re a little on the quiet side, V,” Sam retorts, and Vision considers this, about to argue that yes, compared to Sam, who is always saying something, Vision is quiet, although he is inclined to make conversation with anyone who is interested, and he has attempted, on several occasions, to converse with Miss Maximoff, seemingly to no avail, but Sam once again cuts him off. 

“Just think about it,” Sam says, before walking off towards the kitchen, leaving Vision alone by the window. 

It takes in 3.45 seconds to “think about it,” consider the options, weighing all possible outcomes, before he realizes that, based on what he has tabulated so far about her demeanor and living practices, the chances of Miss Maximoff turning him down are at 74.3%. And yet... and yet... he finds himself striding to her room determinedly, phasing through walls as he goes, afraid that if he dissects his actions too much he will falter and turn around, until he is inside her very room quite suddenly and unexpectedly. 

He frowns, noting she is not present, turning this way and that in her room, realizing he has never set foot in it before. Much to his surprise, it is not a place that denotes chaos or sheer, unbridled turmoil. Much of the opposite, the room feels peaceful, wicker lamps hanging from the ceiling, cool blues and purples accenting the furniture, several poofs to sit on, a stack of tarot cards on the desk, a bulletin board of photos and notes above it, and a partially unmade bed, the last of which makes Vision very much feel like an intruder. 

He is about to phase away, just as Miss Maximoff opens the door to the en suite, donned in a sleeveless black top and jeans, her face clean and absent of makeup, toweling off her damp hair as she goes, before her eyes catch sight of Vision and fly open wide. 

“Vision! How did you-“ she begins, before he interrupts her.

“I...phased,” he stumbles over his words, but, despite the anticipated shouting, the demands for him to leave her room at once, she only offers him a partial grin, eyes flitting to the door and back. 

“Typically people knock,” she replies, and he realizes, by this response alone, she is experiencing what so many points of information talk about as a good day. A day when the grief is not so heavy, not so pressing. A day that is more reflective than overwhelmed with sadness. The hope clings to her hair and her smile, present even in the billowing steam of a shower that has only recently ended. He understands quickly that it is a perfect time to ask, maybe his only opportunity for quite some time.

“I...I wanted to inquire if you might join me for a walk. I have not yet had an opportunity to explore the grounds, and the temperature is an optimal 72 degrees, as the heat will not set in until later on in the day,” he mutters, but she only stares at him, blinking, and so he stammers on. “Or perhaps I should have expressed my interests earlier or in writing-”

“No, no! It’s fine. Sure,” she says through a small laugh.

“I...really?”

“Yes. Let me just..finish getting ready,” she says, turning to the floor length mirror and quickly plaiting her hair as she goes. She has not expressly stated if he is to leave during this time or not, so he stands awkwardly in the middle of her room as she weaves her hair into a braid, and he notices she is watching him through the mirror intently.

“You...switched up your look,” she says, back still to him but eyes on his reflection. At this Vision frowns, realizing he can see his own reflection too. He is almost unrecognizable, familiar uniform still absent, and something about his new facade carries a falsehood, as if he is trying too hard, a purely synthetic being such as himself playing dress up or attempting to look more human. Also, the ensemble isn’t quite right, and he makes a note to experiment with his clothing to perfect it at a later time.

“Yes. Sam suggested if I am not fighting aliens, androids or wizards, I should don something more...casual,” he finally responds, and at this, Wanda truly laughs as she finishes plaiting her hair. It is a peculiar phenomenon, the beauty of her laughter, and he swears his heart thuds more heavily in his chest.

Is this an emotion? What is it? He searches the internet for “heart thudding heavily” and gets back exactly 1,870,000 search results and is reading about heart palpitations, which can’t be it, when Miss Maximoff speaks once more.

“So are we just gonna walk the grounds, or—?” 

Vision nods quickly.

“Yes, I thought we would. The perimeter, most likely. They are several species of flora and fauna I’ve been meaning to document that are native to upstate New York,” he adds.

Wanda only smiles at him, before moving to the closet, procuring a pair of tennis shoes, and moving to sit on her bed to put them on. Vision still stands awkwardly in the middle of her room, as she has not expressed a preference for where he should be otherwise, and glances around at his surroundings once more, taking in the stacks of DVDs by the television and the guitar in the corner.

“Do you play?” he finds himself asking.

“What?” she inquires, quickly tying up the lace on her left foot before looking up at Vision, who is gesturing to the guitar. Immediately she silently grimaces, as she looks down again to tie her other shoe. 

“Umm, no. Well, not well. I’m learning,” she murmurs under her breath. 

Learning. It was the word Dr. Cho used. Such a human word. Vision saves his search on the status of his heart, noting to come back to determining the emotion later, as Wanda stands.

“Ok, ready,” she says, and he nods once to her, taking her lead to follow her out of the room, through the doorway this time around. 

—

As his information has suggested, the air is bright and warm, and for the early portion of their walk neither individual speaks, Vision suspecting they are both enjoying the magic the nature’s signature holds. It is a task to keep his feet on the ground, as Dr. Cho instructed, as he attempts to follow Miss Maximoff’s lead, trailing off the path and into the grass, along the edge of the deciduous and conifer trees alike that surround the edge of the property. 

At one point, Miss Maximoff points to a swell of purple wildflowers that peak themselves out amidst the foliage of the trees, and Vision nods, quickly categorizing them.

“ Symphyotrichum novae-angliae , or the New England Aster. Quite common in this area,” he provides, and Miss Maximoff smiles, nodding in respect to the plants.

“They are beautiful,” she remarks, before looking up to Vision again.

“So...you have the whole internet up there, huh?” she curiously inquires, and it’s the second question she has asked about himself since in a matter of days. He frowns, struggling to put how the internet feels into words, before she is speaking again.

“It is how you burned Ultron out of the internet, isn’t it? Being able to access it all?” she clarifies, and Vision finds himself nodding. 

“That must be... overwhelming. To have all that information,” she suggests as she steps over a fallen tree branch and Vision phases through it with a shake of his head.

“Not at all. I find it...a sort of peace,” he murmurs, and she looks up to him in surprise.

“Really?” she asks, and he can tell her curiosity is genuine, from all the ways her face signifies it must be.

“It is hard to explain. But...it is a steady stream that rolls over everything all at once. A current, perhaps. It is comforting to know that, if I am lost, it can gently take me where I need to go,” Vision remarks. “It is also reassuring to know there is no question that I cannot find the answer to.”

At this, Miss Maximoff bites her lip, crossing her arms as she walks.

“What?” Vision asks, realizing she had intended to speak, but had stopped herself from doing so.

“I am not sure all questions have answers,” she says, and he simply blinks at her for a moment, and he notes that they have momentarily stopped walking, as he considers this. It was not at all what he meant. He was inferring, more likely, to all the many ways humans understand and respond to the intricacies of social interaction, something that often eludes him. The internet helps him, often, in this regard, as he quickly defines idioms and social practices. He understands, now, however, that she must be referring to what is unknown regarding humanity, what extends beyond the species’ knowledge, at the fringes of their earth, of their solar system, of their existence. 

“No, I… suppose not,” he finally responds. He expects her to fall into her signature silence, and is surprised to hear her speaking once more.

“I remember the first time I used it,” she responds through a small smile, as they begin walking again. 

“What? The internet?” Vision clarifies, and she nods. 

“Pietro and I… we had scrounged up enough money for coffee, mostly by panhandling, and they had an internet cafe. I was..amazed,” she says warmly, eyes glancing up to Vision once again. He can feel his own lips turning upward, vaguely wondering what year this might have been, how old she was, if JARVIS was in existence yet. 

“May I inquire...what you looked up?” heasks, and at this she blushes a bright red, folding her arms more tightly to her thin body, before sheepishly throwing a glance in his direction.

“When the next Harry Potter book was coming out. But you’ll have to give me a break. I was twelve,” she responds shyly, and Vision smiles and quickly does the math. Miss Maximoff was born in 1989, orphaned in 1999 at ten. He knows this already, having access to all JARVIS’ files. So this would have been 2001 or so, when JARVIS was just moving beyond a simple UI interface, and Iron Man and the Avengers’ Initiative was not a thought in Mr. Stark’s or anyone else’s mind. Meanwhile, Miss Maximoff continues on.

“I went back the next day and the next day and Pietro was...what's the word in English...разъяренный,” she responds, and Vision can’t help but smile.

“Enraged, or furious,” he offers, and she nods in gratitude.

“Yes, enraged. Because it was money we were supposed to be spending on real food, and instead I was fooling around, setting up an email account, reading what I could, about anything really, online-”

“Do you enjoy reading then, Miss Maximoff?” Vision asks, mentally scanning the memory of her room for books, and detecting a few of them, mostly popular novels translated into Sokovian, on her nightstand.

“Back then, it helped me with my English,” she says through a shrug of her shoulders. 

For a long while, no one speaks, as they round the far edge of the perimeter and begin making their way back toward the compound. Several times, Miss Maximoff stops, taking a moment to breathe in the fresh late spring air, several tendrils having escaped her braid and dancing in the breeze. Vision understands that he is memorizing everything, but something about these quiet moments captivates him in a way that he does not fully understand, cannot put words or meaning to. During one of these instances, Wanda drops her arms, placing her hand on the rough bark of an oak tree.

“This place. It has its beauty, in its own way, but…” she trails off.

“It is not Sokovia?” Vision guesses, and she turns to him silently, nodding as she does so.

“The mountains there...were tremendous,” Vision recalls the memory, even in his quest to kill off the last of Ultron’s androids, the valley of what was left of Novi Grad below.

“I don’t miss the cold, though. Even in late spring...it was chilly. And the winters...were terrible. When we were young, it was a struggle. Trying to find hostels to stay in, sometimes keeping warm on the street…” she drops off and Vision can feel the growing tension, the thick wall of her defenses beginning to grow between them.

“I should not have brought up your home,” Vision guesses, one hand tightening into a quiet fist in discomfort, as Miss Maximoff turns to him quickly.

“No. No. It is...fine. I need to remember…” she trails off, eyes blank for a moment, before she focuses her attention on Vision. “So you do not eat, do not sleep…” she murmurs, and it should put Vision off, but he detects no unease in her voice, no sign that these very facts unnerve her.

“I require time to process the days’ events, usually entering into a meditative state for twenty minutes each night,” he offers her, and she graces him with another small smile.

“Sounds...relaxing,” she says, and Vision shakes his head.

“Indeed it is not. It is...actually quite some work. And I am finding...some of it problematic,” he is the one to now trail off, and she looks at him inquisitively.

“How so?” she asks softly.

“There have been variables I can’t quantify,” he softly murmurs. 

“Oh?” she asks, and his mind drifts for a moment. He has calculated how many times she has offered him the quirk of a smile: twelve so far. He has documented the awe he has felt, each time the dust dances in the shafts of the morning light. But the way Miss Maximoff toweled off her hair, or the way the grass feels dewey and wet against his feet, only the mirage of black oxfords suggesting he can’t feel it, when of course he can, or when a particular passage in the books he has been reading strikes him....so many concepts that he has no names for, or only the vaguest of definitions, that he struggles putting in their appropriate place or labeling at the end of the days’ events.

“Yes, I...I’m not sure I can put them into words,” he finally responds, and Miss Maximoff nods, as if she understands, as if she knows, when Vision acknowledges this cannot possibly be the case.

“It must be...overwhelming. For everything to be so new,” she offers him. 

“Yes. It sometimes is. Although, it is a sense of not being new as well. JARVIS, Mr. Stark’s AI, was developed as a user interface in the late nineties, and I maintain all of his memory banks,” Vision explains, noting Miss Maximoff’s grimace at the word “Stark.”

“He was cross with you, on the QuinJet that day,” she says, now turning to face him.

“I believe he blames me for the AI’s death,” he murmurs. At this, Miss Maximoff seems flummoxed, as he watches her struggling to put her thoughts into words.

“But...did he die? He is a part of you, yes?” She asks.

“Yes,” Vision murmurs, and, for 3.2 seconds, they simply stare at one another, words failing. It is an eternity and yet it isn’t, all at once, and Vision adds the phenomenon to the list of concepts he will struggle to identify and organize later on this evening.

Finally, Miss Maximoff speaks.

“I should probably be heading back. Lunch will be soon,” she adds, although Vision knows it is only 10:38am. Still though, he lets her go.

“Thank you for the walk, Miss Maximoff,” he says, suddenly unsure, yet again, what to do with his body, so he lets his arm hang by his sides, although he notes the tension in his extremities, the rigidity of his posture.

“You know,” she says, fiddingling with a silver ring on her thumb. “Wanda’s fine. Everyone else calls me that.” Vision blinks at her for a few moments. It should not be surprising, considering Sam allowed him the same kindness, but his mind careens to a halt, trying to interpret what the offer might mean.

“Wanda…” he says, the word soft and delicate, the phonemes flowing together naturally and precisely to utter her name. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“Yeah. Um, same,” she says, eyes darting to the compound and then back to Vision. “Could we… ” she drifts off, and he finishes her sentence for her

“I would be much obliged if you would accompany me on another walk, sometime in the near future,” he offers her, and it is then that he is granted his first real smile from her, before she nods her head shyly, turning back to the compound.

He watches her go, watches for the full twenty six seconds it takes for her to slip inside a door and disappear, before he gently rises up in the air, quickly phasing back to the comfort of his uniform. He knows he is not allowed to stray far, but he idly flies the length of the perimeter, the act of flight good and right in his body, high on her words, on her actions, on the fact that she let him in, if only for the briefest of mornings. 

—

There are days, still, he doesn’t speak to her. There are days he hardly sees a trace of her. There are days, when Sargent Rhodes arrives at the compound, and then Agent Romanov, that everyone else is joyously reccounting a former mission before he existed, that Vision sits beside the team, oddly and profoundly desiring Wanda’s presence. He tries to understand the other team members, tries to emulate them. He understands quickly that he should not maintain eye contact for more than three seconds unless speaking of something incredibly meaningful. He understands that his “hovering about” is unsettling to all of them, so he keeps his feet firmly planted. There are days he suspects they think him nothing more than a sophisticated robot, and there are days that he wonders if it is true.

He frequents Dr. Cho’s, or Helen’s as she’s insisted he calls her, new lab often, offering to help her with any menial task that he can. He is often testing chemicals and various compounds with her, once she realizes he has a remarkably steady hand. Sometimes they talk of his progress, or the book he is currently reading. He learns that if he reads at precisely 4,000 words per minute, he can still enjoy the cadence and rhythm of the speech, and he pours through novels, one by one. Helen and Vision talk of the meaning of War and Peace, about human instinct and the push and pull of the primal versus the intellectual. They talk of philosophy, of Plato’s allegory of the cave. Sometimes they talk of Helen’s life outside the lab, and he learns that she is currently seeing a surgeon who works at Mount Sinai in New York City. He falters slightly as the topic broaches her personal life, but Helen seems happy, so he listens. 

There are days too, as the official training sessions near, that he does see Wanda. He learns that, like Sam, she enjoys cooking, and often she’ll spend long hours in the smaller kitchen towards the back of the compound, mostly out of sight, humming to herself, or talking over a recipe in Sokovian. She puts her hair back when she cooks, and when sometimes she asks for his company, Vision watches her as she simmers broth or sautées vegetables. He always notices the brunette strands that sometimes fall out of place, that she tucks back behind a delicate ear. Some days, she is lively, full of memories and happiness. Some days, she is a shell of typical self. 

One particular night, he finds himself pacing his room, very much aware that it is so agonizingly adjacent to her own, when she invites him in, and they sit together and watch television. She has an affinity for situational comedies, although the humor sometimes perplexes him. But when she laughs, she smiles, and he thinks that it is beautiful. He attempts, at one point, to get her to speak of her grief, but she lashes out with an emotional, “What makes you think it would bring me comfort? The only thing...that would bring me comfort, is seeing him again.” 

He had faltered painfully then, but had listened as she whispered an apology, speaking of the grief he had so often read about, how the swell of it threatens to drown her. He had tried to be of help, had tried to speak of how grief and love are philosophically entwined. Put simply, grief is the price we pay for love, he had once read. He was not sure if his attempt to assuage her had helped, but, in that moment, she had stared at him, fully taken aback by his words— What is grief, if not love persevering? —and the moment they had gazed at each other was long and unyielding until he looked away, laughing at something from the sitcom.

On two more occasions, he experiences evenings like that, when she invites him to watch something with her. He always accepts, never declines, and although often her responses and emotions are tumultuous and unexpected, he always enjoys her company.

Tonight is not one of those nights, Wanda having been absent from the compound's main living areas for most of the day, and he had allowed her the space he assumes she needs. The result, however, is a particularly lonely evening, even as he is seated in one of the two leather chairs, attempting and failing to keep his eyes focused on the lines on For Whom the Bell Tolls, finding it difficult to relate to Hemingway’s words. The lights are off, as they always are at night being that he sees and reads perfectly fine in the dark, when he hears a knock on his door. No one has ever knocked on his door, or come to approach him from his room in any sort of way, and the noise almost startles him. He quickly sets down the book and phases through the chair, reminding himself to walk to the door, and when he opens it with a quick command of his mind, he is greeted by Miss Maximoff—no, Wanda—holding a plate with a single cupcake, topped with a creamy white frosting, a wax candle perched on top of it, and a lighter in hand. 

“Wanda. How may I-” he begins, but she pushes past him into his room, looking around quietly at the empty space, frowning.

“No bed?” she asks through a tilt of her head.

“I do not require sleep,” he reminds her. 

“I know that. But not just to relax on?” she asks, and he doesn’t respond, before his eyes stare at the cupcake once more.

“May I inquire what the occasion is?” he asks, and she seems to remember there is a cupcake on a plate in her hands, before she carefully balances it on the slim end table between the two chairs, beckoning him over. 

“FRIDAY-” Vision begins, before Wanda interrupts him.

“Keep the lights off, FRIDAY,” Wanda replies, and nothing in the room changes, as she gestures to him to sit in the chair opposite to her. He does so dutifully, all the while watching as she holds up the lighter, carefully lighting the candle on the cupcake between them.

She smiles, then, as he watches the flickering light of the flame dance across her features. 

“с днем рождения,” she murmurs. 

Happy Birthday. 

Vision only blinks at her for a moment, before remembering he has the capacity to speak. 

“Wanda-” he begins, before she cuts him off once more.

“You’ve been alive for a whole month, as of today,” she says proudly. As he double checks, he realizes yes, that is true, although it is only two hours and seventeen minutes into June 5th, although he doesn’t dare correct her that there are another 20 hours and eighteen minutes to go before it is a full month until his birth, so he says nothing, astounded as he his by her thoughtfulness.

“You have to make a wish,” she says, barely above a whisper. He is aware this is a common practice. Humans have a tendency to wish all the time, on falling stars or fallen eyelashes, on the seeds of dandelions, on pennies flicked into the streams of fountains. Still though, the suggestion still confounds him.

“A wish?” he asks, and he sees her nodding in the candlelight.

“Before you blow out the candle, make a wish,” she urges him, and he pauses, centering his thoughts, setting aside how irrational it is to do so, and makes one, silently, to himself. For her to see me as her equal. 

Quietly, he blows out the candle, the trail of smoke and the smell of an extinguished flame filling his olfactory receptors, but Wanda’s smile has fallen, and he realizes, gently, that a tear is rolling down her left cheek.

“Wanda,” he says softly, staring at her, frozen to the spot.

“Yes,” she murmurs, glancing down to her hands.

“You are crying,” he says, and she looks back up to him, another tear illuminated in the light of the partial moon from his slanted window. If he wasn’t concerned over her wellbeing, he would think that the scene was beautiful, sorrowful, ethereal, even.

“What can I-” he begins, before she interrupts him, frustratingly wiping the tear from her face. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s been a whole month, and I can’t...I still can’t- I feel so alone . So lost, without him,” she murmurs, resting her hand on the table, her fingers nervously exploring the grooves in the wood, when Vision’s body makes a decision his mind must catch up to, as he deliberately places his left hand on hers, gripping it gently, as he had seen Helen do in the lab several weeks prior. She almost startles at his touch, but does not pull her hand away, and instead, shivers a little, placing her other hand on top of his.

“Your hands are so cold,” she says, grazing her other free hand over the skin of his own in an attempt to warm him. Meanwhile, the softness of her hands, the way they trace the veins along his skin, is enough to make him forget all thought and trace of reason outside of this tactile and surreal experience. 

“My apologies I can…” he hears himself saying, deliberately raising his internal temperature by twelve degrees to match her 98.5. “Better?” He murmurs, and she nods, still tracing patterns along his skin. 

“Better,” she says, bringing her eyes up to meet his, before tilting her head slightly, an unspoken question hanging in the air. 

“Vision, could I…” she asks, and she can’t finish the question, but he feels the brush of her mind against his, pure, radiating, scarlet energy, and he knows what she wants.

“I gave you permission the first night of my existence. You will always have it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, afraid that if he is to speak any more loudly, the moment will be ruined. Quietly, even as she pulls her hands away to focus and Vision’s heart thuds again at the lack of her touch, he feels her powers taking hold, feels the bright light wrap around his mind, illuminating the forever whirring mechanisms, and, in his body, in every extremity, he feels her sorrow, her loss, her pain, and it is overwhelming. Still though, he tries to focus, so as to not become lost in her, as it is supposed to be the other way around, and he hears her voice break the silence.

“Oh,” she murmurs, eyes seemingly lost in the expanse of his mind.

“What is it?” He cautiously asks, partially afraid to know the answer. 

“It’s so... calm. Orderly. I’ve… I’ve never experienced anything like it,” she says, as he still feels the powerful, pulsing tendrils of scarlet waver into the grooves of his consciousness.

“I know I lack...the proper emotion,” he barely manages, and, at that, her gaze quickly darts up to him, her irises a brilliant red, he notes. Softly, she takes his hand that had still been resting on the end table by the wrist, his mind relishing in her touch once more, and places it over his heart. He lets the action happen, as she presses his own hand to his heart, feeling the reverberations in his own chest.

“That...feeling. The pang that starts here,” she says, squeezing his palm gently before removing her hand, “and radiates outward?”

“Yes,” he barely breathes, letting his hand drop, staring at her once more, feeling her powers receding as she looks to him with a new found purpose. 

“That’s empathy, Vision,” she whispers, and he looks at her intently, brows furrowed. 

“It’s one of the most sophisticated and profound emotions a human being can have,” she murmurs. “Vision...your mind is...beautiful. Full of emotions,” she says, finally tearing her glance away, now nervously fumbling with the ends of her sleeves, as Vision stares at her.

“It’s yours, if it helps at all, anytime you need,” he murmurs, and she looks up to stare at him intently once more.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Wanda…” he says, the question just there , just beyond his capacity to voice it.

“Yes?” She asks, and he thinks her eyes grant him permission, so he continues.

“Last month, on the helicarrier, you said you wished to die,” he says softly.

“Yes,” she confirms, biting her lip as she does so.

“I..did not understand it then. And I...I cannot say I understand it now. But, I would like to know...Do you still have that wish?” he gently asks, and her face becomes more pained, but she determinedly shakes her head.

“No. But...I..” she stops, and another wave of anguish hits him, and he almost flinches at how powerful and bold and consuming it is. 

“I...see,” he says, and then suddenly the moment ends, the nervousness of a barely-established friendship trying to sustain such a moment of intimacy becoming known to both of them, as she stands, smoothing her hair before picking up the plate still between them. Vision mimics her movements and stands as well.

“I know you don’t eat,” she says, as she picks up the plate. “But, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have a birthday cake.”

“It was delightful. Thank you,” Vision says softly, as she begins to see herself to the door, and he quietly trails behind her. She stops, however, in the doorway, turning back to him. 

“May I..come back sometime, some other night...if I’m up?” she asks quietly, stealing a glance upward at him.

“You are welcome at any moment, always,” Vision murmurs, and she smiles sadly at him once more, before nodding her head.

“Thank you Vision. Good night,” she says, before disappearing in the darkened hallway.

“Good night, Wanda,” Vision says. He turns, disbelief filling him at the tender moment he has just taken part in, only one task present in his mind as he strides to the mostly-ignored journal on the desk, lifting up the felt-tipped pen once more.

Under Awe, he writes, in his careful, determined script, Empathy.