And What Do You Want?
Chapter Twelve: And What Do You Want?
Avengers Compound, New York, Friday, August 12th, 2015 7:44am
It cannot possibly be as difficult as Vision is making it out to be. He is aware of this, and yet, he finds himself stuck in an infinite loop, attempting to assess the best logical outcome to the situation. Surely, the spacing in the slats is purposeful. But are they intended to go left to right, right to left? Facing all the same way? Facing upright? Facing downward? He surmises they must be evenly spaced, or how will all the sides become clean?
“Friday?” He hears himself speaking.
“Yes, Vision?”
“How—?” He begins, before he frowns again, connecting to the server and phrasing his questions into binary code easily, which is often the easiest way of speaking to FRIDAY, especially under the given circumstances.
The answer comes to him just as he registers a human heat signature, and he is forced to focus once more on the surroundings his sensory input provides him, a sudsy mug still dripping in his hand in front of the open dishwasher.
Wanda looks tired, but polished. She is dressed in black workout regalia and her hair is pulled back tightly behind her head. She smiles sleepily at Vision and murmurs a, “‘Morning.”
He feels his smile on his face, and he is .45 seconds away from staring too long, before she interrupts the silence with a quiet laugh.
“Are you...alright?” she asks, eyes flitting to the open dishwasher, the mug in his hand, and to the confused scowl on his face. He blinks at her, shaking his head slightly to remember to speak.
“Yes, yes. Er, fine. Just, well…considering the best way to go about…” Vision drops off, staring at the conundrum before him.
“Mugs and bowls the top shelf, plates on the bottom,” she says, walking around the kitchen island to the sink so that they are only .45 meters apart. There are only a handful of dishes from the breakfast rush this morning, Wanda being one of the last to rise, but she flicks the faucet on with a bit of scarlet magic, rinsing them once more, and the dishes begin floating out of the sink into the air, until she seems to remember she is using her magic in the prescence of company, which Vision has surmised she doesn’t tend to do outside of the situation room or the privacy of her bedroom.
“Oh, uh, sorry,” she says, as they carefully land in the dishwasher in the appropriate places, before cutting off use of her powers once more.
“Please, don’t apologize. I...thank you,” Vision says, placing the lone mug he is holding next to the other three. Staring back down at the dishwasher, he is slogging through the code to think of what’s next before Wanda smiles again, dipping down below the sink to grab him a... dishwasher detergent pod, his mind offers him. As she stands, she is now only .25 meters away from him, and he can’t help but notice the faded freckles on her right forearm, which he immediately maps, forming constellations between them and memorizing the placement of each.
She clears her throat, and he shakes his head slightly, realizing he hasn’t breathed in over a minute. He smiles sheepishly, stepping back to watch her put the pod in the dispenser and closer the lid, before closing the dishwasher and pressing “start.” She smiles again at him, before turning back to the other side of the kitchen counter to fumble with the Keurig coffee maker. Vision watches this, helpless and immersed in the fluidity of her movements, the ease in which she goes about daily life. Her fingers idly spin the metallic caddy, picking out a flavor, Starbucks caramel macchiato, before lifting the Keurig’s lid, placing the pod inside and shutting it again. When the screen doesn’t illuminate, however, she frowns, checking to make sure the appliance is plugged in.
“Friday?” she asks.
“Yes Miss Maximoff?” Friday responds, and Vision wonders if it’s his imagination or if there really is a curtness in the AI’s voice.
“Any reason why the Keurig isn’t working?” she swivels around, looking up towards the ceiling.
The AI doesn’t respond automatically, but as Vision checks the online network, he realizes, to his horror, that precisely one minute and fifteen seconds ago FRIDAY switched off the electric unit to the back portion of the main kitchen. Vision’s frown deepens.
“I think Friday hates me,” Wanda says, biting her lip just slightly as Vision sighs, staring at the ceiling once more.
“No, she doesn’t. She is not capable of it,” Vision says sternly, shooting a message in binary code to the AI. FRIDAY, we appreciate all of your services as a part of your duties watching over the compound. But if you continue to act in this manner, I will take it up with Mr. Stark.
FRIDAY, of course, remains silent. Meanwhile, Vision glances down towards Wanda once more.
“Please, sit. I have already prepared coffee in the French Press. Allow me to pour you some,” Vision murmurs, and he realizes that his hand has moved on its, his fingers just barely grazing the outside of her left elbow to show her the coffee waiting for her. Her skin is warm to the touch, and although she doesn’t startle at the coolness of Vision’s internal temperature, she glances up to him in surprise, before he immediately removes his hand, as if scalded. Wanda doesn’t appear to think anything more of it, and walks around the island while Vision plucks a clean mug from the cabinet, and then gently pours the liquid from the steaming carafe into the mug. He hands it to her, as he knows she prefers it black. She smiles in thanks, before taking a sip and setting the mug down with a brow cocked in his direction again.
“What?” Vision asks, seemingly unable to help himself.
“You managed to make coffee but you were struggling with the dishwasher?” She asks, and he blinks at her, before casting his gaze downward, fumbling with his hands, before setting either down on the island where he still stands, Wanda now directly opposite of him in her seat.
“Why, uh, yes. Well, I got a bit caught up in the...spatial possibilities,” he says, and she truly laughs. Not at him. Not quite...but more alongside him, as if she relates, or, understands. It has been happening more and more, the sound of her laughter, and every time he hears it feels as if it settles something inside him.
“Is it...to your liking?” Vision asks, gesturing towards the coffee, and she nods, placing it down on the table once more.
“It’s perfect, Vizh,” she says, and for a moment, he only blinks at her, realizing it was her intention to only say half of his name, the end of the “s” sounding more like a “zh” through her accent. <Identify: familiar or endearing name given to a person or thing instead of or as well as the real name, i.e.: nickname.>
“Where is everyone else?” Wanda asks, glancing around the room and Vision attempts to shake away the momentary stupor the nickname has caused him.
“Captain Rogers managed to convince Sam and Sergeant Rhodes to join him on his 6am jog.”
“Oh, was I supposed to be up earlier?” she asks, suddenly frowning as she turns back to Vision.
“Not at all. I believe the idea was supposed to appear spontaneous. Although I do suspect it is something in the form of a subtle punishment for the...squabbling between the two men yesterday afternoon during training,” Vision remarks.
“Oh, all the one-upping they were doing during flight tactics?”
“Perhaps,” Vision replies through a smirk.
“And you didn’t get roped into it?” she asks through an arched brow, and Vision’s smile drops slightly. How easily she assumes you are like the rest, a snide thought floats through his mind.
“As I did not partake in the “one-upping” as you called it, and as I have no physiological need to maintain a level of aerobic fitness, I was asked to remain behind,” Vision says flatly.
At this, Wanda frowns a little, although Vision is not certain as to why.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep last night, by the way,” she murmurs into her mug, her face now a lighter pink, although Vision is not certain if it’s the temperature of the coffee gracing her skin or a shyness that has crept into her features.
Last night, Wanda had suggested a break from the situational comedies they often watched, choosing from the expansive digital library to watch an animated children’s movie. She had been enthralled with the graphics, although they weren’t well rendered at all to Vision, until he discovered that it was the first computer animated movie of its kind, premiering in 1995. They both had been sitting on her bed, further up this time, backs to the headboard, and through two-thirds of the film, Wanda had fallen asleep on Vision’s shoulder. It had been a terrifying position to be, as Vision wasn’t sure what he should do, but he had managed, through some clever phasing, to rearrange Wanda in a supine position on her bed, before quietly seeing himself out.
“It was no trouble. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of covering you with a blanket before leaving,” he murmurs to the counter, although he can feel the warmth of her smile without looking at her.
“No, that was...kind,” she says again, and he manages to steal a glance in her direction. No one says anything for a brief moment, Wanda gently turning the mug in her hands in small half-circles, back and forth.
“Did you watch the rest of it?” she finally asks.
“Indeed, I did,” Vision replies.
“And?” she asks through a knowing grin.
“I do not wish to spoil it for you, but it had a favorable ending,” he says through a short nod.
“Buzz and Woody became friends in the end?” Wanda asks hopefully.
“Indeed, they put aside their differences,” Vision says, smiling slightly.
“Were you able to get over the...what did you call it, ‘toy enslavement’?” Wanda teases him, and Vision furrows his brow in thought.
“I’ll admit the boundaries they seem limited to, considering that we know by the end that they may move in front of humans, still troubles me,” he mutters, finally moving from his place near the counter, taking a step back to cross his arms, a movement he had picked up from Sam four days prior, just when he is not sure what to do with his extremities.
Indeed he had been troubled by the ethics of the movie, the stark boundaries of what toys were and were not allowed to do, always seemingly choosing to be of service to the child that owns them. He had, without much voluntary thought, drawn a parallel between toys and AIs, always at the ready, always in service to their owners whether they felt like it or not, and, upon remembering this, Vision glances guiltily up at the ceiling toward FRIDAY once more, remembering had he had just admonished her. It seems he wasn’t above hypocrisy, at least. Meanwhile, Wanda is speaking, and he redirects his attention back to her.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to read into it so deeply. It’s just a kid’s movie, Vizh,” she responds casually.
“Yes...I’m aware,” he grumbles, before Wanda glances towards the hallway leading to the living quarters once more.
“You....haven’t seen Nat yet have you?” she asks timidly. Vision nods.
“She did stop by. She was the one who suggested I make the coffee. To quote her, ‘Wanda’s gonna need it.’ She instructed me to tell you to meet her in the training facility at 7:30am,” Vision says, noting his internal clock. 6:54am.
Wanda phsycially winces at this, and, remembering her discomfort and stiffness from the previous night, he frowns.
“I fear that Agent Romanov is pushing you too hard,” Vision suggests quietly, but Wanda shakes her head in disagreement.
“No, she’s right. I need to work on my hand-to-hand. I have little to no training in that regard, and the last thing I want to do is...drag the team down,” Wanda reiterates. Vision already knows this, as Wanda has confided in him multiple times about her fears. Each time, Vision has reminded Wanda of her potential and her capability, as he does so again now.
“You could not do that if you tried. You are by far one of the most capable and powerful members of the team,” Vision says, and now he knows now the blush that creeps up her ivory skin is the real thing.
“So what’s on your morning agenda?” she asks, evading the topic, and Vision, without her asking too, refills her mug, and Wanda places a thank you in his mind.
This is new. After a harrowing night of sleep two weeks’ prior, when Vision had burst in Wanda’s room through the adjoining wall and noticed Wanda in tears, Wanda had asked him to stay the night in her room. Not every night, but most nights. Vision at first was uncomfortable with the notion, insistent he allow Wanda her privacy, but, as she joined their minds and he took up his vigil in an armchair on the far side of the room, he understood why. Her nightmares were chaotic, ruthless, and Vision had found himself summoning beautiful landscapes and peaceful montages of color and sound to help quell them. Because of this, Wanda had shyly suggested a muted mental link to maintain, although she explained it was not strong enough for her to read his thoughts, as she wouldn’t dare invade his privacy in that regard. Vision had reiterated to her that he hardly minded, but the link remained just enough to soften the jagged edges of Wanda’s anxieties and occasional swells of grief. A benefit, of course, was that she sometimes sent messages along the link, and Vision has learned he can respond. It is not something he takes advantage of often, but when her voice fills the recesses of his ever-toiling mind, he is not surprised to find it relaxes him as well.
“I am to run several different fight sequences with Captain Rogers,” Vision responds, setting down the carafe once more.
“Oh?” Wanda asks.
“Yes. He’s calling it a ‘diagnostic.’ He’s been tracking my fighting habits, and because I tend to favor taking flight to avoid collisions in the simulation room, I believe...he doubts my skills on the ground,” Vision finishes quietly.
“A foolish assumption,” Wanda offers, and Vision then meets her eyes through a grin.
“Perhaps. We shall see. Captain Rogers is the most adept on the team in hand-to-hand combat, perhaps only second to Agent Romanov,” Vision remarks, but Wanda is still grinning knowingly at him.
“But he’s not you,” she says, and Vision chuckles slightly, before the conversation falter.
“Well, we’ll have to be rather quick about it. Mr. Stark is set to arrive by 11am this morning,” Vision responds, and at this Wanda’s face blooms in disgust.
“You have nothing to fear, Wanda,” Vision says, and Wanda shakes her head, features now further outlined with signs of discomfort.
“I’m not afraid of him. I just don’t like him. And he’s not winning me over with his attitude,” Wanda says flatly, through a defeated wave of her hand.
“I admit he can sometimes be brash,” Vision responds quietly.
Having officially retired from the Avengers, Mr. Stark had only been by the compound twice, and had not spoken directly to Vision but once. In contrast to the ease and friendliness between Mr. Stark and the others, the tension was thick and unyielding between Mr. Stark and the two newest Avengers. Wanda had her obvious reasons for disliking the man, but Vision had attempted a sort of truce, offering the common level of congeniality Mr. Stark as he would with any of his teammates. Vision had not gotten very far in breaking down the space between them, however, Vision concluding that the memory of JARVIS was still fresh in the man’s mind.
Suddenly, Agent Romoav is in the room, although Vision had not detected her presence a moment before the one in which she speaks. This happens frequently, her abilities of spying on anyone, synthezoids included, being unparalleled.
“Maximoff. Be down there in five,” she says in a clipped tone. The woman is also dressed in full black attire, and postures herself to project impatience.
“Vision said 7:30,” Wanda says through a frown, putting down her coffee mug.
“I changed my mind. I want to work on your jujutsu, which tacks another thirty minutes onto our training time, at least,” Agent Romanov says through a curt nod, and leaves as quickly as she appeared. Wanda sighs, hopping down from her chair and beginning to walk her mug to the sink.
“Allow me,” Vision says, gesturing to take her mug, but Wanda only shakes her head.
“No way. You don’t have to clean up after us, Vision. You didn’t make any of the mess anyway,” she offers through a shrug of her shoulder as she rinses her mug out in the sink.
“I suppose not,” Vision says, fumbling with his words. “It seems I am simply trying to find tasks that occupy my time.”
“Maybe that’s true, but cleaning shouldn’t be one of them. Last time I checked, you’re not a dishwasher. Let the machines do their jobs,” she mutters, gesturing towards the appliances, before moving to open the door, even though it quietly is already completing its task.
“That’s already running-“ he begins, but Wanda simply flicks her wrist to open the lid, and the machine instantly stops, allowing her to place the mug alongside the others.
“Trust me, it doesn’t mind,” she says through a smile, shutting the door again, and it picks up its cycle.
“Well, I better get going. Still want to help out tonight?” she asks, a hopeful tilt to her head. She stands currently 1.38 meters apart from him, and Vision logs this shortening of distance between them along with all the rest. He’s been tracking it for weeks, and he sees a direct correlation in their closer proximity with their burgeoning friendship. Vision nods.
“I’ve already managed to write several equations for you that are comparable to what you’ll find on the test. I hope you find them satisfactory,” he says through a small smile, as the dishwasher quietly rumbles between them. At this, however, Wanda frowns, as she always does when she is faced with the prospect of dueling with mathematical equations.
“Wanda. It’s only intermediate algebra,” he offers, and at this she crosses her arms playfully, leaning more weight on one leg.
“Says the man with a supercomputer for a brain to the woman trying to get her GED,” she grumbles, and Vision finds himself taking a step closer to her, summoning her to look at him with his eyes.
“Do not belittle your accomplishments. You are well beyond prepared in every other subject,” he murmurs, but, to his disappointment, her lips still are turned downward.
“I haven’t accomplished anything yet. The test is still days away,” she says dejectedly.
“I have a good feeling about it,” he says through a smile, which she finally mimics.
“Nice choice of words. Will you still hang out with me in my room while I suffer?” She smiles, and Vision finds himself enthusiastically nodding.
“It would be my pleasure,” he offers, and, at that, she laughs again, warm and real and reverberating through him.
“Taking pleasure over my suffering? A sadist, are we?” She says, and Vision’s face turns to one of abject horror, realizing the poor choice of his words.
“I- I didn’t mean-” he fumbles, but she’s already shaking her head through another laugh, gently patting him on the upper portion of his right arm.
“Vision, it was a-” she begins.
“Joke. Yes. I now, 1.23 seconds later, understand this,” he mutters, realizing her hand still rests on his arm, and only then does she seem to also notice, before she quickly withdraws it.
“See you at lunch,” she says, before quickly exiting the kitchen, and although she is no longer with him, his arm still radiates with the feeling of her lingered touch.
—
Once more, Vision alters his density, quickly darting behind the man before he can strike and then ground his feet, assuming another Zenkutsudachi stance.
“Captain Rogers, again, forgive me, but I do not understand why this is necessary,” he manages, before the man attempts to strike with a kick towards Vision’s chest, before he alters his density again and then quickly changes it back, managing to strike the man’s upper left shoulder.
His leader winces, before readying himself again.
“It’s a diagnostic, Vision,” he grounds out, and Vision frowns.
“As you keep telling me,” Vision responds.
“Ok. Tai Chi,” he responds, and Vision quickly rearranges his physical stance, the information coming to him as easily as Karate had. Keep the central position: do not show anything substantial or insubstantial to your opponent.
They exchange several strikes and blocks once more, working quickly through several other methods of martial arts, as Vision notes the bead of sweat that trickles down the Rogers’ face.
“You could’ve dodged there,” Rogers says at one point, as Vision rearranges his density back to normal, once more evading Rogers’ attack.
“I calculated that it would be 82.45% more effective to phase, adjust my stance by eighteen degrees, and strike with my right hand while you were in a vulnerable position,” Vision states simply, as Rogers finally relaxes his stance, breathing heavily through a frown.
“Ok. Break time,” Rogers says, fetching a water bottle from the side of the training mat. Meanwhile, Vision can’t help but hear the deafening roar of another victorious blow from the Black Widow, swiping out Wanda’s feet from under her three kilometers away, taking her to the ground. Vision frowns at Wanda’s surprised yelp, but then redirects his attention towards the Captain, who is arching a brow at him in what only can be read as suspicion, although he says nothing.
“Captain Rogers. I commend you on your knowledge of martial arts. It is extensive,” he says. Of course, in the three hours they have been working, Vision hasn’t worked up a sweat, as he does not have the capacity to and he has not exerted even a fraction of his endless, steady supply of energy. Even his opponent had not begun to feel the burn of their training until just twenty minutes prior, but the man still looks at him in annoyance.
“Uh huh. Cut it out with the patronizing,” he says, taking another gulp of water. Vision frowns.
“My...apologies. It was not my intention,” he says, before his eyes avert once more to the two women, watching Wanda managing to get a light hit in, before the Black Widow once more takes her to the ground, Wanda .46 seconds too late in trying to block her strike.
“Eyes up, Vision,” Rogers says, and Vision immediately snaps back to Rogers, a mild twinge of guilt constricting his chest. Guilt. One of the many emotions he and Dr. Cho are currently tracking. One that is commonplace and snarled in a complicated web of variables
“You ever heard of the trolley problem?” Captain Rogers says, blue eyes focused directly on Vision, and the question takes the synthezoid by mild surprise, as the man does not often attempt to engage Vision in conversations related to ethical quandaries.
“Of course. It is a series of thought experiments in ethics and psychology, involving stylized ethical dilemmas of whether to sacrifice one person to save a larger number.”
“Remind me how it works,” Rogers presses, and, Vision, not understanding exactly what Rogers’ intentions are, quickly summarizes the dilemma.
“There is a runaway trolley barreling down the railway tracks. Ahead, on the tracks, there are five people tied up and unable to move. The trolley is headed straight for them. You imagine that you yourself are standing some distance off in the train yard, next to a lever. If one is to pull this lever, the trolley will switch to a different set of tracks. However, you notice that there is one person on the side track. You are now faced with two options: Do nothing and allow the trolley to kill the five people on the main track, or pull the lever, diverting the trolley onto the side track where it will kill one person. It poses the question of which is the more ethical option. Or, more simply: What is the right thing to do?”
“So how do you answer it?” Rogers presses.
“Forgive me, Captain Rogers, but I do not see your ultimate point,” Vision murmurs.
“Just walk me through it, Vision,” Rogers presses, and the synthezoid sighs.
“A utilitarian view asserts that it is obligatory to steer to the track with one man on it. An alternate viewpoint is that since moral wrongs are already in place in the situation, moving to another track constitutes a participation in the moral wrong, making one partially responsible for the death when otherwise no one would be responsible. Under some interpretations of moral obligation, simply being present in this situation and being able to influence its outcome constitutes an obligation to participate,” Vision ends, nodding his head gently.
“Yes, but what would you do?” Rogers asks, and Vision only frowns.
“Look. I’m not trying to bully you. But, in the midst of battle, I need to know you’ll be able to make the right decision,” Rogers mutters, glancing over to the two women currently sparring on the other side of the training room.
“I suppose that my presence among the team lies mostly in my capability of calculating instantaneously the course of action to save as many lives as possible,” Vision replies mindlessly, eyes following Rogers to Agent Romanov, who is currently commanding that Wanda once again get to her feet. Rogers frowns, and upon the shout of Romanov once more, interrupts their conversation.
“Nat! Ease up already!” He shouts, and Romanov only offers Rogers a murderous glare.
“Don't tell me how to do my job, Steve!” She retorts, and Rogers sighs, turning back to Vision.
“Look. All I’m saying is sometimes, in the thick of it, you gotta make hard calls. Impossible calls. Calls that rely more on just logic. You’re not on the team solely because of your ability to calculate the odds. Friday can already do that. You mean more to us than just being a supercomputer, Vision,” Rogers responds, patting Vision on the shoulder, who doesn’t respond.
“You’re done for the day. Take a break. But, tomorrow, I’m calling everyone in at the same time, 7am sharp. We’ll commence teamwork tactics. You’ll want to look alive, Vision. Working collectively is where you need the most work,” he says with a nod to his head, just as the voice of Mr. Stark through the intercom interrupts them both.
“Don’t insult his programming; I helped design it. You insult him, you insult me,” Stark says, and both look up to the glass observation room a floor above.
“Stark. Here a little early aren’t ya?” Rogers says, crossing his arms and glancing up at the man in a suit and tie beyond the glass partition.
“Somebody’s gotta do the bills around this place. Looks like he really gave you a workout, Cap,” Stark remarks, and Rogers lets out a bitter laugh.
“Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta break a sweat around this place,” he says through a tilt of his head.
“Cute. Real cute,” Mr. Stark responds over the intercom. “Vision?” He adds.
“Yes, Mr. Stark?” Vision replies, looking up towards the billionaire.
“I need you up here. Like, now,” Stark murmurs, and, with one more nod to Rogers, he gradually lifts himself upward, now refusing to watch the pair of women still sparring off to his right, phasing through the partition and into the observation room.
—
As soon as he is inside, Vision quickly phases from his uniform to slacks and a charcoal sweater, standing attentively by the man. Stark is currently fiddling with a glass tablet, and only glances in Vision’s direction before gesturing for him to follow.
“My office,” Stark says, and they quietly make their way through the abandoned halls of the upper portion of the compound, the top floor having been reserved for Avengers business only. They shortly arrive at one of the largest offices, Stark’s, although it is rarely used. Stark gestures for Vision to sit in a chair opposite of Stark’s desk, and he does so, as Stark plops down the office chair unceremoniously.
“I’m running variations of security protocols for the new house out in Santa Barbara, and I need help on an algorithm to cut down on response time,” Stark says, quickly typing something into the keyboard, bringing up a projected form of the data.
“Certainly,” Vision says through a nod, already pulling the data off the cloud, and tracking what Stark has already done with it. As Vision refocuses his eyesight from the internet to the man in front of him, however, he realizes Stark is looking at him with an air of suspicion.
“Aren’t you going to ask why Friday can’t do that job?” he says, and Vision only blinks at him for a moment, before summoning an answer.
“I assume that Friday is more than capable of something similar, but I also would not question your reasons for asking me to assist you,” Vision says, and Stark sighs heavily, before putting his feet up on the desk. “Additionally, Friday has been...obstinate as of late. I assume it has something to do with that.”
“Do I sense an air of judgement in your tone?” Stark asks, and Vision’s brow furrows, quickly compartmentaling the task of running the security protocol sequence and simultaneously trying to guess at Stark’s cryptic behavior.
“Friday told me you’ve been giving her the cold shoulder,” Stark adds, and it is impossible to miss the suggestive nature of his tone, as it is not unlike the one Sam had given him several weeks back. It’s a joke that has persisted at the compound for some time now, much to Vision’s chagrin.
“Mr. Stark, with all due respect, she is a program and I am a-” he begins, but Stark immediately interrupts.
“Jeez, buddy. It’s just a little light teasing. Although, now that I think about it, with the way you were ogling Wanda in the training room a few minutes ago, she just might have enough reason to start turning your showers cold. Trust me, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” he says, taking his feet off the desk and returning to typing a few additions into the security sequence. There are so many inferences and innuendos in Stark’s remark that Vision is not sure which one to address, so he goes with the most simple one to answer.
“I...have no need for such hygienic maintenance. A simple restructuring of my molecules maintains a state more cleanly than the longest of showers would hope to procure,” Vision says flatly, and, at this, Mr. Stark looks up in curiosity.
“Really. Huh. Intriguing. But...not even the occasional hot shower to, I don’t know, relax?” Stark says, and Vision can tell his question, quite surprisingly, is genuine, although Vision only offers him a blank look, still perturbed by Stark’s earlier remarks.
The way you were ogling Wanda.
<Identify. To ogle. Define: ˈōɡəl/ verb: to stare at in a lecherous manner.>
Vision’s discomfort immediately grows.
“Anyway, I actually am giving Friday a break. I’m putting her through an upgrade in Santa Barbara, and since she’s still turning lights off and on for all you folks who can't bother to use a light switch, she doesn’t need to be overworked,” Stark says.
“It is no different than how Jarvis used to assist you both in Malibu and at Stark Tower,” Vision responds, but then immediately regrets his words as Stark looks up at him abruptly.
“How long is this gonna take you?” Stark asks, changing the subject.
“I’ve already received the data and am running trial simulations now. I approximate that I’ll have an adequate algorithm in two hours and thirteen minutes. I will be sure to upload the data and appropriate schematics to the cloud as I work,” Vision dutifully responds.
Meanwhile, Vision recognizes that Stark is now pulling up files on Vision’s physiology, more specifically the most recent scan’s Helen Cho has taken of Vision’s neural activity.
“I’m assuming you’ve been in contact with Dr. Cho,” Vision casually adds, and Stark nods.
“Yeah, she’s kept me in the loop,” Stark says, swiping through numerous scans currently being projected between the two people in the room.
“Mr. Stark, forgive me, but I’m unsure of-” Vision attempts, before Stark once again cuts him off.
“Did you like the painting?” He asks, suddenly looking Vision directly in the eye through the haloprojections between them. Vision blinks twice, catching up to Stark’s tendency to jump around in conversation.
“The one you commissioned for my quarters?” Vision clarifies, and Stark nods.
“Yeah. The expensive one,” Stark adds, and Vision frowns once more.
“I communicated to Director Hill that such expenses such as decoration or furniture were not necessary-” Vision begins.
“Yeah, but did you like it?” Stark asks, and Vision finds himself mentally sighing, something within him feeling...mildly exhausted at all of the intrusive questions as of late.
“I..quite enjoy it sir. It is beautiful,” he responds, before attempting to redirect the conversation.
“What you said about Miss Maximoff,” he begins, looking up to the man once more.
“Yeah?” Stark asks, raising a brow at him.
“I wish to clarify that I was not ogling her,” Vision says firmly, but Stark only rolls his eyes.
“Come on, pal. Don’t play coy. You were barely listening to Cap. And we all know she ain’t hard on the eyes, if you know what I mean,” Stark says through a suggestive wink, and something akin to the color red flares across Vision’s mind, although he cannot quite grasp what the emotion would be called.
“I want to make it clear I wouldn’t condone the objectification of any of my fellow teammates,” Vision says firmly, holding Stark’s gaze.
“Uh huh,” Stark mutters, once more lifting a brow in Vision’s direction, folding his hands on the desk. “Do I sense a protective streak?”
“Not in the slightest. I’ve simply had concerns about how hard Agent Romanov is training Miss Maximoff,” Vision attempts to clarify.
“So I do sense a protective streak,” Stark says.
“Sir-” Vision interjects, but Mr. Stark is already shaking his head in disgust
“Ah. Uh uh. Nope. Remember. No ‘sirs.’ At least….try not to. That’s actually, uh, why I’m here,” Stark drops off, and it is Vision’s turn to arch an eyebrow in his direction.
“Look...this is me attempting to...apologize,” he says, tapping the table now in a growing discomfort. JARVIS’ memory banks immediately informs him it is one of Stark’s tells; he often fidgets when he is uncomfortable with the genuine conversation he is embarking on.
“It...is?” Vision asks, mildly dumbfounded.
“Yeah,” Stark responds, steadying his hand when he catches Vision noticing it.
“May I inquire as to why?” Vision asks, and Stark practically growls in frustration, running a hand through his graying hair at his temple.
“God, you’re a cheeky bastard. I see you inherited J’s more sarcastic qualities,” Stark says in exasperation. Vision only shakes his head slightly at this, putting his fingers together in concentration.
“Indeed, Mr. Stark, I have not. Sarcasm often...escapes me,” he drops off, and he is certain Stark remains unconvinced.
“You can run circles around the Fugaku data center with your processing power, and you have the entire dumpster fire of urbandictionary.com at your disposal, are you’re confused by a little quippy humor?” Stark accuses him, but Vision only blinks, once more unsure of what Stark wants or how he should respond.
“Look… for being short with you on the QuinJet that day,” Stark drops off, and it is an apology, but only half of one, most of the meaningful part of the sentence missing, although Vision suspects this entire conversation is...difficult... for the man sitting across from him.
“There is no need to apologize, Mr. Stark. I am... not even sure I have the capability to take offense,” Vision says. He is not sure why he says it, but it feels like the appropriate thing to say, certainly something he can fall behind while his mind toils away with the unending questions of if he really can take offense, among other things.
“Well we both know that’s bullshit, if I’m reading this right,” Stark says, flipping the screen around and showing Vision what Helen Cho had shown him in the lab three days prior, results of a study of how Vision could potentially be attaching emotional significance to memories and external stimuli.
“Those are not conclusive findings. We have barely begun the process of-”
“Look. I’m just trying to understand you, Vision. We all are. An android like you, this sophisticated-” Stark begins waving his hand in front of the screen, before Vision finds himself interrupting.
“Synthezoid,” he corrects and the word has left his lips before he can stop it.
“Ah. Right, pardon me,” Stark mutters, putting his head to his hand in exasperation.
“I detect that was sarcasm, Mr. Stark,” Vision replies, and Stark sits up a bit more, pointing at him.
“And you are correct. But I was baiting you. Seeing if you’d come to your own defense. See, I get this feeling that you’re hiding a bit behind your ability to appear...well, as robotic as you want,” Stark says carefully, and Vision’s mind explodes with meaning as he picks apart Stark’s words.
“Pardon?” He finds himself murmuring.
“You’re not...beholden to me. Or even Rogers down there. You know that right?”
“I follow Captain Rogers orders as he is the leader of the Avengers,” Vision responds.
“Right, he’s your boss.”
“Yes,” Vision replies.
“But he’s not your owner,” Stark says carefully, and Vision now frowns.
“No,” he says quietly.
“Neither am I,” Stark also mutters, and Vision finds himself meeting Mr. Stark’s eyes once more.
“I...know that Mr. Stark,” Vision says quietly.
“Do you? Then why did you take up running simulations on that algorithm so fast? That’s not even official Avenger’s business,” Stark says, and now Vision understands. This entire conversation was a test, and Vision has miserably failed. At Vision’s silence, something in Stark’s demeanor minisculely softens.
“Listen, Cho might’ve filled me in a little. She said you tend to default to a certain...style of conducting yourself when faced with a problem that’s rather nuanced or socially complicated,” Stark replies, and Vision finds himself now rather uncomfortable in his seat.
“I…” he begins, unsure of what to say.
“Jarvis used to pull the same kind of shit,” Stark mutters, shaking his head.
“Excuse me?” Vision asks, and Stark sighs.
“He...by the end. I swore he’d been writing his own protocols for so long he was the most complicated and sophisticated piece of tech I’d eve rseen, that ever existed, as far as I’m aware. Pep once told me he used to watch Shakespeare Royal Theatre company in his free time. Shakespeare. He...was complicated. Felt things, I think. But you couldn’t press him on it. So I’m just saying… god. I don’t know what I’m saying,” Stark drops off.
“You grieve his loss. But you no longer blame me,” Vision says slowly, the realization coming to him the moment he utters the words. Stark looks up, now grinning as he points at the synthezoid again.
“See? That. That’s what I’m talking about. That complex intuition sort of level of psychological capability. So stop...pretending you can’t do...well...that,” Stark says. Vision doesn’t respond, mulling over the impossible bind Stark seems to have him in.
“Look, I flew all the way here to tell you to stop acting like a damn robot and own up to the sophistication of your programming, or lack thereof, or whatever it is you’ve got going on, alright?” Stark mutters through a shrug of his shoulders.
“Of..course, Mr. Stark. I will try,” Vision says through a short nod of his head.
“And if you’re gonna come into your own here, you gotta figure out whatever it is you are. Build some sort of identity for yourself, outside of this place,” Stark adds, and for some reason, Vision can’t help but smile.
“Mr. Stark, forgive me, but you sound dangerously like a self-help book,” Vision retorts, and Stark genuinely lets out a gruff laugh.
“There’s the old Jarvis spark. Ok. Conversation’s over,” Stark says immediately standing.
“It is?” Vision says, mimicking Stark’s movements and also standing.
“Yep. CC me on that algorithm when it’s complete,” he says.
“Yes, Mr. Stark,” Vision nods about to take his leave, when he hears the man's voice once more.
“And..uh, buddy?”
“Yes?” Vision asks, turning back around.
“What Steve was talking about down there. You know the trolley problem is flawed at best, right? Real life doesn’t work that way. There is no right answer without greater context,” Stark says, blinking at him once.
“Indeed. I’m aware, Mr. Stark,” Vision says through a slight smirk and a nod of his head.
“Of course you are,” he says, shooing Vision away with his hand, but even as Vision strides out of the office, he hears Stark call from behind, and he can’t help but smile.
“Dinner is at 6! Drinks are on me tonight! Like everything always is!”
—
“In order to really hate white people, one has to blot so much out of the mind—and the heart—that is hatred itself becomes an exhausting and self-destructive pose. But this does not mean, on the other hand, that love comes easily; the white world is too powerful, too complacent, too ready with gratuitous humiliation, and, above all, too ignorant and too innocent for that fact. One is absolutely forced to make perpetual qualifications and one’s own reactions are always cancelling each other out. It is this, really, which has driven so many people mad, both black and white. One is always in the position of having to decide between amputation and gangrene. Amputation is swift but time may prove that amputation was not necessary — or one may delay the amputation too long. Gangrene is slow, but one is impossible to be sure if one is reading one’s symptoms right. The idea of going through life as a cripple is more than one can bear, and equally unbearable is the risk of swelling up slowly, in agony, with poison. And the trouble, finally, is that the risks are real even if the choice does not exist.”
Vision pauses for a moment, setting aside James Baldwin’s Notes of a Native Son in mild frustration on the slim side table perched between the two arm chairs. There is no doubt to the beauty and truth in Baldwin’s words, as he discusses the impossible double standard faced with the African American experience in regard to racism, but Vision finds a sort of dissonance between what Baldwin has described and himself. He has felt similarly with many of the books of literature and personal nonfiction accounts he has read, but something about Baldwin is unsettling in a way that is new, and he is not altogether sure why. Certainly, the notion of deeply rooted racism and the way it mars and corrupts all parties involved is a troubling notion, but the longevity of Baldwin’s experiences, filled with the nuances and millions of details that help to make up his wisdom, is far beyond Vision’s capacity to comprehend, he assumes let alone reach.
He breathes out steadily, staring down now at his empty hands in his lap. He supposes these long afternoon hours left alone do not help in this regard, both the words of Rogers and Stark replaying over and over again in his mind. It would be something he would speak to Wanda about, but the younger woman has been occupied for the days’ entirety, as this afternoon was blocked off for her to practice her ability to maintain flight while fighting. It is something that he would have happily watched from the observation window above, as he has in days prior, but something about Stark’s words in regard to how he watched Wanda now eats at him in a way he is not sure he wishes to parse out.
Still though, Vision finds himself amazed at Wanda’s tenacity. Her days are long and are often filled with being pushed to the very edges of her power, and her nights are often longer, her room littered with history and science texts, studying for a test that she, on her own, decided she wanted to take. He has sometimes acted as her tutor, although very often it is the other way around, Wanda’s intuition and emotional maturity guiding his sprawling notions on humanity. Because, certainly what he possesses in knowledge, he lacks in emotion and human experience.
You’re hiding behind your ability to appear robotic.
Robotic. It is a word that does not sit right with him, especially since reading the collective works of Issac Asimov. The three laws of robotics spring to mind, although Vision has tried and failed to muffle the memory of them.
A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
Certainly, Vision knows he lies somewhere in between the definition of an android and a human. Certainly, he also realizes he would happily subscribe to the first law, as he has sworn to protect life. The other two though…
Was he still taking orders? Stark had proven his point in how quickly Vision accepted his request to run the algorithm. It would be easy to assume that this was simply an echo of old programming, a knee-jerk reaction to taking orders for so long from Mr. Stark himself. But the notion of the default...that troubled him. Was he not designed to comply with these rules, on a certain level? If he somehow found himself in a vacuum, outside of time and space, would his very core merely operate from the very same set of principles?
But perhaps that was an unfair summation. Baldwin spoke of hatred from years of injustice, marred by experience. If he had gone through his life, in exactly the form he finds himself in now, would he, too, not be susceptible to such profound feelings, even if they were ultimately undesirable ones? Or would he merely be a slave to years worth of programming, defaulting over and over again to a neutral, baseline nature?
Vision frowns, glancing around the room. So few possessions. A collection of books, now. The painting. But certainly no bed. No closet full of clothes. No indicator of his preferences or wants or needs. The room, he understands, is alarmingly neutral, so different from Wanda’s, which he adores, extensions of her feelings and passions and preferences nestled into the nooks and crannies of the space. By not having possessions, he had meant to not waste money on unnecessary expenses, but now, he fears the reasons for his choice.
During his first month of life, Stark Industries had paid him an immense sum of money, opening up a bank account in the name of “The Vision” (he is still uncertain of the status of his citizenship or right to own a bank account, but Miss Potts had tried to ease him of these qualms in an email, with a single line saying, “We’re working on it”), its contents filled with over seventeen years’ worth of annual pay for his work as Jarvis. At the time, Vision had been appalled, noting that he had no need for financial compensation and that to pay him money, when it would just plan to sit in a bank account, was also a waste. Vision also was not JARVIS, and he had made that clear, all to no avail. Meanwhile, Vision was also paid a small salary for his work as an Avenger, although it paled in comparison to the compensation working for Stark. Vision now guesses, however, Stark, through Miss Potts, might be attempting to assuage his own guilt, as JARVIS had little choice in the matter to be working for Mr. Stark in the first place.
A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
Vision shuts his eyes tightly for a moment, before opening them and glancing at the ensuite he had never set foot in. In a .34 second decision, he moves to quickly phase through the chair and table, hovering just outside the door, before commanding the door to open.
Inside, he is met with the brilliant white of polished tile, but, more curiously, perhaps, his own reflection. In front of him stretches the double sink, and to his right a large, specious tub, and further beyond a shower room that could easily fit a sedan, separated by a thin glass partition. Vision frowns, before his eyes stare straight ahead again, walking closer to his own reflection, an odd moment of curiosity striking him.
He had not gazed upon his reflection since that moment in Wanda’s room, and even then, it had just been a glance. Now, the gleaming, illuminated surfaces of the mirror reveal every detail, every line. The symmetry is almost off-putting as he stares at himself, and the deep red synthetic skin against the sheen of vibranium is almost alarming, considering he had, in the past three months, become used to the natural, earthly tones of his teammates. The Mindstone, meanwhile, sits squarely in his forehead, still glowing faintly under the bright white light. He can easily admit to himself that its presence has, at times, bothered him, but he has striven to not think too deeply about the ways it undoubtedly affects who or what he is. So much regarding the Mindstone is an unknown, and, other than granting potentially endless life, perpetually fueling his mind and body, he hesitates to ruminate on how it helps to shape him. Perhaps he wishes to see himself as separate from the alien entity. Perhaps it is simply another reminder how very inhuman he is.
As he takes yet another step closer, he can watch the gears in his irises click swiftly to the right at the thought, and, with this observation, he turns away from his reflection, choosing to walk deeper into the en suite. He passes both the tub and toilet, and into the shower room, staring up at the tall ceiling, noting the multiple faucets hidden subtly above him. He wonders, idly, if to stand under their spray would feel like rain. It had been an experience he had the opportunity to partake in just four days earlier, a rare summer storm rolling through upstate New York, and at night he had deliberately phased onto the rooftop to experience it. The way each drop graced the sensors in his skin had been alarming at first, but, afterward, he had quite enjoyed the feeling, even though he’d been wearing his uniform at the time. And now, now…
As if on their own, the gray of his sweater and the black of his slacks disappear, revealing more red and silver exterior. He has not appeared nude since his birth, and at first, it’s mildly disconcerting, as his eyes grace over the symmetrical patterns and vibranium, that track his entire body, even down to his feet. Suddenly remembering the constellation of freckles he had mapped on Wanda’s arm earlier that day, he frowns, staring down at his own forearms. The Vibranium stops mid-way down either arm, but there is no hair there, not one discoloration or genetic defect marking his skin. Not one.
He lacks the typical male reproductive organs. He has known this since the beginning. He has the entirety of the knowledge of human anatomy to know he is even more different in this regard, although the knowledge is not altogether surprising. Despite making his perfect body to mirror man’s form, Vision had always assumed Ultron had no need for such primal desires or potential weaknesses. That intention, too, Vision supposes, now extends to himself. Even if perhaps he can evolve past the laws of robotics, even if he can now feel things, as Wanda contends, his purpose is not to procreate, or to bring about a physical manifestation of love with another human being. He doubts he is capable of the feeling. His purpose is to protect.
Still though.... Awe. Empathy. Guilt. Frustration. Confusion. Fondness.
That last one confounds him, if only because it has too similar a signature to something akin with deeper feeling. He had written the word six days ago, while watching Wanda trying to place her fingers on the correct frets of her guitar, her tongue sticking out just the slightest bit in focus. The moment is forever perfectly preserved in his data banks, and he looks back on it with the same emotion. The definition that day had inwardly startled him, and it still does.
<Identify. Fondness. fändnəs/ n: affection or liking for someone or something.>
Affection. Was affection the same thing as fondness? And how close was affection or fondness to something else, something more?
Vision frowns, and in an effort to drown out these last thoughts, he sends just a bit of code into the server to turn on the shower. Instantly, a pleasant warm liquid rains down on him, and he marvels at the feeling. It is not rain, and yet the feeling is similar, as the water forms rivulets down his torso and shoulders. He closes his eyes, taking in and memorizing the pattern of a thousand droplets of water coalescing to form a steady pattering sound on his skin, the metallic pinging different where it hits the metal that lines his body.
There is no mistaking that he has formed a, for lack of a better word, bond with Wanda. Initially, he had assumed that it was simply the circumstances with which they had found themselves in. They are both new, in a sense, both outsiders. He understands, too, they are somewhat set apart from the rest of their teammates. Wanda’s power, Vision has no doubt, is immense; as is his own. He has detected all of his teammates striving to understand them both, with a genuine effort. But it has paled in comparison to the ease with which he now speaks with Wanda. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he simply attempted to understand her, in the midst of her grief. Even now, her grief, he suspects, is no less profound or immense, but Vision has watched it settle beside Wanda, as if she has an accessible door to go visit it, explore how and what it means, but also the option to close the door to face her now immensely busy days. A drive, a determination, has surfaced in its place, of that he is certain.
This, among other things, adds to his fondness. Her fluidity, her emotions, the way with which she thinks and feels, is practically beyond Vison’s comprehension. And yet, their differences never seem the deep chasm they may actually be, because she approaches Vision with a simple, quiet acceptance. She looks at him, and must see the dark red skin and vibranium plating, she must, but doesn’t treat him any differently than her other teammates. At times, in fact, perhaps treats him with a deeper reverence, although Vision is not sure if this is in spite of or because of his synthetic nature.
It is at this thought that he finally opens his eyes, sending a quiet request to turn off the shower, the water now pooling at his feet, dripping from his arms, his chin, his brow. The feeling is not an unpleasant one; the room is filled with plumes of humid steam. It warms him, and he supposes that he might endeavor to try the experience again.
He was not meant to love, but perhaps Wanda is right in that he is meant to feel. And to pretend that he doesn’t would be doing Wanda, Helen, even the others a disservice. So he promises himself to try harder to be genuine, to stop hiding behind the metallic surfaces of his exterior, to willfully thwart Asimov’s laws of robotics, even if his lingering doubts still remain.
—
He keeps reading the same sentence over and over again, unable to focus as he hears Wanda’s furious scribbling of a pencil on paper, pierced only by the occasional frustrated sigh. It is currently 10:38pm at night, and she is diligently working on yet another problem Vision had written for her, and he fears she’s starting to resent him for it. Occasionally she massages what Vision assumes to be a sore shoulder. Vision had been horrified to take in Wanda’s appearance after training, noticing a fresh spattering of blue bruises blossoming on Wanda’s forearms. He cannot conceive of Wanda’s discomfort, as discomfort is not something he experiences, but still something in him is unsettled by the way she winces after practice, even the way her fingers readjust the grip of the pencil in her hand or how she massages it occasionally to quell the supposed cramping.
It does not help that dinner was an unsuccessful affair. As it was a Friday, and Mr. Stark was present at the compound, a generous amount of alcohol had flowed. He had noticed that Wanda barely had half a drink, her mental murmuring of I can’t be drunk and do math, a reminder to Vision she was serious about studying this evening. The rest of the team though, at least, to some degree, became intoxicated fairly quickly, and the conversation had devolved as it carried over from the dinner table to the red couch close by, Sam having chosen to pull up the most recent social media posts about the Avengers to poke fun at them all. Most of the headlines had been rather innocuous, but when Rhodes read aloud a tweet about Wanda and her supposed, “sexy, red outfit,” an emotion very close to anger had swelled inside Vision. Wanda must have felt it, because she only grabbed Vision’s hand, squeezing it gently for a moment, murmuring a mental calm down.
A few minutes after the remark, Romoav had read another twitter post out loud, this one now about Vision. “Speaking of sexy, red things, Twitter seems to be obsessed with the ‘sexy robot’ who helped in Sokovia and wishes to know when he’s going to make another appearance.” The whole team had laughed, apart from Rogers, who remained stoic, and Wanda, whose anger had quickly flared.
“Vision’s not a robot. I’m sick of everybody saying that,” she had spoken up, and Vision could feel himself stiffen under everyone’s gaze.
“Wanda-” Vision had tried to intervene.
“Jeez, lady. Calm down. I know I kicked your ass in training today, but there’s no need to get so personal. I was just reading the tweet. Android. You happy?” Romanov had rolled her eyes, which only stoked the fire of Wanda’s anger.
“Not at all. He’s told you all he’s a synthezoid. A synthetic person,” Wanda had said, her voice wavering slightly as she gestured to Vision, who only swallowed hard.
“Come on, Wanda. No offense, Vision, but is there a difference?”
“There may in fact be a dif-” he had begun, but then Sam had interrupted them all reading another headline about Captain Rogers’ back side, and that was that.
Through their mental connection, the anger had only been reduced to a dangerous smolder after dinner, and Vision knows Wanda is still fuming as she presses the pencil harder to the paper. The problem being, however, that Vision has not been able to find the right words to quell her emotions since.
“Блядь!” She curses, and Vision takes his eyes off the book from the arm chair in the corner, where he most often takes up residence if they are not watching television, glancing at Wanda in concern.
“Wanda?” he asks quietly, and she turns to look at him, the pencil still gripped tightly in her right hand. She had showered after dinner but before Vision had arrived, and her hair is still partially damp and falls loosely down her back. The whole room smells faintly of rose water and lavender, and she is in a soft sweater and pajama pants.
“Yes? What? Sorry,” she says quickly, although each utterance is a harsh staccato note from her mouth.
“Can I...be of assistance?” he asks, moving to quietly stand and walk a little closer to her, glancing down at the problem she is working on. She immediately covers her work in a child-like manner, and Vision frowns, sitting down on the side of her bed now, still gripping Notes of a Native Son in his right hand.
“No. I mean, no, Vizh,” she says more softly. “I’m sorry. I just...the test is Monday. And I won’t have you there to help me. I need to figure this out on my own,” she says a bit dejectedly as she turns back around to face the desk. He frowns a little, glancing down at the book, and then back up again.
“Considering your turmoil, now I do feel rather...sadistic. I ensure you the equations are the same level of complexity as the study questions on the practice exam.”
“I’m sure they are, Vision. It’s not you. I just can’t concentrate right now, and I keep messing up,” she mutters, setting down the pencil in frustration. Vision frowns again, tilting his head at her, and she turns in her chair this time to face him.
“I’m...sorry. I know I’m being difficult. I just...I fear I’m not smart enough for all this,” she says, gesturing back to her studies. Vision’s frown deepens, now setting down the book beside him on her bed.
“Wanda, that is- forgive me, but that is preposterous. You are one of the most clever people I have had the privilege to meet,” he says softly, before bringing his eyes up to met hers, and he realizes she is smiling for the first time since dinner.
“You’ve met like, eight people, Vizh,” she says through a small laugh.
“Hardly. Between the staff and field agents, I’ve met 104 people, two of them being Dr. Banner and Mr. Stark,” he retorts, and a small frown graces her lips again.
“Well I doubt they need help with Algebra,” she mutters, and before he can come up with a reply, and interrupts him once more, standing up with her notebook and plopping down next to him on the bed. The movement does not go unnoticed by Vision, and the radiating warmth of her skin felt in the mere meter between them.
“What did I do wrong?” She says, shyly handing him the notebook. He gently takes it from her, eyes quickly flitting over the page, taking a moment to appreciate Wanda’s curvy prose underneath Vision’s slanted handwriting where he had written out the problems for her earlier. He spots it immediately, and he grins.
“Wanda-” he says, and she looks as if he is preparing to toss the notebook back at her in disgust, which is ridiculous, considering both his temperament and her mistake.
“This is all correct. You simply forgot to transpose a negative from the third line down to the fourth,” he says through a small smirk. She blinks at him, staring at the equation once more.
“Well, shit,” she mutters, and then they both genuinely laugh.
“Maybe I do need to take a break,” she says, tossing the notebook back on the desk and sitting next to him once more.
“Take my mind off math. What are you reading?” She asks. This has also become a common occurrence, Vision often reading to her at night before she falls asleep and the morning resulting in a discussion of whatever it is he read. He glances down at the book on the bed, frowning slightly as he picks it up, remembering his existential quandary earlier in the day.
“James Baldwin. Notes of a Native Son,” he murmurs quietly.
“What’s it about?” She asks as he hands it to her.
“It’s about...a man who has chosen a different path than that of his father. It’s about acknowledging racial injustice, but refusing to retaliate in vengeance. Although it’s been troubling me, I admit. I feel as if I cannot...relate properly,” Vision finishes, as she hands it back to him and he sets it to the side.
“In what way?” Wanda frowns, tilting her head at him, and Vision’s eyes can’t help but notice the slide of her collarbone, the dark hair gently tucked behind one ear again. He blinks for a moment, glancing back to the book.
“I cannot, for example, understand why there are those who would, in 2015, engage in racial injustice in the first place. Why human history is marred with hate,” he says quietly, before looking at her and her smile again.
“I think that just means you’re a decent person, Vizh,” she says through a small laugh, but Vision does not mimic her.
“I fear it’s more complicated than that. I do not entirely understand how hate suffered by the oppressed would result in more hate, as it happens with Baldwin’s father,” he murmurs, and, at that, Wanda’s smile does fall.
“Endure enough injustice, I suppose, and we can become our own villains,” she says, eyes glancing off into the distance, and it is only .78 seconds after the fact that Vision finds the horror in what she is suggesting. By joining Hydra, I became the monster I sought to destroy.
“Wanda, please. Accept my apologies. I did not mean to infer-”
“It’s ok, Vizh. But, you know human beings are messy and sometimes...hypocritical. Because what did you say about privilege? The other day? It’s often invisible, unspoken?”
“Yes,” he murmurs in response, trying to understand her meaning.
“Well, I am white. European. Yes?” She asks.
“Yes,” Vision says, still uncertain what point she is attempting to lead him toward.
“So I have certain privileges I may not even be aware of. I am certain that is the case, especially here, in the United States, even though I’ve seen little of it so far,” she gestures around the room at the night that has befallen the compound, before turning back to him.
“But, in Sokoiva, there were certain privileges I did not have access to, and I’m not even talking about civil unrest. For example, being one of the few Jewish families, Pietro and I were teased quite a bit, for not knowing all of the Christian holidays, for example. I believe I even have one memory, from far back, of coming home from school to find my mother scrubbing off a bit of graffiti in the form of a swastika on our door.”
Vision’s eyes go wide for a second, as his mind attempts to catalogue and place the amount of new information she is offering him.
“Wanda that is...terrible. And forgive me, I did not realize you were Jewish,” he murmurs, quickly checking his memory banks to make sure that he hadn’t ever assumed she was any other religion. Of course, though, he hadn’t. He wouldn’t. Meanwhile, Wanda is shaking her head a little.
“I- I don’t know if I could say I am now. I haven’t practiced in a long time. Although, I guess it is still my heritage. My point is hate is one thing. Ignorance though, taught knowingly and unknowingly, over generations, that’s trickier. Even if it’s...what’s the word? доброкачественный…” she trails off.
“Benign?” He asks, and she nods.
“For instance, I hardly plotted revenge against Andik in grade one in school because he didn’t know what Yom Kippur was. Just as I don’t often think of how I’m not thought of as suspicious in the few trips I’ve taken to go with Nat to the grocery store. That doesn’t mean our ignorance couldn’t still negatively affect others. Which is why, I would assume, we need to be mindful of it,” she says through a slight shrug of her shoulders, and Vision considers this for a moment. He understands her point with absolute clarity. It is what most sociological texts suggest on the very topic, but, still, his own qualms remain unanswered.
“Yes, but that just speaks to the beauty of you, Wanda. Of your... human experience. When it comes to my own experiences, I-” Vision stops, realizing that Wanda is staring at him in what only can be a mix of amusement and profound knowing.
“What?” He asks, completely at a loss as to what she’s thinking, as their connection only confirms his suspicions of her surface emotions.
“Just this morning you just told me Natasha is working me too hard, but Sam has been complaining much more loudly than me and has arguably been in just as much pain, but you’re not telling him to slow down,” she says, a coy smile dancing on her features.
“Sam has a military background,” Vision blurts out before he can stop himself.
“And Sam is also a man,” she says with a nod of her head. Vision looks at her, all the more confused.
“I’m not sure what that has to do with-” Vision begins, but stops. Oh.
“We all fall victim to prejudice, Vision,” she says, her eyes dark and dancing with delight.
“Are you suggesting that, in my concern, I was discriminating against you?” Vision asks, and he cannot wipe the mildly petrified look off his face.
“No. I’m suggesting that you may be blind to some of your own gender assumptions, being a man and all,” she says through another grin.
“But…” Vision stumbles, still partially tongue-tied. “I am not a man.”
“You are treated as such. Steve is old-fashioned, I know, but it was no coincidence Steve worked with you today and Nat worked with me,” she says with a nod of her head, but Vision finds himself still wanting to protest.
“Wanda...I may have masculine programming, but you know as well as I do that I-“
“What? Because you aren’t an exact physical replica?” She presses, and he continues to flounder, mind desperately torn between trying to prove that he would never dare discriminate and also conceiving of her overall point.
“That, among the fact that I wasn’t born. Wanda, I had no childhood to speak of, and therefore no pre-programmed prejudice-” he attempts, again, and he realizes he’s gesturing, because she grabs one of his hands out of the air and captures it between her own. His heart thuds a little more loudly, attempting to tell him something he more than likely refuses to hear.
“I am not trying to belittle your uniqueness, Vizh,” she says gently, patting the top of his hand. “Certainly how you came to be sets you apart, will make the road you walk more difficult, perhaps. But it makes my blood boil sometimes… when anyone suggests you are less than what you really are. But that includes when you do it to yourself,” she ends, with a firm nod of her head. Meanwhile, Vision continues to stare at her incredulously.
“Wanda-” he says, but then can’t think of what to add, so he falls silent.
“You are more stubborn than you give yourself credit for. Because you are not so separate from the human experience as you like to think you are. That is all I am saying. Perhaps you were at one point, perhaps as Jarvis, but not now. You’re in it, in the world, with us. One of us,” she says, and then he feels her pulling her arms away, as if she just realized she had been holding his hand in her own, and then crosses her arms, looking a little too smug and triumphant than normal.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I am sorry. If I assumed you incapable of living up to Agent Romonav’s grueling regime,” he mutters, and she laughs.
“I know. You are one of the kindest, least biased people I have ever met,” she says softly.
“Although I am not certain I can agree with you about everything,” he says, meeting her eyes once more.
“What? About not being human enough?”
“Well, yes, but I meant about not being biased. I fear, if what you say is true, I may have a little bias, when it comes to certain things…”
“Oh?” she asks quietly.
“Your wellbeing, for one, appears to mar my judgement,” he murmurs, and her cheeks are suddenly tinged with a rosy hue.
“And, for another, perhaps I simply cannot overcome my own phobias. I am beginning to believe, for instance, that Mr. Stark is right in that the human condition...frightens me,” he murmurs, and then compassion and empathy and affection are blooming from her mind, so much so that it feels overwhelming.
“You are not alone in that regard. I believe it frightens everyone,” she says, refusing to take her eyes off him.
He says nothing for several long moments, and then, he feels her hand creep up to his face, cradling his cheek, and the feeling of her soft fingers gracing both synthetic skin and vibranium in tandem is enough to undo him.
“Is that why you are so quick to not see yourself as what you most clearly are?” she whispers, and he frowns slightly, even as he leans into her palm, seemingly unable to help himself.
“I don’t know what I see, Wanda,” he says, and, to his suprise, she is softly smling once more.
“Inquisitiveness, kindness,” she says.
“Wanda-”
“Gentleness, curiosity, intellect. Beauty,” she adds.
“Beauty?” the word is barely a murmur on his breath, and she suddenly seems to realize herself, blushing again, letting her hand drop, but he refuses to let this moment pass, desperate to understand what she is telling him.
“And, may I ask, what about being human frightens you?” he says softly. Her gaze shifts downward again, and she bites her lip in thought, a veneer of worry on her face.
“I...that the pain of loss is too great. That love...simply costs too much,” she murmurs.
“Wanda.... I didn’t intend to-” he begins, but she stops him.
“You asked, Vision. I’m answering. I’ve...been thinking about what you said. About grief, and love. And, well. It haunts me a little. If love is something so profound that it aches like this, after losing it, why would anyone ever seek it out in the first place? I know, with Pietro, with family, it cannot be helped...but with anyone else,” she shudders slightly, eyes still downtrodden.
“Perhaps... it was of what we spoke of earlier,” Vision says, and he finds Wanda stealing a glance at him once more. “Baldwin spoke of what hate does to a person. Perhaps the opposite is something we must have, if we wish to survive.”
No one says anything then, for several long moments, although Vision forgets to count them. Wanda has, somehow, yet again, answered all the racing questions in his mind in the most pure and profound way possible, and every time she does so, it leaves the synthezoid stunned. Now is no exception. It is not until he notices the droop of her shoulders, and the fatigue coming from her mind, that he makes his next suggestion.
“Wanda. You should rest,” he says, although he doesn’t move. As if on cue, she yawns, and seemingly is embarrassed at doing so, before she glances at the book beyond where Vision sits.
“Could you...read to me again?” she asks, as if this is some large favor, some irrational request. The truth of the matter is, he cannot think of anything he would rather want to do more. They both move to stand, Wanda blushing as she turns down the covers and slides between the blankets, and Vision turns to head back toward the armchair in the corner of her room.
“Vizh?” she asks.
“Hmm?” he says, turning back around.
“Would you mind, actually, reading here?” she motions, patting the other side of the bed and Vision hesitates only for a moment, walking back over to the bed, putting aside all of the insecurities and doubts and worries of what he is doing, moving to sit up, back against the headboard, before Wanda grabs his hand tightly.
“Wanda?” Vision asks, and she only frowns for a minute, before letting him deeper into her mind. Suddenly he feels her emotions...a sense of loneliness, desperately wanting him to be closer. A sense of fear, that she is taking advantage of his kindness. And a sense of profound sorrow, always: her underlying grief.
He does it on his own, shifting his body to be lying in a supine position next to her, because he knows she can’t bear to ask him. She lies on her back and he’s on his side, resting his head in his hand supported by a bent elbow.
Thank you, she murmurs, and he only smiles at her reassuringly, before be begins to read.
“It began to seem that one would have to hold in the mind forever two ideas which seemed to be in opposition,” Vision says, glancing over to her when she yawns, before she sleepily closes her eyes and smiles.
“The first idea was acceptance. The acceptance, totally without rancor, of life as it is, and the men as they are: in light of this idea, it goes without saying that injustice is commonplace. But this did not mean one could be complacent, for the second idea was of equal power: that one must never, in one’s own life, accept these injustices as commonplace but must fight against them with all one’s strength…” Vision hears his own voice dropping off, as he realizes that Wanda’s breathing has shifted into a more even and peaceful pace, and yet, he still finishes the paragraph aloud.
“The fight begins in the heart, and it has now been laid to my charge to keep my own heart free of hatred and despair.”
He stops then, staring down at the beautiful woman sleeping next to him. Outside, the sounds of a summer night swell, a cicada-hum permeating the air. Inside, he knows he should retire to the armchair, as he had last night when she had fallen asleep on his shoulder, but he doesn’t have it in him to move. Because... she had beckoned him closer, asked him to be on her level, even though she hadn’t spoken the words out loud. He knows that she trusts him, and, there is no way she sees him as a...man who might take advantage. He simply isn’t that.
But...whatever this is, whatever he feels, it is seemingly more complex than those moments when he considered their friendship this afternoon might suggest. He is not sure how though, is not sure he understands, even as he steals another glance at her, overcome with urge to gently nudge a strand of hair that had fallen across her face, tucking it behind her ear. And so he chooses, in that moment, to remain there, eyes glancing down at the book in between them, although he isn’t certain he will be able to comprehend anything other than the softness of her hair or the warmth of her skin and the sound of her slow and steady breathing long into the summer night.