Synthesis

Chapter 14: For People To See You, As I Do

Avengers Compound, Thursday, December 24th, 2015, 9:23am

The air is crisp and cool, although not biting, and the sun reflects off the white expanse of freshly fallen snow around them, disguising the typically distinguishable clearing far beyond. The sun is bright and high in the sky, gleaming off the field of white, and Vision has to adjust his eyes to see adequately. 

Wanda is adorned in a knit hat, puffy down jacket and mittens, and her breath is visible as it hits the morning air. A smile currently graces her lips, her cheeks are rosy as her body strives to maintain its temperature. Vision has phased a wool coat and boots, too, in an effort to match her appearance, although he is not nearly as affected by the chilly temperature. He has already inquired three times as to Wanda’s comfort, and the question, of course, is on the tip of his tongue again, but he refrains. It is currently 31 degrees Fahrenheit outside, hardly unbearable, and Wanda laughs as her boots sink into the several inches of snow that had accumulated during the night. There is a child-like delight in her eyes; it was her idea, really, to go on a walk, and Vision, never the one to turn her down, had enthusiastically agreed to accompany her.

“You know, I thought I always hated winter, but this is pretty,” she says, squinting her eyes slightly at the snow-covered pines that line the edge of the property.

“It does have its own sort of beauty,” Vision agrees. He had marveled in how the sky glittered with white and silver amidst the dark blue of the sky the night before, the shifting in seasons from the crisp and burnt feeling of fall giving way to the chill of winter. He pauses, staring down at his boots currently hidden in the roughly ten centimeters of snow, before moving to grace his fingers along the icy blanket, reveling in the texture. It is not so unlike running his hand through a cumulonimbus, and the feeling of precipitation is there and it isn’t. He can feel Wanda’s smiling eyes on him, even as she, too, bends down to gather up a bit of snow.

He looks over to her, a question on his features, as Wanda’s smile has morphed into a mischievous grin, as she gathers the snow between her mittens, compacting the frozen water in her hands. 

“Wanda, what are you-” is all he has time to say before Wanda hurls the snow at him, and it bounces off his chest, exploding into a burst of cloud of white as it does so. Vision looks down at the snow quickly melting along his wool coat, barely having time to phase as Wanda hurls another snowball at his head, and he steps back several paces defensively, head cocked to the side in cautious curiosity.

“Have I said something to provoke such an untoward attack?” Vision grins, and she only smiles, lifting her arms to either side of her body.

“Your turn. Only fair,” Wanda goads him, but he only blinks at her, and after a few moments she puts her hands on her hips in impatience.

“Oh, come on. Nothing?” she presses, and Vision arches a curious eyebrow in her direction. 

“You are asking me to compact some snow and hurl it at you as a sort of projectile weapon?” Vision asks, and Wanda nods enthusiastically, before grinning mischievously again, bending over to dip her gloved hands once more into the accumulated frozen precipitation.

“Wanda. All of this seems rather childish, so I don’t understand- oof,” he stops, as a snowball is hurled this time at his shoulder, striking him and covering him once more in a glistening white. Wanda laughs, the sound a melody as it cuts the frozen air between them.

“You didn’t get a childhood, Vizh. Consider it making up for lost time,” she says, but still he doesn’t move, not very inclined to engage in juvenile snow-themed violence with Wanda, and after a moment she rolls her eyes, trudging further up the path next to the edge of the clearing, altogether unsuspecting. Vision grins, cooling his body temperature down enough to more easily compact the snow, making an almost-perfectly shaped sphere, before throwing it lightly but far enough so it strikes Wanda’s back.

“Hey!” she exclaims as she whips around, a look of abject betrayal on her face, before her eyes narrow.

“You play dirty,” she says as she crosses her arms. 

“You have experienced and lost precisely forty-two games of chess against me to know that I do not,” he says innocently, still standing 2.34 kilometers away from her, lest she feel the need to strike again in retaliation.

“Uh huh,” she says, now through crossed arms, and for a moment he simply admires the way her dark hair escapes from the knit hat and dances in the light wind, framing her face, before another playful urge strikes him, and as he bends down to gather more snow and her eyes widen, before she attempts to flee. 

He is already up in the air and then landing down in front of her to throw the snowball at her coat, as it explodes into a thousand tiny icy crystals. She half yells, half laughs in delight, as she waves a hand to create a snowball from her powers this time, hurling it quickly once again at Vision’s head, as he easily phases through it.

“Not fair! No powers!” she says, and he chuckles at her hypocrisy, as another snowball hurtles toward him in an flurry of scarlet.

Meanwhile, inside the warm expanse of the Avengers compound, Natasha Romanov is holding a coffee mug close to her chest, staring down at the pair of them as Wanda shrieks and Vision flies up into the air again. The woman can feel Sam walk up towards her, and she glances over to the man still in a set of flannel pajamas, nursing his own cup of coffee in his new Christmas mug, which reads Sleigh All Day, in red and green letters. 

“Are they…” he drops off, straining his eyes to watch the snowball fight taking place across the clearing.

“Yep,” Natasha says flatly, before taking another sip of coffee. Sam frowns, glancing over to the woman again.

“Have they…” he mutters, looking at Natasha suggestively, and she frowns through a sigh.

“Nope,” she mutters unenthusiastically. Sam’s frown deepens as he stares at the two from across the clearing again. No one says anything for a moment, staring out at the pair gleefully darting back and forth in the snow down below.

“Are they gonna-” he begins, but Natasha immediately cuts him off by raising a finger, shaking her head, before rubbing her forehead with one hand.

“I don’t want to know,” she mutters, before moving away from the window, walking off toward her room.

—

Avengers Compound, Sunday, December 27th, 2015, 3:52pm

Christmas had come and gone at the compound with a relative ease. Like the passing of so many cherished holidays so far, the traditions surrounding the event had all been new and altogether curious for Vision to witness, but he had tried to partake in them to the best of his ability. Decorating the large pine in the main living area had seemed to be particularly important to his teammates, and Vision himself had become immersed in arranging the various blue and silver bobbles and orbs on the tree so that they appeared symmetrical, although the monstrosity was often marred by “sarcastic” and rather unappealing ornaments of his teammates, some brought from home, most having a cherished, immortal significance Vision didn’t dare question.

Despite her heritage, Wanda seemed to take it all in stride, and had partaken in most of the festivities, even offering to bake lichitars, a traditional honey bread cookie that has had lovingly crafted into snowflake and heart shapes, Vision assisting her one evening icing them. Presents had been exchanged in the method of “secret Santa” (a phrase Vision still struggles to understand), and Wanda had even assisted him ordering a fairly neutral gift of a handcrafted stationery set off of Amazon to add to the exchange. Christmas had ended with Vision watching It’s a Wonderful Life with Wanda after everyone else had retired in the main living area, both of them entranced by the silver screen, Vision even intentionally setting his skepticism about angels and bells ringing to truly enjoy the film. Wanda has whispered the phrase, “Merry Christmas you old building and loan” along with Jimmy Stewart as he joyfully traversed the streets of Bedford Falls, and, afterward, Vision had read to her until she had fallen asleep.

The days that follow are of a similar lackadaisical nature, Captain Rogers having given everyone two days off of training on the weekend after Christmas, and as the year creeps to its end, Vision finds himself swept up in the lazy and winding current of respite. Of course, nothing lasts, and Vision finds himself desperately clinging to the last quiet day, before the impending week brings with it a flurry of activity. A small stake-out mission with Agent Romanov for Wanda, and a trip to New York City with Mr. Stark for Vision, a long anticipated press conference scheduled to take place tomorrow afternoon.

For now, though, Vision has his feet propped up on the coffee table, a book of poetry in his hands, while Wanda sits next to him on the red sofa, feet adorned in wool socks with her legs crossed, gripping a highlighter, pouring over a Zoology textbook. She had begun taking online classes that fall, all of her own volition, and their nights are often peppered with Wanda reading off interesting facts to Vision, who finds himself chersing every word that falls from her lips, her voice made different by curiosity and wonder. 

“Huh,” she murmurs at one point, and Vision glances up from E.E. Cummings, a half-smile already contorting his mouth at the anticipated fact Wanda can’t help but share. 

“Did you know that Atlantic puffins mate for life?” she reads, before softly poking his arm with the end of the highlighter and pointing at the textbook once more. Vision smiles as he glances down at the picture of the pair of black and white birds, watching while Wanda draws a bright yellow heart around them with her highlighter.

“Yes,” Vision says with a smile as she tears her gaze up to him once more. “Several different species of birds do. I believe they are also biparental in bringing up their young.”

At this, Wanda truly smiles at him, a brilliant white smile, her nose scrunching just slightly in a way Vision has found himself reveling in. 

“I like that,” she murmurs, glancing down at the page again, almost lovingly cradling the book to her.

It’s another moment Vision memorizes, another moment which adds to his steadily growing fondness. He has endless moments now, unyielding memories of the quirk of Wanda’s lips or the way she frowns sometimes in deep thought. How she rocks on the balls of her feet if she is nervous, sometimes bites a nail. Or how she often leaves half-consumed mugs of tea scattered about her bedroom, or how when she wakes she blushes to often find Vision still there from the night before, covering her head with the down blanket as if in embarrassment for merely sleeping. Thousands of moments, thousands of small behaviors that weave into patterns, forming an unending fabric that comprises the exquisite tapestry that is Wanda Maximoff.

He realizes he is staring, and he coughs politely, bringing his eyes down to the textbook once more.

“You seem to be enjoying this one. Zoology,” he says, and she nods, before moving to pluck a tepid mug of green tea from its place on the coffee table.

“It’s interesting. I mean, I don’t believe I have a future as a zoologist or anything, but I like it,” she says through another shy smile, and Vision is entranced as she sets the mug down once more, fiddling with the highlighter in her other hand. 

“That’s plausible. You seem to enjoy the various nature documentaries that Sam adores,” Vision says through a nod of his head, glancing to the currently-black television in front of them. Wanda grins at this.

“He does adore them, doesn’t he?” she says through a wide smile, and Vision mimics her features.

“Ardently,” he replies, and Wanda lets out a small laugh.

“Although he’d never admit to it,” she says through a shake of her head.

“Not even if his life was in danger, I imagine,” Vision murmurs, now setting aside his collection of poetry on the end table, glancing back to Wanda.

“Like...even if there was another Chitauri invasion, and it came down to something like, ‘Sam! Tell us now and we won’t destroy the planet. Did you ardently enjoy The March of the Penguins?’” Wanda asks, making her voice deeper to mimic something akin to a murderous alien.

“We would all surely perish,” Vision responds, and Wanda laughs again, gently closing her textbook before studying him more closely. Occasionally, she does this, as if trying to read the language of his face, or the placement of his limbs, even though he has willingly granted her access to his mind, although she never reads his thoughts, that he can detect. Finally, her words underscore her actions as she reveals her thoughts.

“So, are you nervous?” she asks him, and he glances to her again, lifting a brow in curiosity.

“Pardon?” He responds , and she smiles more broadly.

“About the press conference?” She presses, and, at this, Vision frowns slightly, although he still holds her gaze.

“No. Should I be?” He asks, and Wanda shrugs her shoulders.

“Well...it’s your first time in front of the cameras and all…” she trails off, and Vision sincerely considers this for a moment. 

“My presence has been documented on video on several occasions,” he offers her through a token look of befuddlement, conveying that he is not certain he understands the difference.

“Footage from civilians during missions doesn’t count,” she says through a shake of her head.

“I do not see how this is any different,” he offers her, and she bites her lip, tilting her head slightly as she does so, and Vision’s eyes once more run over the curve of her clavicle, the pale skin and the delicate features of Wanda’s anatomy carefully catalogued alongside the noun beauty. 

“Well, you’re going into the city for one,” she finally says through a firm nod of her head.

“I’ve been in the city before,” Vision responds, although his trepidation at her insinuation is slightly growing. Should he be nervous? Would something like answering questions from the press garner such a feeling? It’s not the first time Vision has questioned the validity of his lack of an emotional response to external stimuli, as Helen Cho has asked him to track this along with recording when he does suspect he feels something. Meanwhile, Wanda is shaking her head.

“No, this is the city city. And a fancy hotel, of all places,” she says and Vison’s lips turn downward. He knows this already, certainly, but the meaning Wanda is trying to convey skill slightly escapes him. 

“I’ll admit I am curious to see New Yorkers from the ground and not from atop a skyscraper,” he says through a subtle shrug of his shoulder, and, at this, Wanda grimaces.

“They’re not as interesting as you think. When Nat took me last month to go shopping, I had three people yell at me to speak English,” she grumbles, and at this Vision truly frowns.

“You do speak English,” he says flatly.

“That’s what I told them. Before telling them to ‘fuck off’ in Sokovian,” Wanda smirks, and Vision’s eyes widen.

“Oh, don’t look so scandalized ,” she says. “No one speaks Sokovian,” she offers, swatting him lightly with a hand. The warmth of her fleeting touch quickly radiates through him, and it is a feeling Vision will have to come back to in an attempt to understand yet again why Wanda’s casual occasional touches do this to him, while no one else’s, in the few time he has had physical contact with his other teammates, seem to have a similar effect.

“So walk me through it,” she says, rotating her body forty two degrees to the right on the couch so she’s facing him, and Vision pivots slightly to do the same, although he’s not sure what she exactly expects him to do.

“Walk you through what?” He clarifies.

“The plan ,” she says through a firm nod of her head, and Vision quickly pulls up the agenda for tomorrow in his mind.

“Mr. Stark is arranging for a town car to pick us both up sharply at 10:00am to travel to the St. Regis Hotel in Manhattan. The press conference is at 2:00pm in the Versailles Room, and there will be an exclusive interview with the New York Times at 6pm at Astor Court, which is restaurant in the hotel’s grand lobby,,” Vision recites, but, much to his disappointment, Wanda does not seem to be altogether impressed.

“Hmmm,” she murmurs, through gently biting her bottom lip.

“What?” Vision blinks.

“I think we should practice,” she says assuredly, changing her position slightly to move just 3.2 centimeters closer to him on the couch.

“Practice what?” 

“The answers to your questions, silly,” she says through a small laugh. Vision frowns slightly, putting his hands together in thought.

“I’ve already memorized Mr. Stark’s pre-approved script,” Vision says dutifully, but Wanda only shakes her head, a look of mild disgust blooming on her features.

“I’m not sure I approve of  ‘Mr. Stark’s pre-approved script’,” she says in a feigned British accent, using her fingers to mimic quotations. Vision can’t help but let out a small laugh.

“Forgive me, Wanda, but your impersonation of me is downright terrible,” he says, and she only grins, before she looks at him with a knowing smile.

“So are you a robot or what?” She asks, and Vision’s eyes widen at her use of the word, a word both of them do not enjoy hearing, and Vision can feel his features contort into confusion.

“Excuse me?” He asks, and Wanda sighs, grabbing the highlighter off the coffee table and holding it up to her lips, feigning what appears to be an imaginary microphone. 

“Wanda Maximoff, reporter for the Times. The public has had a hard time classifying you in these past months of your existence. How would you best describe yourself?” she pretends, before offering him the end of the highlighter to speak into. Vision grins, but Wanda maintains her prescribed role of reporter. He only hesitates momentarily, noting the absurdity of the situation, before pretending to talk into the highlighter.

“I’m a synthezoid, a living being comprised of synthetic biological tissue and vibranium,” he says, quickly going off the script that had been prepared for him through the collective help of Helen and Mr. Stark, with a few of his own additions added to the prescribed responses to the already-anticipated questions.

“With a computer for a mind?” Wanda asks through feigned skepticism. Vision finds himself clearing his throat, an altogether human tick that he sometimes mimics to address a room during briefings or to announce his presence when he often forgets he must use a door in an effort to not startle the person in the room he has entered. 

“No. I’m afraid it’s not that simple. A computer’s central processing unit receives input and is given explicit instructions to then process the data and create various outputs, according to the rules of its operating system. While I have a sophisticated level of programming in the form of an operating system encoded into my genetic DNA, I am not beholden to a set of protocols nor instructions on how to process the data I receive,” Vision finishes, fumbling with one sleeve of his sweater while he does so, as Wanda as looking at him with a mixture of awe and equal parts dubiousness.

“You’re gonna lose them with that kinda talk. You need to be more succinct,” she says through a nod of her head. Vision hesitates, picking apart his words and combining like-minded ideas in order to simplify.

“Err, well. No. A computer is a tool used by humans, entirely dependent upon commands. I have my own autonomy to make decisions as I wish,” he finishes, and then Wanda breaks character offering him a genuine smile, which he returns.

“ Much better. Alright, umm, what are your abilities?” she asks.

“I am able to change my appearance and alter my density through molecular manipulation, due to the vibranium’s compounds. It also allows me the benefit of flight,” Vision responds, falling back to rely on the script once more.

“Good job avoiding the Mindstone,” Wanda says through a nod of her head. It had been agreed upon that, while a select few in the government knew of the Mindstone and its potential capabilities, Vision would need to dance around questions regarding its name, power, or presence if possible. It is one aspect of the press conference that has been troubling, if he is being honest with himself. Thankfully, Wanda moves on.

“Good. And why have you chosen to fight on the side of Avengers?” She asks, offering him the highlighter to speak into once more. He meets her eyes through another smile before speaking.

“I...I fight for life. Because of my enhanced abilities, I am capable of protecting those who cannot otherwise protect themselves. I have chosen to infinitely be in their service. It is my sole purpose. My reason for existing,” he says confidently and is therefore befuddled when Wanda expression changes and she quietly sets down the highlighter in her lap, the role of reporter gone from her posture. 

“Your...sole purpose, only reason for existing?” She asks through a small frown, blinking several times in a row at him. Wanda has a tendency to do this when she is conflicted and now this knowledge does nothing to help Vison’s sudden unease.

“Yes, I…” he begins, before faltering. “What is it, Wanda?” He asks quietly at her crestfallen face.

“You can’t truly believe that, do you?” She says, and anguish now floods her features as Vision’s confusion grows. His mind spins with why this upsets her, what misstep in his speech or calculation of his behavior has caused her to suddenly feel this way. He responds truthfully, as he always does.

“Of course I do. That’s why I was created. Why I have the abilities that I do,” he says softly, and the sad look deeply embedded in Wanda’s eyes darkens even more so.

“You were created to destroy the world,” she replies, and Vision’s eyes widen. “You chose a different path.”

“I…” Vision drops off, before sighing through his nose. “Why do I feel as if I’ve once again said the wrong thing?” 

Vision gauges her reaction closely, and he watches Wanda’s frown dissipate determinedly. 

“You haven’t...I’m just...never mind,” she offers him a smile, placing a warm hand on his own, squeezing it gently.

“I think you’re ready. You’re going to do a great job, Vision.”

—

St. Regis Hotel, New York City, Monday, December 28th, 2:12pm

He is not, in fact, doing a great job. Under the bright lights of the Versaille room, staring at a sea of reporters and television cameras in front of him, 213 pairs of eyes staring back, Vision feels if he might suffocate, despite not needing to breathe. He has phased into a Tom Ford windsor base peak-lapel two-piece suit and accompanying tie, modeled off what Stark had purchased for him to wear for the day, insisting that he at least remain comfortable in the visage of a molecular restructuring of atoms rather than donning the real thing. It does little to ease the impending dread he feels, however. At the table, Mr. Stark sits to his right, along with Stark’s publicist. In front of him is a microphone affixed to the table, and Vision feels the ripple of skepticism and restlessness in the room as he once again falters, attempting to answer correctly. 

“Mr. Vision. Angelica Bramlett with The Wall Street Journal . So to clarify, you don’t sleep or eat, but you’re not a robot? What is the difference?” 

Vision finds himself frowning, glancing to Stark who encourages him with his eyes to respond. It is easily the sixth time he has attempted to answer a variant of this same question, his answers to similar questions seemingly poor in establishing clarity.

“As a synthezoid with an...engrained power source, my partially biological body does not need the traditional methods regarding sustenance,” he murmurs, to the clicking of more cameras and the clacking of typing keys. 

“And this engrained power source you speak of-” the woman presses, before Stark interrupts her. 

“Next question,” he says bluntly, and a chorus of murmurs breaks out amidst the reporters once more.

“Vision. Reporter Kyle Reeves from the FOX News . You’ve been described as a weapon of mass destruction-” 

“I am not ,” Vision finds himself interrupting, and he feels Stark tense beside him.

“Regardless, who owns the right to decommission you if you get too dangerous or decide you aren’t on the side of life?” The balding man says, a hairy eyebrow lifting on his face. Vision only blinks, trying to understand the entirety of the question, as Stark steps in.

“No one owns him. And he can’t be decommissioned. Next question,” Stark snaps.

“Christine Everhart with WHiH News . How do you respond to claims that you are Stark’s intellectual property?” the woman asks from the third row, leather notebook in hand, pen at the ready.

“I am...nobody’s intellectual property,” Vision says, glancing at Stark helplessly, who only grimaces.

“Weren’t you Stark’s AI, though?” she presses, and Vision’s jaw clenches just slightly, although he doesn’t dare alter his posture or facial expression in any sort of way.

“My code does date back to Stark’s former AI, yes,” he responds succinctly.

“Vision. Linda Rameriez with the Boston Globe . If you have a biological brain, how can you possibly have an ‘operating system’ as you claim?” 

“I am not...entirely sure. Currently Dr. Helen Cho and I have been running a series of tests to understand how my programming functions within my central nevervous system,” Vision responds, trying desperately to get back on script, and he feels the mildest ripple of relief as Stark offers him the smallest of nods of approval at his most recent answer.

Meanwhile though, murmuring breaks out in the crowd, and Vision checks his internal clock. 2:24pm. It has felt closer to four hours.

“Mr. Vision. Claire Goodsell with the Washington Post . Forgive me for trying to clarify, but if you are not anyone’s intellectual property, have you been granted American citizenship by the United States government?” Vision blinks at the question. It’s a relatively sore spot for him at the moment, but at least this line of inquiry had been anticipated.

“I have applied for citizenship, but the government has, so far, been reluctant to address my-” Vision is once more interrupted by Stark.

“We’re working on it. Next question,” Stark asks.

“Then does that make you an illegal alien?” The woman from the Wall Street Journal blurts out.

“He has a green card. Jeez lady. One question each, people,” Stark practically growls, his hand tightening around the water glass in his right hand, which does not go unnoticed by Vision.

“Joseph Swanson from Politico . Do you have a political affiliation? Do you think President Ellis should be re-elected?” Another reporter shouts out from nearly the back row.

“As I do not have a right to vote, as of yet, I cannot comment-” he can barely finish, as a woman with highlighted hair in a pencil skirt chewing gum in the second row interrupts him.

“Vision. Cosmopolitan here. Our readers want to know, what do Synthezoids enjoy in bed?” The room erupts in snickers, and Vision frowns as he attempts to answer the question.

“I do not have a bed-” he starts, but Mr. Stark is already grabbing the mic from him.

“Ridiculous question. Everyone knows synthezoids prefer blondes,” winking at the woman, as the room erupts in laughter. “Next question!”

“If someone were to perform an autopsy on you, what exactly would they find?”

“I-” Vision begins, before he is interrupted yet again.

“Has someone ever performed an autopsy on you?”

“No, of course not,” Vision flatly responds.

“But can you feel pain?”

“As I’ve already stated, I have a central and peripheral nervous system, so yes, if I was harmed, I could likely experience pain,” he says to a woman in the fifth row.

“Which is unlikely due to your phasing ability I understand,” Kyle Reeves, FOX News, Vision memory supplies him as the reporter butts in with yet another comment. “Tell me, then, sir, what is stopping you from breaking into a Swiss bank? Or better yet, since you say you have unlimited access to the internet. breaking in and stealing the nuclear codes?” He asks acerbically, and, at this, Vision only blinks at the balding man in the poorly tailored suit.

“He’s an Avenger, smartass. Not a supervillain. Next question!” Stark shouts.

Who is holding you accountable?

Are you an indentured servant? 

Can you breathe in outer space?

How can an emotionless robot be trusted to make the right decisions during battle?

If you can’t feel pain, can’t sleep, can’t eat, then what about you think you deserve the right to protect us?

As the seconds tick by, over and over again he is set apart from humanity. Over and over again he is made to feel different, out of place, an other . And, for the most part, over and over again, Mr. Stark interrupts Vision, responding the same way.

“Next question,” the billionaire says flatly, rubbing his eyes with a tired hand.

—

“So that wasn’t...terrible,” Stark mutters, eagerly partaking in a third glass of whiskey, neat, at their table toward the back of the Astor Court Restaurant. Vision readjusts his posture, increasingly uncomfortable, as he stares out at the other tables, tuning down his auditory receptors after he picked up on whispering happening on all sides of him. He had retired to the hotel suite Stark had reserved for him after the press conference, although he has found the respite to do nothing to thwart off the increased anxiety he feels. And just as the press conference felt hours long, the handful of hours in the hotel, where Vision had attempted reading, Vision could have sworn was only a matter of minutes.

“Mr. Stark, please excuse my need to be disagreeable, but it felt terrible,” he mutters, watching Stark knock back the rest of the whiskey before a waiter silently and without glancing at Vision places another in front of the man. Stark offers him a half-hearted wave of his hand, before idly rotating the glass between them. 

“That’s on me, buddy. Maybe we waited a little too late to roll you out. They’ve had a lot of time to think about those questions,” he says, brown eyes glancing towards the bustling restaurant, before plucking a smartphone from his suit pocket.

“We need to think about getting you a publicist,” he mutters, quickly typing something into the phone, before grimacing as he scrolls down the screen.

“What for?” Vision asks, staring at the man who seems to be refusing to look at him. Stark sighs, plopping the phone down on the white linen of the table, before picking up his drink.

“For all of the online stuff. You’re trending on social media,” Stark grumbles, before taking a generous sip of the liquid. Vision pauses, tilting his head just slightly in an effort to access several dozens of websites at once, and he notices he is trending, although Stark quickly juts out a hand to Vision’s arm, pulling Vision back into the room.

“I...wouldn’t if I were you,” he mutters, before sitting back in his chair in an altogether exasperated manner. Vision’s frown deepens as he replays some of the questions he was asked instead, going over his answers as he does so.

“I felt as if my answers mostly aligned with what we determined would be appropriate responses. And yet I get the sense that I somehow did not...behave correctly,” Vision murmurs, and Stark only shakes his head in defeat. 

“It wasn’t you, kid. You responded perfectly. You stuck to the script, tried to clarify. It wasn't going to matter. It seems...a lot of the public has made up their minds already, and that’s why we need to pay someone far too much money to sway the public opinion,” Stark says, taking another sip of the whiskey.

“But..I have come to their aid multiple times over. Seven missions where I have been actively involved, and at least a dozen others where I have provided assistance from afar,” Vision says, as if something about his honest efforts would automatically deter the public’s skepticism 

“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but they don’t much care,” Stark mutters, and Vision must offer him a crestfallen expression, because Stark squirms in his seat. “Quit it with the puppy dog eyes. Listen, I’ve been doing this for a long time now. The public forgets. Quickly and conveniently. All they see is what is in front of them. Which, after a battle, is chaos and destruction. Why do you think I’m still dealing with the fallout over Sokovia? Or even Washington DC for that matter?”

“But Captain Rogers has suggested-“

“Cap doesn’t get it. He doesn’t have to deal with the lawyers, or with Damage Control. The non-profit efforts put in place afterward. Look, all I’m saying is, the public sees what’s right in front of them. And today, in that room, they’re looking at you, not in a cape, but in a suit, looking well...like you do,” Stark drops off, waving a hand at Vision, who represses the urge to sigh exasperatedly. It is then, however, even with his muted hearting, he picks up on a conversation and when looks past Stark towards the front of the restaurant he notices a woman in a business suit arguing with a small child, who is tugging at her hand and pointing directly at the synthezoid. He frowns, tilting his head slightly, as he notices the woman give in, being dragged over to their side of the restaurant. Vision watches them approach in curiosity, until they are at their table, and Stark, just noticing them, glances up in annoyance.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry for bothering you, but my son keeps saying you’re the Avengers,” she asks, and Vision can detect the annoyed tone of the woman, phone still in hand, before he glances down at the young boy now hiding behind her, slowly peering at Vision from behind skirt.

“Uhh. No we’re not. Sorry,” Stark says matter-of-factly, following up with a, “I thought I told them we weren’t to be disturbed” through a mutter. 

“Mr. Stark has retired, officially. But I am. How may I be of service to you?” Vision asks through a smile, and ignores Stark’s audible groan from across the table. The woman only blinks at him, before glancing down at the boy and then back up at Vision.

“My son just wanted to say hello. Maybe...uh...an autograph?” she asks, and Vision smiles slightly at the child, who has a mess of dark hair on his head and whose cheeks are dotted with freckles, who offers him a small smile back, before ducking behind his mother again.

“Alright. You got a napkin or something, lady?” Stark asks, plucking a pen from his suit pocket, before the child is murmuring something to the woman, and she frowns at Stark.

“Actually, not yours. His,” she responds, obviously just as dumbfounded by the notion. Stark’s jaw drops open slightly, as he blinks, before shaking his head and rolling his eyes, offering Vision the pen and a spare cocktail napkin, and Vision carefully takes them from Stark, glancing over to the boy once more, who now creeps timidly up to him.

“And what is your name, sir?” Vision asks the boy, who breaks into a wide smile, stealing a glance to his mother again, who nods, before looking back at Vision.

“Will,” he nods once, and Vision smiles.

“Ah. Like Shakespeare. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Will,” Vision says, offering the boy a hand to shake, and Will extends his small hand nervously, shaking it once before letting go. Vision turns back, frowning a bit at the napkin, never having autographed anything before, does a quick search on the correct procedure, and carefully writes out the boy’s name, signs the napkin and offers to him. 

The boy carefully takes the napkin from him, and the woman is still staring at the pair of them, before ushering the boy along, murmuring a “Thank you” as she goes.

Vision is still smiling as he turns back to Stark, who has an eyebrow raised in his direction.

“Uh huh. Ok. Weird,” Stark says, checking his phone once more. “The Times just texted. They’ll be here in ten. Then it’s back to the hotel room for you, buddy. The last thing I need is for you to garner enough attention to procure an ego. That’s my gig.”

—

The surprise and delight of Vision’s encounter with the young child quickly dissipates, however, as the exclusive interview commences. It is unsurprisingly similar to the press conference, although a little less chaotic, as a sharp-eyed middle-aged woman asks him question after question, an audio recording device sitting between Stark and Vision at the table, preserving Vision’s responses as he goes. She is also furiously writing, and Vision finds himself gripped with further unease each time she glances up at the synthezoid, her measured stares and dubious gaze entirely unhelpful. By the time the interview is over, Stark is fairly intoxicated, and only murmurs a quiet “g’night” to Vision before heading off to one of the royal suites. Or perhaps to the bar. Vision doesn’t ask. Regardless, Vision’s trek up to his own suite is therefore a lonely one as the elevator operator asks for his floor. It is a surreal experience, one Vision is sure he would have enjoyed to partake in under any other circumstance, but the complexity of the day has left him tired and altogether troubled.

It is only as he waves a keycard outside the Bentley suite, a ridiculously lavish set of rooms equipped with a full dining room, bedroom, and living area, and slips inside does he let his thoughts finally wander, and it is of little surprise they settle on Wanda. 

It was currently 8:42pm at night, although he understands that Wanda and Agent Romanov had departed on the QuinJet hours earlier, headed towards Albania. An Avengers field agent working outside of Tirana had intercepted a number of encrypted files suggesting that lingering Hydra agents might be operating under the guise of medical aid there, and although it was not yet confirmed, enough data seemed to warrant the Avengers to officially send two of them out to investigate. It is not Wanda’s first time on a mission, nor her first time without Vision accompanying her, but he cannot help the feeling of dread that courses through him every time she leaves. Vision surmised two months prior’ that the now dead mental link between them had something to do with his unease, but he would be dishonest with himself to assume that was the only reason. 

Quietly connecting with the QuinJet’s server and pinpointing the jet’s location along with FRIDAY’s readouts, he is somewhat comforted to find that it had landed two hours earlier, and that the two women are currently staking out a rural town outside of the city. Phasing from his suit and tie as he transitions into something more molecularly comfortable, Vision walks into the bedroom, noting the large and plush King bed in the center of the room. In a uniquely human moment, Vision sits on the bed, and then lies down, staring up at her ceiling, the sounds of a vibrant city not far beyond him. In a way, it reminds him of the early days of his life, his first week spent in the Avengers tower, before he knew how he could possibly ever hope to communicate effectively with Wanda. Those days had come and gone, and with every passing night, each passing hour, he had begun to feel the slightest bit of hope, that maybe, with enough practice, he might inch closer towards a perceivable humanity. The lessons from the day, however, seemed to suggest otherwise, and he frowns, sighing as he holds a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes as he does so. 

Friday, he summons the AI from the QuinJet in Albania, easily slipping online to send a message to the jet’s server. Could you kindly connect me to Wanda’s cellular device?

There’s a moment’s pause, and he fears for .68 of a second that FRIDAY will decline, before her message appears in his mind through binary code.

Of course, Vision. Connecting... she says, and he breathes out once again, as he hears the ringing in his auditory receptors. It’s a clever tactic, the same one he uses to speak to the team through the comms, and it permits him the luxury of never having to carry a phone on his person. It rings once, then twice, and Vision for some reasons sends out the mental prayer of Please, pick up, when suddenly he hears Wanda’s voice on the other end. It’s music to his ears.

“ Hello? Vision? ” she asks, and Vision smiles to himself in the darkened shadows of the bedroom, still staring up at the ceiling.

“I was hoping that you would answer,” he says, and he can imagine her grin  if he shuts his eyes again, can even replay the smile from early this morning before he had left, although it now seems like an eternity ago.

“ Uh oh. I don’t like the tone in your voice. How’d it go?” she asks, and Vision keeps his eyes shut, dropping his hand onto the bed in exasperation.

“You...have not watched it yet, have you?” he asks quietly, and he can practically feel her shaking her head.

“ No. Of course not. You asked me not to. And, anyway, Nat was training me on QuinJet protocols for four hours while we were over the Atlantic,” Wanda responds.

“Good. Please, keep refraining from doing so,” he says flatly, and he can hear her sigh through the phone. 

“ That bad?” Wanda finally murmurs, and Vision frowns.

“As I recall, one reporter asked if anyone had performed an autopsy on me yet,” he responds through another sigh.

“ Doesn’t an autopsy require you to be dead?” Wanda asks, and it’s impossible to not detect the flare of anger in her words on the other end of the line.

“That...didn’t seem to matter in the reasoning behind this particular journalist’s flawed logic,” Vision mutters, and she’s silent for a few moments.

“ Let me guess. Tony was a big help,” Wanda says, and he has known her long enough to understand that the edge and intonation in her words signifies she is being sarcastic, and that sarcasm is marred with a more-than-typical amount of anger.

“If murmuring ‘next question’ counts as helping, then yes,” Vision surmises, and Wanda nearly growls through the phone. 

“ Well what happened after? With the Times?” Wanda asks carefully, and for some reason he wants nothing more than to stop talking about himself, although he realizes Wanda deserves to know the truth.

“Along the same lines. Although, the experience was not a complete failure. A child did ask for my autograph,” he says, smiling at the memory, which grows even wider when he hears Wanda’s delighted laugh at his remark. 

“ Really?” she asks, but the curiosity is genuine, and not all unbelieving that such a rare phenomenon took place.

“Yes, before the Times interview. Mr. Stark and I were sitting in a restaurant, and Wanda, there was so much I wished I could have asked you as I was sitting there. This whole experience has been...surreal. But he and his mother came up to us. His name was William. I shook his hand,” Vision says, replaying the memory of the boy’s dark hair and freckles before him as he talks.

“ That’s...beyond sweet, Vizh,” Wanda’s pleased voice comes over the line, and something in Vision lightens considerably.

“I’ve never met a child before,” Vision offers. “Not up close.”

“ You haven’t? Oh…I guess not . Not too many of them running around the compound,” she says through a laugh.

“He was….intriguing. Like a miniature human being,” Vision says, and there it is again: Wanda’s laughter, infectious levity.

“ That’s sorta what they are, Vision ,” she drops off, and neither of them speak for a long moment, before he realizes he has gone 8 minutes and 24 seconds without asking her about her own day, and Vision curses himself at taking up so much of her time to complain.

“Please, my apologies. It seems in my exhaustion I have failed to inquire about your own wellbeing. How are you doing? How is the mission going so far?” 

“ It’s fine, Vizh. It’s...pretty boring, actually. We’re in an abandoned warehouse, and it’s freezing, but I’m fine. It’s just a stake out right now. I don’t think this tip is leading into anything. There hasn’t been anybody like Rumlow or his flackies in sight. But don’t tell Natasha I said that. You know she’s all business on this sort of thing, ” Wanda says quietly, and Vision has to steel himself to not imagine Wanda freezing somewhere in the middle of Albania. The very concept of her discomfort causes something dark to course within him, and he has to purposefully refocus on the rest of her words to continue the conversation.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Although the thought of your discomfort...upsets me greatly,” he manages. Here he was, a synthezoid, in no need of any given luxury, lying atop the softest bed he’d ever rested on (although he realizes, he only has Wanda’s bed to compare it to) in one of the finest hotels in Manhattan, and there was Wanda, a human woman who requires to have her basic needs met, freezing in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of rural Albania. He closes his eyes tighter, mentally reprimanding himself again for monopolizing on the conversation earlier. 

“ I’m fine, Vizh. Really. And, oh, shit. Speak of the devil,” Wanda mutters, and Vision can immediately hear Agent Romaov’s terse voice in the background, although he cannot quite pick up what the older woman is saying through the limited reception of Wanda’s cellphone receiver. 

“I assume you mean Agent Romoav and not the actual devil,” he attempts a half-hearted joke, and she laughs slightly, although he can tell from her tone alone that their conversation is moments away from ending.

“ Don’t play coy. I know you know what I mean, ” she teases him, and he is smiling once more, despite himself. “ But she’s telling me it’s my turn for surveillance.”

“It appears then, I need to, how do they say, ‘let you go’?” Vision murmurs, and Wanda’s breathless laugh illuminates something inside him again.

“ Temporarily, Vizh. See you back at the compound? It should only be a couple more days ,” Wanda assuages him, and Vision finds himself nodding, even though she cannot see him.

“Of course. Have a good night Wanda,” Vision responds.

“ You too, Vision ,” she murmurs, and then her voice is gone.

Vision frowns, moving immediately to sit up, and then phasing through the rest of the bed to hover near the window. He realizes, idly, that it has begun to snow again, the white flecks dotting the skyline beyond. He wants nothing more to phase out of the room and fly up into the night, to disappear momentarily, but he had given Stark his word he would stay put. Instead, he presses a hand against the cool glass, and keeps it there for a moment, as his mind betrays him, immediately pulling up the saved search from earlier when he and Mr. Stark had discovered he was “trending.” He is afraid to sort through the various news articles, but they seem to bombard his consciousness anyway. What he finds, of course, is far from favorable. 

... Mr. Vision, or Vision, as he wishes to be known as, seems rather lifeless as he stares off towards the far end of the restaurant. Whether this is due to the android’s nature, or the fact that he seems to find the interview altogether dull…

He keeps scrolling through the New York Times article, but the tone does little to change.

He seems adamant to describe his soul purpose as being on the side of life, and while his former efforts amidst the Avengers seem to suggest something similar, he is often eager to otherwise let Tony Stark do the talking for him.

He skips any video news story, unwilling to watch a recording of himself faltering in front of the cameras, but a few titles of print articles still leak through into his mind, even as he tries to disconnect from the internet. 

“Synthetic” Robot Not Apparently Owned By Anyone

Lt. Gen. Thaddeus Ross On the Vision: He Needs Decommissioning 

Ladies! Get Your First Exclusive On What This Synthezoid Wants! He Prefers Blondes!

Although he is relieved to finally come across an article with the word “synthezoid” in it instead of “android” or “robot,” Vision still winces, landing on his feet from his hovering, stalking back over to the bed and plopping down on it. His answer to that particular question from this afternoon had been incredibly idiotic, as, he had discovered quickly after the press conference, “in bed” meant “sex,” and Cosmopolitan was a women’s magazine notorious for offering advice on various sexual practices between humans. He had not assumed anything of the sort when the woman had posed the question, as he could not fathom how anyone would look at him in a way that would suggest... well . 

It apparently seems as if he was wrong.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he lets a few words of the article slip through his consciousness, causing his mortification to triple.

Call us crazy, but this vibranium hunk has the smooth voice of an British gentleman with the chivalry to go with it. Here’s why we think he’s single!

Please, for the love of everything good in this world, please don’t let Wanda read this one, he thinks to himself, just as he mentally flies over the articles’ next words.

Our Twitter poll tells us that 64% of you freaky chicas would get down and dirty with Vision, most of you citing the benefit of “molecular manipulation.” And we’re inclined to agree! Respond with the hashtag, #Visionneedsabed, with the reason why you think this synthezoid requires one pronto!

Vision simply blinks for a few moments, struggling to understand.

64% would do... what exactly?! 

He quickly searches the phrase on the internet, and, when he gets his answer, he nearly phases through the bed and floor. 

—

Avengers Compound, Wednesday, December 30th, 4:14pm

It is an agonizing two days. Vision finds himself most often giving statements to counter the negative press he has been receiving, most often prisoner in Stark’s office. Stark spends most of his time on the phone, and when Vision pauses for a moment to stop aggregating the data of what the public thinks of him, a miserable task in and of itself, he continues to check the QuinJet’s position. 

Captain Rogers has been in contact with Agent Romanov twice, although Vision has not been able to get a hold of Wanda since the evening in New York City. The last time Agent Romanov checked in, they had moved deep into the Capital, following yet more deciphered communication. Vision, of course, had offered to help in this regard, but he’d been admonished by both Rogers and Stark. 

“You need to sit this one out, Vision. At most, it’s two to three ex-Hydra thugs. Hardly something Romanov and Maximoff can’t handle,” was Rogers’ reply. 

“You don’t wanna be called a robot anymore? Then you need to stay here and help me fix this fucking PR nightmare!” was Stark’s.

Meanwhile, the compound had seen a swell of activity, several different catering crews, florists, sound and lighting experts, spotted from the fourth floor balcony in the little time Vision was able to find time to catch a breath. Stark’s annual New Year’s Eve Ball had been quickly moved to the compound, in an effort to drum up public support for all of the Avengers. Stark had invited the city’s elite, along with some international public figures and celebrities, and the main hangar of the compound was currently being transformed into the most lavish of ballrooms, almost paling in comparison to the St. Regis itself. 

It is not until late into Wednesday from where he sits in Stark’s office, mind brimming with data- and now, Vision had read it all, from the thoughts and opinions of thirteen year olds in their parents’ basement to official statements from European countries to the specific sexual positions the readers of Cosmopolitan wished to attempt with him— that he hears the familiar whine of the QuinJet landing. He looks up immediately from the work happening in his own mind, quickly sending over the data to Stark, who stares at him while on the phone, sleeves of his button down still rolled up, as he pauses the call and mutters an, “Ugh. Fine. Go check on them. Just quit looking at me like that.” Vision immediately phases through the floor and heads diagonally through the building towards the landing pad near the East wing of the compound. 

Agent Romanov is off the jet first, looking thoroughly exhausted and a little cross. Vision frowns, attempting to think of something to say, before the woman mutters, “she’s on jet duty.  Wait for her to get done. I’ve gotta go kill Steve.”

Vision’s eyes widen as murederous woman stalks off along the shoveled walkway, more snow having fallen overnight, as he stands, waiting, practically impatient for Wanda. When she finally walks off the boarding ramp, however, Vision has to summon all of his muscles in his face and body to not react. Wanda is currently sporting a black eye and a large gash running along her left temple, and is limping slightly. Her arm has the markings of the jet’s onboard emergency medical supplies, and is in a sling.

“ Wanda ,” Vision begins, and she only frowns at him, as he reaches out to offer her help down the ramp. She throws out an arm, a deep frown on her face, muttering an “I’m fine.” He watches, helplessly, as she pulls out her tablet and fiddles with it to enter the code to lock down the QuinJet, and he opens and closes his mouth once more.

“You require medical attention,” he finally manages, and her scowl only deepens.

“I said I’m fine, Vizh. Now let’s go inside. It’s freezing out here,” she mutters, tightening her hand over the strap of her pack.

Vision follows her wordlessly, feet lifting off the ground as all of his thoughts focus on accessing the QuinJet’s security cameras and reports. Immediately, he understands that the field agent had underestimated the threat in the city, and that Wanda and Agent Romanov had to deal with over fifteen ex-Hydra soldiers on their own. Vision quickly reads Romanov’s succinct, rather terse incident report:

Fifteen assailants attacked from three potential locations at approximately 200 hours, cutting off access to the QuinJet. Romanov and Maximoff responded with force, neutralizing ten of the men and Maximoff neutralizing four, Maximoff killing one when a targeted psionic blast ricocheted off of a nearby building, causing debris to fall. Romanov sustained minimal injuries. Maximoff sustained shallow injuries, including a suspected broken wrist. 

Vision’s feet land on the floor when they make their way back inside, although now the emotion he comes to know as anger blooms through him. He feels helpless, enraged, guilty. If he had been there, he would not have allowed this to transpire. Meanwhile, Rogers, Stark, Sam and Rhodes are inside talking with Agent Romanov as the pair enters the compound, and Wanda is immediately shuffled off by Rogers, talking lowly to her. Vision chooses to not listen in on their conversation, but stands by helplessly with the rest of the Avengers. Powerless as he is, he watches as tears swell in Wanda’s eyes, before she quickly storms off. Vision watches, frozen to the spot for several long moments, but then he begins to move, before Sam grabs him by the arm, pulling him back.

“Hey, V. I don’t think that’s a good-“ he begins, before Vision murmurs a terse, “Excuse me” and phases his arm through Sam’s hand. He ascends, phasing through the building, before arriving at Wanda’s door. For several long moments, however he hovers outside the entrance, unsure of quite what to do now that he is here. He realizes that he should allow Wanda her privacy, but his concern over her wellbeing overpowers him, steeling himself to quickly phase through the door and enter. 

When he does, he looks around Wanda’s room to find it in the same state she had left it in the morning he’d departed for New York City, down to the half-empty mug on the bedside table. The only difference is that Wanda has dropped her pack onto the floor and the door to the en-suite is closed, the sound of a shower running. He stops himself, unsure of whether or not to call her name, before, finally, his lips betray him.

“Wanda,” he says softly, and he swears he hears a sharp intake of her breath, as if pained, and he noticeably flinches.

“I said I’m fine, Vizh,” he finally hears her call from behind the door.

“Forgive me, Wanda, but I do not imagine you are fine,” he manages, and he thinks he hears her bitterly laugh. She says nothing for several long, agonizing moments, and he fears she has passed out, or tripped and fallen, even though these are irrational worries at best.

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

“Just...give me some space, Vizh. Alright? I’ll come and find you later,” she retorts, and this time he does step back, as if he has been physically struck. He closes his eyes and breathes out deeply, before quickly phasing through the floor and startling a dozen field agents currently in the middle of a conference room.

“Excuse me,” he mutters again, a thread of anger in his voice, as he shows himself out.

—

The debrief is painful. Rogers has everyone gathered, aside from Wanda, in the meeting room as Romanov explains the details of what happened. Vision glances over at Wanda’s empty seat next to him, and he can feel his jaw clench again as Agent Romanov describes the shoddy reporting on behalf of the field agent, the misdirection of the information, and the trap both women had walked into. The militia had sprung on both women, using blunt force, and Wanda had sustained several hits before she had managed to retaliate. Of course, the man had underestimated them, and one had lost his life in wake of the mistake. 

Good, is the acidic word that creeps into Vision’s conscious thought, and he frowns, shaking the word away and trying to get a hold on his anger. It is overwhelming and frightening, this anger he feels, the protective pulse of energy in his chest when it comes to Wanda, and it takes everything in him to try and temper it. It is not later, after the debrief and after dinner, which Wanda is also absent from, that anyone thinks to ask Vision why he is being so eerily quiet. 

Surprisingly, it’s Agent Romanov who does so. Captain Rogers, Sergeant Rhodes, and Mr. Stark had already departed the dining area, intent on handling the HR requirements of dealing with the field agent’s shoddy work, leaving only the three Avengers remaining.

“Cat got your tongue?” Romanov says, blinking at him. Sam shoots a glance to Vision, who sits on the opposite side of the table, to Natasha, back to Vision, squirming uncomfortably in his chair.

“I’ve never understood the inanity of that phrase, despite now knowing its origin,” Vision murmurs, and he moves to stand and take his leave with him, before Sam speaks up.

“Vision, come on pal. We need to talk,” Sam mutters, and Vision turns back to the pair of them. Half of him wants nothing more than to decline at their persistence, but the other half, the polite half, the obedient half, he bitterly thinks, seems to force his body into his chair once more.

“If this is regarding Miss Maximoff-” Vision begins, but Sam cuts him off, setting his beer down on the table.

“Well, it is, but not in the way you think,” Sam says, shooting a glance to Agent Romanov once more.

“What are the pair of you up to?” Vision asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion, as Natasha sighs, uncrossing her arms once more.

“Listen, Vision. Wanda did her best out there, her absolute best, and responded well under pressure,” she begins, and Vision finds himself responding.

“I have no doubt,” Vision says, and Romanov holds up a finger, signifying she has not finished talking, and Vision falls quiet.

“But you need to give her some time,” she finishes, and Vision finds the swell of anger once more pulsing underneath the surface of his calm exterior.

“She has already expressed those concerns to me,” Vision says, and it’s Sam’s turn to slap a hand across his face, breathing out steadily.

“We just want to know you have Wanda’s...best interests in mind,” Romanov says, and Vision’s eyes widen, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

“How has my behavior indicated anything otherwise? Miss Maximoff’s safety and wellbeing have always been of the utmost importance to me,” Vision states, and this should be the appropriate answer, the logical answer, but it seems to fail at satisfying either one of his yellow teammates.

“Have you at least...told her how you feel?” Agent Romanov toes the subject carefully, and Vision cannot grasp her meaning, even as he runs through countless interpretations in his brain. It is the most unnerving thing he finds about human beings, sometimes. Their intentional cryptic language when they cannot seemingly summon up a better way to put their true meaning.

“About what happened during the mission?” Vision guesses, and he knows he is instantly wrong, as Romanov’s face falls and she moves to stand. 

“Alright. Sam, this one’s on you buddy,” Natasha says, patting Sam’s shoulder as she goes. “I need sleep.”

Vision watches her walk out, eyes widening, as he swivels back to Sam. At Vision’s nonverbal cue, the man vocally sighs, moving to arch one hand behind him in awkward tension. 

“Listen. Not about the mission. About this... thing you’ve got for Wanda,” he mutters, refusing to meet Vision’s eyes.

“Excuse me?” Vision murmurs, and Sam finally looks up to him, obviously enormously uncomfortable now, and doesn’t answer. Vision, meanwhile, has already searched and found the meaning for “having a thing” for someone, and he frowns at what he finds.

“If you are insinuating that I have developed an... infatuation for Miss Maximoff, I assure you, Sam, we are merely friends,” Vision says through a firm nod of his head, even while another part of mind stumbles and falters over the definition of Sam’s meaning again and again.

To have strong feelings for someone.

Fondness. Affection. Attraction.

Attraction?!

Vision blinks, only mildly aware that Sam is speaking. 

“Listen, V. I ain’t gonna tell you how you feel,” Sam says, albeit a little skeptically, as Vision frowns at the man in front of him.

“Sam, I assure you, and please echo these sentiments to Agent Romanov, that..I. That that’s not something I am capable of,” Vision says slowly, evenly, and Sam nods. One thing Vision has always appreciated about the man is that Sam, for better or for worse, has always taken the people around them at their word. It’s a characteristic, Vision is steadily finding, that is rare among most individuals. 

“I figured that, just... That’s fine, alright? We just didn’t want to see either of you, you know, get hurt,” Sam says and stands, stretching as he does so, walking around the table and now mimicking Romanov's former gesture and patting Vision’s shoulder. 

“See you in the AM, buddy,” Sam murmurs, leaving Vision in the dining area, now alone.

—

Avengers Compound, Thursday, December 31st, 1:03am

Vision has paced the floor of his room for 912th time, rounding on 913. There is no rest, no relinquishment of the panic that swells through him as he thoughts race, seeking to evade his grasp. In each moment, he attempts to pick them up, one and at a time, and place them in the correct folder, but not unlike the head of a Hydra, it seems that three grow in the place of one. 

They are also stacked deeply on top of one another, the flow of information steady and constant and stifling.

Have you at least...told her how you feel?

64% of women!

Fondness. Affection. Attraction.

He’s a robot. He doesn’t know how to feel.

The benefit of molecular manipulation! 

He’s a threat and menace to society, and he should be decommissioned. 

Could you sign an autograph?

You truly are a miracle, do you know that?

I’m suggesting that you may be blind to your own gender assumptions, being a man and all.

Atlantic puffins mate for life.

The fight begins in the heart. 

It is little wonder, then, when he fails to hear the steady knock on his door, and she has to knock a second time. He freezes to the spot, rooted into the floor, although his voice betrays him with a quiet, “Come in.”

Of course, it is Wanda. She looks noticeably better, although a rim of purple lingers under her right eye. The injury at her temple has been mended, though, and her arm is no longer in a sling, but adorned with a simple brace. So no fracture then, only a sprain, Vision thinks to himself. She’s wearing a soft white sweater and gray leggings, and she quietly walks into his room, although Vision hasn’t moved from where he still stands. He wants to go to her. He wants to reach out and gingerly touch the bruises on her face. He wants to embrace her, breathe her scent in, have it linger on his clothes. 

Instead, he doesn’t. He stands there, waiting. 

Wanda looks unsure, caught on guard by his atypical behavior, but still brings her eyes to meet his face.

“I’m sorry...that I was short with you earlier,” she murmurs, hugging her arm with her good hand. 

“The fault is mine,” Vision murmurs. “I should have...thought twice, before intruding.”

Silence then permeates the air between them, as Wanda glances over to the new addition to Vision’s bedroom. A bed, pristinely made, complete with a fluffy down blanket and pillows, similar to Wanda’s own.

“What’s that?” She asks, and Vision breathes out a steady sigh.

“A gift from Mr. Stark, apparently. A joke of sorts,” he says bitterly, and Wanda frowns, turning back to him.

“Because of the Cosmo article?” She asks through an awkward laugh, and Vision shuts his eyes tightly for a moment.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Surprisingly enough, Wanda moves to sit on the edge of the bed, and Vision merely watches her as she breathes out a tired sigh.

“Still though, I was... rude, and I didn’t mean to be. I was just... upset,” she murmurs, fumbling with her sleeves as she glances down at the floor.

“You had every right to be. It seems, in my ignorance of human emotion, I did not offer you a moment to breathe,” he says, eyes also on the floor, although he can hear the steady swish of Wanda shaking her head.

“ No. I wasn’t upset at you. I was... upset with myself. There didn’t need to be casualties. I...was not in control,” she says though a bitter frown.

“You were ambushed. No one blames you,” Vision murmurs, glancing up to her once more, hands still held tightly behind his back. 

“That’s what everyone is saying, but, Vizh, I….” she drops off, and she looks him dead in the eye and a chill travels down the length of Vision’s spine.

“I just...sometimes, I think I’ve got a hold on things. I really do, and then it just...all goes to hell. I-I don’t know,” she manages, and Vision knows this is the moment where he should go to comfort her, where he would normally comfort her, but his feet refuse to move, his body refusing to close the gap between him.

It seems that Wanda expected it too, somehow, because when she looks up, an expression of confusion blossoms on her features. 

“You’re quiet tonight,” she murmurs. 

“My...apologies. It has been a long and unfortunate week,” he murmurs, and she only blinks at him, obviously looking for something more , and not finding it.

“You’re right. Of course you are. And, god, I can’t believe we have that stupid party to go to tomorrow,” Wanda says through a shake of her head.

“They cannot expect you to actually attend, given all that has transpired,” Vision replies, and Wanda frowns.

“Nat says if I can walk, and I feel decent, I need to be there. We’re doing more press, and they bought me this... ridiculous, expensive dress, and-” Wanda drops off for a moment, considering something, before continuing on. “You’re going...aren’t you?” 

Vision sighs, finally dropping his hands, before glancing up at the woman sitting on the bed, his bed, once more. 

“Considering my luck with the press as of late, I wish I was not. But it seems, I, too, have very little choice in the matter,” Vision murmurs. Wanda smiles slightly at him then, and it’s genuine, and he can feel the warm expanse of her mind edging closer, but he keeps his own shut like a steel door, intent for this one night, for this one unbearable moment, to keep his doubts and insecurities and thoughts hidden, until he can more properly manage them.

Wanda’s expression falls, and she quickly stands, eyes darting back and forth.

“Well...I, uh. I’m going to bed,” she murmurs, and the invitation is there, he can feel it, and everything in wants nothing more than to settle beside Wanda, run a steady hand through her soft hair, read to her, envelop himself in her, press his lips to hers and-  

Vision stiffens immediately at the stray thought as his breath hitches in his throat, and he knows Wanda hears it. She looks up to him expectedly, and he is barely able to choke out his next words. 

“Have a good night, Miss Maximoff,” he manages, and she frowns again, nodding, before quietly walking out of his room. 

—

Avengers Compound, Thursday, December 31st, 8:02pm

Already he can hear the swell of an eighteen-piece orchestra echoing from downstairs, even in his quarters, the party now most likely in full swing. He has not joined the festivities, not yet, fiddling with the bow tie at his neck. It is black, silk, expensive, no doubt, and very real, Stark insisting that he might have better luck with the press if he were to come to the party with real clothing on. Vision discovers that he is not fond of the feeling, even though he has a donned modern, tailored-to-fit tuxedo, down to polished, Italian leather shoes that is surprisingly fitting. Still though, his scarlet red of his synthetic skin is not missed by him, not this time, as he runs the video of how to properly affix the tie into place in his mind again. He is entranced in repeating the steps, when hears the sound of footsteps, glancing up to notice Miss Pepper Potts standing in the doorway.

She is draped in an emerald green, her blonde hair done up in an intricate fashion, and she smiles kindly at him, immediately detecting the problem, walking into the room, lifting her hands up in question.

“May I?” She asks, and he swallows and nods, as she undoes the knot of the bow tie and begins again.

“You look beautiful, Miss Potts,” Vision murmurs, and the woman smiles as she skillfully wraps the intricate knot of the bow tie. 

“Thank you, Vision. Tony thought you might still be up here, and he wanted me to fetch you. Or, rather, he wished for you to escort me to the party,” she says through a smile.

“So you have yet to partake in the festivities?” He asks quietly. He is aware, according to the Avenger’s rumor mill, that Miss Potts and Mr. Stark are indeed no longer a couple, although he never sought the reason as to why. He is also aware, however, that it is a very serious thing indeed, considering the years’ worth of conversations between the pair Vision has inherited from JARVIS’ databanks.

“Not yet. I find it’s best to show up fashionably late. Especially at events as suffocating as this one,” she says, finishing off the bow tie and patting Vision on his shoulder. 

“I find that surprising, considering how...well, at ease, you always seem to be. At least, in what I know of the formal occasions I have memories of,” Vision murmurs, and Miss Potts tilts her head at him slightly, before smiling. 

“Maybe Jarvis assumed I was. But, luckily for him, he couldn’t read my thoughts,” she smiles, and something about her comment has Vision practically wincing in pain at remembering the conversation and the way he had steadfastly denied Wanda access to his mind, when he had given her his word she would always have it.

He had also not seen a trace of Wanda at all today, although Vision admits, in his cowardice, he has also not sought her out. He assumes, however, she has kept her word to attend tonight’s function, although it would not surprise the synthezoid if she refused to show, if only due to him. Meanwhile, Miss Potts seems to pick up on Vision’s demeanor, smiling at him once more.

“Please, try not to look so miserable, Vision. I promise it’s only one night. It won’t last forever. Now, a gentleman typically offers a lady his arm. Shall we?” She asks, gesturing towards the doorway, and Vision nods, remembering his manners, gently extending his right elbow and the woman slides her hand through it, giving his arm a squeeze.

As they descend the elevator, a first for Vision, and enter the hangar, he scans the room to easily count over two hundred people in attendance. Tables line the far sides of the expansive space, and a stage where the orchestra plays has been constructed underneath the giant emblem of the Avengers’ logo. People are dancing, too, although not as many, as early on as it still is. Above him, Vision glances upward to note large nets holding balloons, an obvious earmark of the intended celebration of the impending new year. 

Miss Potts gently directs Vision over to where Mr. Starks stands, in a white tuxedo in comparison to Vision’s dark charcoal gray, and he notes the former Avenger is conversing with several people Vision must scan through facial recognition software to know. Candidate for Secretary of State, Thaddeus Ross, Vision programming immediately supplies him, and, when he can’t shake his frown, his mind offers him exactly why he feels a trepidation. 

Lt. Gen. Thaddeus Ross On the Vision: He Needs Decommissioning 

Vision swallows, hard, as Miss Potts leads him up to the men, as Stark clasps Vision on the back.

“Vision, looking sharp! Have a drink! Oh wait, uh, never mind! Uhh, Ross this is Vision. Vision, Thaddeus Ross,” Tony says, before greeting Miss Potts, who immediately plucks the glass of champagne out of Mr. Stark’s hand. Vision, meanwhile, feels the Ross’ eyes travel up his exterior, even as Vision offers a hand for the man to shake.

“Lieutenant General,” Vision addresses him formally. It’s only a .89 second of a pause, the man staring down at the scarlet of Vision’s extended hand, before the man shakes it.

“Ahh, yes. The Vision,” he says, and Vision nods, letting go. 

“May I thank you, for your service to this country. I have had the pleasure of reading many of your professional accomplishments in the month after my birth,” Vision remarks, and something in the man’s eyes widen, as if he is taken aback by the synthezoid. Vision isn’t the least bit surprised, considering the man was calling him a “scrap heap of wasted parts” in a tweet two days prior, but now seems to have had a change in opinion.

“And may I extend the country’s, indeed, the world’s gratitude to you, Mr. Vision. Tony has told me about your hand in helping to defeat Ultron,” the man says, and Vision dips his head in feigned gratitude.

“It is my purpose to-” Vision begins, and the man interrupts him.

“Protect life. As it has been explained to me,” the man grumbles, and Vision nods, before Tony interrupts them once more, shoving a glass of champagne in the Lieutenant General’s hand. 

“Come on, now, Thad. Drink up. It’s a party. And Vision?” 

“Yes, Mr. Stark?” Vision asks.

“Go say hi to the gang and then report squarely back. You owe me two long, grueling interviews. And, believe me, no more soft-hitting questions, because unfortunately Cosmopolitan has not been invited,” Stark says, and Vision’s jaw clenches as the people around him laugh, before he follows Mr. Stark’s gaze to Agent Romanov, looking stunning in silk, jet black dress, Captain Rogers, in full military regalia, and... 

Wanda. 

She is, in a word, exquisite. The brace still graces her right hand, but a sleeveless, backless scarlet dress, subtly trimmed with gold thread, currently hugs her thin frame until about mid-leg before the fabric billows softly outward. Her dark hair is braided intricately and woven tightly behind her head, and she cradles a glass of champagne, as finally she looks up, her eyes meeting his. 

Instantly, a blush meets the curve of her cheek bones as Vision walks quietly toward her, and he ignores the hellos and hiya, Visions! to address Wanda solely. His heart is pounding in his chest, and all other operational systems seem to blur as he approaches her. 

“Miss Maximoff,” he murmurs, pulled in by her beauty, momentarily forgetting the reason he has been avoiding her all day, taking her hand softly in his own, bringing it upward to gently ghost his lips over her knuckles, and she lets him, miraculously. 

“Vision,” she says through a small smile, before he addresses the rest of the group. “Agent Romanov, Captain Rogers, fancy meeting you here,” he quips, and they both laugh, before his attention turns back to Wanda.

“You are radiant,” he murmurs, and her blush returns, before taking a sip of champagne nervously.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asks quietly, and Vision’s small smile drops.

“Not at all. And you?” He asks, and she laughs before responding.

“Not at all,” she says, and, despite himself, he grins.

“At least you have the opportunity to drink the nerves away,” he says gently, and, at this, she frowns slightly, before she chooses to speak up once more.

“Vision, I-“ she begins, but then he can feel Stark clasp him on the back, steering him away from some of the few people he knows in the room, away from Wanda towards the line of reporters. He throws Wanda an apologetic smile, and she returns it, as he walks toward the lion’s den once more.

—

It is a long two hours before he manages to sneak away from the press, and he is half-relieved, half-downhearted to see Wanda nowhere in sight. This time around, he senses he had better luck with the press, the flow of champagne and the steady music seemingly relaxing the otherwise vicious group of reporters, and, after he manages to excuse himself, he scans the room for anyone he might know. Upon finding no one, he considers how much trouble he may be in if he were to retire before midnight, and seriously considers the idea, before his eyes spot a friendly face in the crowd, and Vision is immediately consumed with relief.

Helen.

She is not alone, although when she catches Vision eye, he hears her murmur something to her partner— the doctor from Mount Sinai— about needing another refill and a few moments’ of privacy, before she smiles brightly at Vision. Her dress is ornate in grey and midnight blue, as he bows his head slightly in respect to Helen.

Immediately however, something in her smile falls, and she gently takes him by the hand, leading him over to a spare table, gesturing for him to sit.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, and his eyes dart quickly back and forth and then back to Helen, his confidence at his supposed veneer of sociability collapsing at the truth in her concern.

“Nothing is wrong, apart from just spending two hours with the press. Helen. I…” he stops, as he spots Wanda across the way, dancing with Captain Rogers. Something Rogers says makes her laugh, and Vision frowns, snapping his gaze immediately back to Helen. 

“Helen. I do not know what has come over me. I believe...I may be malfunctioning. I am afraid we may need to commence several diagnostic scans immediately after the holiday, if possible,” he murmurs, and the physician beside him frowns, taking his hand in concern. 

“Vision. You’ll need to be more specific. How so? What brought this on?” She asks, and Vision’s eyes once again lock on Wanda, and this time Helen follows his gaze, turning slightly to note the red of Wanda’s dress and the dark color of Wanda’s hair. 

“Oh,” Helen says, the Vision’s eyes return to Helen.

“The object of the fondness and affection you were talking about last week?” Helen asks through a small smile, and Vision has to close his eyes tightly for a moment to try and rid the memory of Wanda from his mind, looking up again to this other woman that Vision deeply respects and admires. 

“Forgive me, I...It seems that it’s been made clear to me that my relationship with Miss Maximoff is not normal,” he hisses, and Helen’s brows furrow in concern.

“What about it isn’t normal? And who told you this?” Helen is asking, and Vision searches Helen’s face for the answers. The scientific, logical explanation or diagnosis that would suggest why he felt the need, just one night prior, to kiss Wanda. To hold her, in the most unplantonic of ways.

“I spend...far too much time around her. And I fear that, somehow, I may be confusing her with my actions,” he idly murmurs. My thoughts, too. Dear god. If I had let her into my mind….

“Vision, listen. I saw Wanda mere days after Sokovia. And you forget, I am attempting to help her too. But from what I gather, you too have far more often helped each other than anything I have done,” she murmurs. “And there’s nothing wrong, or confusing, about that.” 

Vision only frowns, though, a tortured look in his eyes as he stares at the woman in front of him.

“But that’s not the problem, is it?” she asks slowly, and turning around to look at Wanda again, studying her for a moment. “Vision, be honest. Are you attempting to say that you...have feelings for her?” She asks gently. 

“I wish someone would explain what that means, as the advice from the internet has been...rather unsavory,” he mutters, and he feels Helen’s hand squeeze gently around his own again.

“Do you wish to have a romantic relationship with her? Do you find yourself wanting a physical connection? Have you experienced sexual desire, or lust?” She asks, and, if nothing else, even though these words feel near blasphemous, the directness of her questions helps to settle something deep inside Vision. 

“Helen, I did not think myself capable of it,” he shakes his head slightly. “We both know my limitations. Wanda knows. And yet, just last night, I...I imagined holding her, kissing her.” 

At this, Helen only sweetly smiles, as if what Vision is saying is not the horrifically barbaric thing he thinks it is. 

“Well thinking intimately about someone is hardly a crime, Vision, or a reason to suspect malfunction,” she seems to read his mind, and when his expression dours further, Helen sighs softly. “Vision...we’ve been tracking your emotional responses for months now, and, I say this with scientific certainty, I do think you are capable of it.”

“It is..not my purpose,” he mutters the tired phrase out loud again.

“And you think you can’t have more than one reason for existing?” She asks, but Vision only shakes his head again.

“Even if that is true, there is a probable likelihood that Miss Maximoff does not return my feelings. And it is moreover a certainty that I would not subject her to…” he trails off, the words dying in his throat.

“What?” Helen asks carefully, quietly.

“I am not what she needs, nor what she deserves,” he finally says, and, to his surprise, Helen gently laughs.

“Wouldn’t that be something she should make up her mind about?” 

“Helen, she deserves to be with someone who can love her, who can show her that love,” he begins, but Helen interrupts him. 

“Vision...if you’re experiencing self-doubt, I’m here to tell you that’s yet another emotion you should record. It’s also.. very typical in situations such as these-” she begins, and it is then, just as Vision begins to consider the woman’s words, he feels a hand grace his shoulder. 

“Vision, Helen. I am so sorry to bother you both. But Angelica Bramlett from the Wall Street Journal has been following me around consistently and...well, Vision, could I trouble you for a dance?” 

Helen only smiles at Wanda, before nodding to Vision, and he shakily stands, his posture stiffening.

“Of course, Wanda,” he murmurs, taking Wanda’s hand, leading her out onto the dance floor before he has time to download any instructions on what to do once he arrives there. A waltz is playing in the background, and that should be important information, but for some reason his mind refuses to search out the correct knowledge, and Wanda, ever the perceptive woman she is, gently takes one of his hands and places it on her waist, while she gently holds the other, her left hand settling on his left shoulder. 

“Now, just sway, and you’ll be dancing better than half of the people in here,” she says, and he nods dutifully, before finally looking Wanda in the eye.

“Thank you, for rescuing me,” she says through a lovely smile, and he notices a subtle form of makeup covers the bruise under her right eye, and a shimmer of gold graces her eyelids. Despite himself, he finds himself letting out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he does so. 

“I believe you rescued yourself. But I have had the unfortunate experience of meeting that woman. She is relentless,” he murmurs, and it’s her turn to laugh a little, and a quiet, more comfortable silence befalls them. Vision can feel the subtle texture of the dress underneath his fingertips, the relaxed way Wanda drapes her arm across his chest, their other hands entwined, and he hardly hears her next question because of it.

“Are you...angry with me?” she finally asks, biting a reddened lip silently, staring up at him in mild anxiety.

“Of course not, Wanda,” he murmurs, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments, before gazing at her once more. “I feel I must apologize for last night. It seems that we were both...out of sorts.”

“Seems it,” Wanda murmurs. “I was so worried that I...well. I know I sometimes look it, but...I’m not ok yet. I’m just... not. And, whatever it is you’re going through, I need to know that we’re still, well, friends. So are we? Still friends?”

The worlds sear him, the hottest of branding, but he knows they are honest and raw and genuine, and he finds himself accepting them, as easily as she accepts himself.

“I could not imagine a world with you in it as anything less,” he murmurs, and her eyes are glossy for a moment, as a stray tear falls down her cheek, which he quickly moves to wipe away with a spare finger, unintentionally bringing their linked hands closer to them, and he realizes, far too late, that his grip on her waist tightens infinitesimally.

“Don’t cry, darling,” he murmurs, and she laughs a little, shaking away the momentary melancholia, staring up at him with another smile. 

“ Darling?” Wanda asks playfully, and Vision is grateful for the hue of his skin, hiding his own embarrassment. The term of the endearment came from nowhere, for seemingly no reason. 

Well, perhaps for a very good reason... his thoughts drift through his mind lazily.

He doesn’t answer her, but merely lifts his shoulders in a shrug, and he feels Wanda’ grip tighten slightly. 

“Three and a half glasses of champagne and dancing with someone I’m so..fond of seems to undo something in me,” she finally murmurs, and Vision stares at her for a moment, as her cheeks flush a deeper red.

“I mean...as a friend. Dancing with a fond friend. A little awkward, yeah? Friends, umm, dancing, to a waltz?” She stumbles over her words, but Vision is not put off by them, because it is then he makes a decision, the wisdom of Helen’s words still reverberating inside of him. Consequences be damned, his synthetic nature be damned, if this is what Wanda needs now, then, forever , then this is surely who he’ll be for her, as long as this remarkable woman remains in his life, hopefully for years to come.

“Not so awkward,” he finally murmurs, and she is so close now it is practically in her ear, and a warmth he has never had the pleasure to know unfurls within him as she leans his head against his chest as they dance. 

“Everything is spinning,” she finally says through closed eyes, and he pauses for a moment, an uptick in concern for her wellbeing.

“Perhaps it is best we stop, then,” he murmurs, but she glances up to him slowly, shaking her head slightly.

“No, no we really shouldn’t,” she says, and then she leans her head on his chest once more. He is not certain how much time passes, the blues and whites and silvers of the evening melting away, until he hears people exclaiming happily, as a countdown begins.

“ Ten! Nine! Eight!” He looks up sharply, trying to understand what’s going on, before he matches their counting with the internal clock in his mind. 11:59. Ah. Wanda only squeezes his arm tighter, as the countdown continues.

“ Six! Five! Four!” 

She looks to him then, almost expectantly, as the final seconds of 2015 run out. Around them, balloons begin to drop, confetti flies in the air, people shout and clink glasses, but, in front of him, he only sees Wanda Maximoff, the woman who now has his heart. 

She smiles, gently, before reaching up on her tiptoes to gently press a kiss to his cheek, and her lips are soft and warm, and his mind reels with the electricity of her touch, as she stares at him in contentment.

“Happy New Year, Vision,” she murmurs, before resting her head against his chest once more, and he replies, this time his voice only a little bit louder than a whisper in her ear. 

“Happy New Year, Wanda.”