Synthesis

Chapter 19: Interlude

Sirens wail in her ears, along with the sound of the QuinJet’s quickly fading engines. His grip is tight around her. Now that it’s over, he clings to her with unbridled need. His mind is full of remorse and anger, and if this wasn’t the last time she is going to lay eyes on him, she would think the way the calm, orderly feeling of his mind desperately trying to handle his emotion is beautiful. His eyes seek her out, the familiar, tiny gears swirling quickly to the left. They always did that when Vision was experiencing something new, and the faster they spun, the more he was helpless to the humanity entwined within him. His cape flutters softly in the wind behind him. Her palms sting, encrusted with rubble and blood.

His skin is cold against hers, just like it should be. He’s always this way, unless he intentionally warms himself. She never wants to leave. She wants to stay here, in his arms, and erase the last 48 hours. God, she had been so blind. So stupid. It had come from an authentic place, the want to stand on her own two feet. The anger she felt toward him for making a decision of what was best for her, without her say. She had wanted to show him she didn’t need his protection. She had wanted a partner, equal and respectful and all the things Vision was when he wasn’t terrified. 

She had been so upset with him. So upset that, still, even after he had pressed his lips to hers, even as desperation and pining coursed through his mind as their mouths met, he refused to admit his feelings. Instead, he had said he was afraid of her, like it was news. He’d admit to fear over fondness. And, yes, Wanda always reacted too rashly. She had always made her worst decisions when she was overcome with emotion. He had backed her into a corner. She had left, but not before she had barely controlled her magic to shove him down through tens of floors of concrete into the earth. She had hurt him, in every way she knew how. And yet, now, here he was, apologizing first. The beautiful idiot. 

And then, it all goes horribly wrong. Or, more wrong than it had. Vision must have heard an order in his mind, because he unleashes the Mindstone’s energy, but instead of Sam, he strikes Rhodes out of the sky. The overwhelming golden wave of anguish and pain flows over her, his grip tighter on her still as she gives him the permission he seeks. 

Go.

He looks at her one more time, and she thinks he might be the most sorrowfully beautiful thing she’s ever seen. He nods, his body slips from hers, and he’s gone. She’s alone. But not more than ten seconds, because she’s being roughly pulled up by her shoulders, and she’s crying and angry as she summons her magic, willing to fight for her life, but she is shoved roughly in the stomach. Pain blurs her vision. And while she is reeling, she feels her arms being yanked roughly behind her, and she’s shoved into the back of a darkened, armored car. She hurls curses at the soldiers in Sokovian before she is stuck bluntly in the side of the head. It’s sheer pain, and then black. 

—

She thinks it’s the bombs again, until her eyes dart over to the blue window and she sees raindrops flecking the glass and she hears the steady shower. She trembles, clinging against her brother’s slim, nine-year-old arm more tightly, but he snores on. Again, flash . 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven-

BOOM. This one feels like the very sky cracks open and she almost cries, shutting her eyes more tightly. Even through her closed eyelids, she can see when their tiny room they share is illuminated. Flash. One, two, three, four- Boom.

On the fifth time of counting, she slowly slips away from Pietro, and quickly wanders out of the room and into the living space where her Mama and Papa sleep. Slowly, she approaches her mother’s side of the bed, when the thunder hits again, and she softly lets out a cry, and her mother instantly stirs, waking up quickly. 

“что это? Что не так?” She says in the darkness, and then she sees her daughter's wide, tearful eyes, and she pulls her into bed with her, close.

“я думал, это бомбы,” Wanda murmurs. I thought it was the bombs. Her mother shushes her, bringing her close and stroking her hair before softly running a finger down each of her eyes, down her nose. It’s something her mother has done to comfort her since before she could remember, since the beginning.

“помнишь, что я тебе сказал? считать. один, два, трu,” she murmurs. They count together then, as her mother runs a finger over her closed left eye, her nose, her right eye, then back again. She stops, eventually, as she smoothes Wanda’s hair, just as the thunder shakes the whole building, and Wanda squeezes her eyes shut again. Just then, she hears her mother’s fragile voice, beginning to softly sing. 

“Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high. There’s a land that I’ve heard of, once in a lullaby,” she sings, and Wanda smiles, opening her eyes, singing the next line, softly, so she doesn’t wake Papa. 

“Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue. And the dreams that you dare to dream, really do come true.”

“Правильно, любимая. И не забывай об этом,” her mother murmurs to her, kissing her forehead, as Wanda closes her eyes, her mother’s soft humming slowly guiding her back to sleep. 

That’s right, love, and do not forget it. 

—

When she stirs, she can’t move. A panic radiates through her, as she tries once more to lift her arms. She is lying face down, and once more she strains her hands, her forearms, but they won’t budge. She realizes, slowly, that her arms are bound tightly to her, wrapped in a fabric cocoon. It’s only then that she feels the weight around her neck. She panics, eyes wide, as she hurls her body upward in the dark. She can barely see, can barely understand. The taste of iron is in her mouth. Her head is fuzzy, as if she’s been drinking, but she hasn’t. She experimented with drugs when she was younger. It feels like that. Like coming off of some horrible trip. 

“помощь,” she softly cries, and then the lights turn on in the cell, scorching her vision with a blinding, white fluorescent light. She struggles to focus, as a large man in a uniform with a thick pot belly shuffles to the glass, pounding on it. The sound reverberates off the monotone, empty cell. 

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” he barks, and she seethes from her place on the cot. This wasn’t humane. This was...this was insanity. Sheer and utter insanity. She wonders wildly if the others are here too. She isn’t sure how long she’s been here, or where here is. She only remembers Vision’s cyan, electric eyes, the fluttering of a cape, the sirens. Something in her stomach revolts, and she wants to vomit. The weight on her neck is suddenly heavier. She struggles against the straight jacket. 

“ Хуй тебе !” She shouts, spitting at the ground, and it’s then when she feels the surge of electricity course through her. It’s agony, and she screams, before slumping once more on the cot. 

—

“пожалуйста останься,” she begs, attempts to hold her, kissing Liza’s hand, her neck, her lips, but Lizabeta is shaking her head through tears, moving away from her in the dark, and finally she slips from her arms.

“я не могу больше этого делать,” Lizabeta whispers, and then she walks through the shelter doors, leaving Wanda only on the cot with the threadbare sheets, one in a long row of them. A solitary line of people her country would rather not see. She sobs, folding up into herself, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, her head buried in anguish. 

“заткнись, дайк!” another homeless man shouts from three cots over . She softens her cries, but stays there through the night, until Pietro returns. He tries to run a shaky hand along her arm, but she recoils.

“это ваша вина,” she hisses, and he stiffens. She knows it makes him angry, to turn away from him, but she no longer cares. She’s lost everything, has lost her darling Lizabeta, in this one moment. He leaves her, then, but she knows he will be back. Pietro is the only one who never leaves. 

At some point, she unwraps herself, hands slipping into her grungy backpack to clasp a pair of headphones and her discman. She carefully wraps them around her head, lying back on the cot, and falls into another world. A world that reminds her that she is not alone. 

“You got a fast car. Is it fast enough so we can fly away? We’ve gotta make a decision. Leave tonight or live and die this way.”

—

The next time she stirs, she knows she’s been drugged. Her thoughts are sluggish and dull, and she keeps her eyes shut tight. She is afraid of waking. She is afraid of what it might mean. The blood on her temple had since long congealed and crusted over, and it cracks as she tries to shut her eyes tighter. She is dizzy. She wants to scream, but she knows better now. She pretends to be asleep still, as her mind wildly tries to fill in the gaps. The hours, the days, the weeks? She cannot be sure. Another cell. Another Hydra. Where they barely fed her, where they had…

The memory, brilliant and golden, its power summoning her to it. The very stone that is perched in Vision’s forehead. Or, was. 

He’s gone now.

Vision. She wants to scream at him, to shake him awake. She wants to set fire to this prison, and maybe the compound too. She wants to grab his cold hand and take him far, far away from humanity. She envisions a cabin in the mountains, where she could keep them both safe. She envisions a field of wildflowers, the same ones he marvels at and catalogues. She would pick them every morning, and they’d sit in a mason jar in fresh water at their dinner table. She’d cook, because he’s abysmal at it, and then he’d do the dishes. She’d take him to bed in the dark, quiet night, the wooden frame of the bed creaking under her weight. She’d force him to see his humanity. Maybe he could help awaken her own. She thinks, maybe, they could be happy there. 

They must pick up her vital signs, because the blinding lights are now on, and Wanda can hear the grunts and heavy breathing of the pot-bellied man shuffling in again, jerking her head back roughly, shoving a needle into her neck. She doesn’t fight back this time.

Instead, she sleeps. 

—

“It’s beautiful. The vibranium atoms aren’t just compatible with the tissue cells, they’re binding them. Cellular cohesion will take a few hours, but we can initiate the consciousness stream. We’re uploading your cerebral matrix. Now,” she hears the woman, the doctor, say blankly, as Wanda dares to walk further into the lab. Pietro’s mind is anxious, uneasy, but the casket, no, the cradle, beckons her, even as Ultron sits just beyond, eying her greedily. The soft blue light emanating from it is terrifying and surreal, but the thoughts are present, underneath the metal and machinery. Her eyes widen as the waves roll off of the cradle, beckoning her forward, as if she is inextricably tied to whatever lay inside.

“I can read him. He is...dreaming,” she murmurs, hardly hearing the doctor’s next words.

“I wouldn’t call it dreams. It’s Ultron’s base consciousness. Informational noise. Soon-”

“How soon? I’m not being pushy,” Ultron snarls, but Wanda isn’t listening, as slowly, gently, she lowers her silver entwined fingers to the cradle. 

“We’re imprinting a physical brain. There are no shortcuts. Even if your magic gem-“

Just as her hands make contact with it, blinding pain, seething anger, the image of an asteroid hurtling towards the earth, towards global destruction, reverberates in her mind. She shouts, stumbling backward, as Pietro moves to soothe her, kissing her forehead as her mind reels in pain.

“How-How could you?” She murmurs to the android. 

And then, later, a new being, electric blue eyes and crimson skin, different than Ultron, promising to fight with them. To fight for life. She is not sure if she believes him.

“I looked into your head, and saw annihilation,” she spits, but his expression does not change. He holds her gaze, and gently responds. 

“Look again.”

—

She is lying on the cool metal of an examination table. Her eyesight groggily come into focus, and she realizes she’s out of the straight jacket, but her wrists are cuffed to the table, and her feet. Her mind panics, and her eyes betray her as she opens them. Several shrouded figures in lab coats stand over her, one with a needle in a gloved hand. She takes in a harsh breath.

“Sir, she’s awake,” a woman’s voice says. Wanda strains against the handcuffs, before her vision begins to blur again.

No. Stay awake. Fight it.

“Up the propofol. I’m four days behind in trying to get these blood and tissue samples. Ross threatened my license as it is.”

No. Stay awake, fight it. 

“Upping dose to 175 mg.”

—

He almost always is at the windows. Wonder constantly radiates from his mind. Sometimes, he simply stares at his own hands, as if in awe over his own extremities. He hovers everywhere, but sometimes, his feet touch the ground, and he surprises himself. If she wasn’t in turmoil, she might find it amusing. And yet, despite the constant pain she feels, she seeks his mind out. Not enough to invade, but enough to steady her. It’s an invasion of privacy, but she can’t seem to help it. She deserves something, her mind thinks, after the resentment he has caused her. The resentment in remaining alive. It’s late one evening, a few days after they’ve moved into the compound, when the rich smells of old bay seasoning and simmering garlic entice her to quietly leave her bedroom’s safety. She hasn’t eaten in two days. That’s the reason she dares to walk down the hallway, toward the lively kitchen, where the familiar sounds of Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell invite her forward. At least, that’s what she tells herself. 

“So the mystery girl is out of her room!” She hears Sam tease, and she throws him a slight smile, but her eyes travel to the...android? Synthezoid? Stark’s AI with a vibranium body? The remnant of Ultron’s plan for global destruction? No, that isn’t right. He had helped them, in their moment of need. He had finished the job she had thought she’d completed. He had lifted her up into the sky that day, as her heart perished. Bitterness still courses through her, and she is not sure why he has chosen to stay, but she should be grateful he changed his mind and wanted to protect the world instead of destroy it. If anything of Ultron is left, she can’t see it. She isn’t sure what he is, or what he wants, but he’s sitting at the kitchen island, a book in hand. He looks...practically human, in this moment. And it is off-putting and comforting all at once.

“Hi Sam,” she says, and, before she can decide against it, comes to slip in a seat next to Vision. She feels a blast of shock radiate from him, but he only turns in a slight, minuscule way toward her. She realizes he is surprised, yes, surprised she has done the simple thing of sitting next to him, and she feels a twinge of regret that she has only acted coldly toward this being that has only treated her with kindness. God knows how everyone else, who can’t read minds, has treated him.

“You two have previously met?” Is the question that slips from his lips, his beautiful, tenor voice on the air, and she only smiles slightly at him as Sam explains that she’s currently binging his box set of The Brady Bunch. It takes a moment for her to peel her eyes off of the creature next to her to realize that Sam has asked her a question about if she likes the show while he sautées the food. She hasn’t the heart to tell him she’s seen the entire series four times through.

“Very much. Although I had forgotten how ridiculous some of it was,” she says through a breathless laugh, and she feels Vision, then, truly looking at her. 

“Have you been settling in decently, Miss Maximoff?” The question is direct, and she can tell immediately it took much courage for him to muster it, so she tries to feign an encouraging smile and answer.

“I am...alright,” she murmurs, before her eyes glance quickly over the title of his book that lies on the counter. “Dostoyevsky? That’s Russian, no?”

He turns to her, a look of naive surprise in his features as he nods. 

“Yes. Dr. Cho suggested I read a printed copy of various works of famous literature. As...a sort of homework,” he responds.

Homework? Dr. Cho has given an all-knowing god-like being homework? The word is fascinating and strange on his lips, and she blurts out her next question.

“She gave you homework too?” 

And there it is. The inquisitive head tilt, and she notices, for the first time, that in his cyan blue irises are tiny gears. They rotate slowly, and she is entranced by their movement. He could not be made of all machinery. She wouldn’t have been able to read his mind if he was. She realizes then, he’s waiting for an explanation, and she blushes, embarrassed by her rabid momentary curiosity.

“Mine is just...meditation. A bit of yoga,” she responds.

They talk about Depak Chopra and meditation for a few minutes, before Sam dishes them both up a plate of something called “etouffe.”  She sense a course of discomfort flow from Vision, and she frowns at him, even as she picks up her own fork. 

“You’re not eating?” She asks quietly.

“I do not have the capacity to,” Vision responds, and Wanda blinks, trying to comprehend this concept, and failing. How is he alive, then? She has heard his breathing, heard his heartbeat. She can read him, after all. Again, her mind flies to his hovering presence at night, when he glides over the entirety of the compound. It had helped her somewhat, when she was woken by another nightmare, to track him. 

“You don’t sleep either,” she murmurs, and Vision turns to her once again, his irises spinning more rapidly in discomfort, and she kicks herself for being rude. Her матушка would be furious with her. 

“I...no,” he says, in a rare moment of tripping over his own words, and something about his faltering endears herself to him. 

“I sense you, sometimes, in the hallway,” she murmurs before she can stop herself. He looks at her, and she marvels at the symmetrical lines of his face, how the vibranium frames it, how the slight, perfectly straight subtle lines under his eyes and on his brow wrinkle just slightly with a look Wanda isn’t sure she can place. Sam is muttering something about rounding everyone up, but she doesn’t care. 

“Miss Maximoff, I…” he begins, before he stops, breaking eye contact with her. She curses herself again. She was openly staring, another thing her mother would tell her was rude. She fiddles with her food, eating a bite and finding it delicious, before she hears the rich sound of the British accent once more. 

“Why is it, Miss Maximoff, that you cannot sleep?” 

She frowns, as the sting of last night’s dreams fill her mind. She had been buried in rubble, but this time, Pietro was gone. She was alone, the sound of raging gunfire and violence all around, and she had woken up sobbing.

“My apologies, I’ve overstepped-” he begins, and she glances to him again, determined to ease his concern. 

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

“Dreams?” He asks, and she almost smiles at his soft, fervent curiosity. 

“Well, bad dreams. What’s the word for it in English? кошмары…” she stumbles, but he easily translates for her. 

“Nightmares,” Vision says. 

What must it be like, to know everything? Is the thought that travels through her brain. Why wasn’t he an arrogant stuck up asshole like Stark was, if he was so closely linked to the billionaire? Why did his voice hold no note of condescension when he spoke, if he could so easily comprehend the inner workings of the universe?

Suddenly, she hears the sounds of footsteps and the presence of several minds, and she panics. Immediately, she stands, her fork clattering on her plate as she does so.

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

“I’m sure a new lunch will be provided,” Vision offers, and she shakes her head a little, as her guilt surges within her once more. The abundance of food, of clothing, of heat and even air conditioning. Every pleasure she could ever want at her disposal, while Pietro lay dead in an unmarked grave by a sycamore tree in her home country. It was too much. This, was too much. 

“I don’t like...wasting things,” she finally responds, clutching her right arm nervously, unable to say anything else as she turns to leave, just as she hears his voice once more. 

“Miss Maximoff…”

“Yes?” Her lips betray her, her body betrays her, as she turns to him, pausing.  

“Should you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask,” Vision says, and it is earnest and kind and right, and she thinks, in that moment, he is not what everyone else sees. He is not a robot, or even an android. His mind is a complex overlay of thoughts and opinions and feelings, and even though he looks so very inhuman, he is beautiful. And he is offering her ‘anything.’

“I...Thank you, Vision,” she murmurs, before escaping down the hall. 

—

“Wanda?” 

She doesn’t open her eyes, but the voice sounds vaguely familiar. It isn’t his. But it is someone’s, someone she knows. She doesn’t have the strength to respond. She’s back in the cell, she realizes. Back in the straight jacket. Blood oozes from the sores underneath the collar on her neck. She hardly feels the pain.

“Wanda, if you can hear me, I promise, I’m gonna figure out a way to get you out of here.”

Sam?

She can’t be sure, but she’s beginning to no longer care. She put herself here. She put herself in this cell. He had warned her, and instead she had lashed out at the only person left in the world she loved. 

—

The night is humid and hot, but she refuses to turn the AC on in her room. They never had it in Sokovia, so it feels more like...home, when it’s this way. Instead, the evening breeze sometimes catches through her open window. And, anyway, her constant evening companion isn’t bothered by it, so she wipes the sweat from her brow as her fingers press into the tight strings of her guitar, sticking to the metal fibers in the humidity.  Vision’s sitting on the bed, long legs crossed at the ankle, and he’s reading. Or, he should be reading, but she’s caught his attention drifting toward her several times, and she smiles faintly to herself every time it happens. She isn’t playing anything in particular, but works on several chord progressions that have been messing her up, practicing the same melody over and over again. It’s also something that he doesn’t mind, when anyone else in the room would be unnerved. Finally, after the eighth time of getting it wrong, she sighs, setting down the instrument, and his gaze truly slides up to her.

“Is everything alright, Wanda?” He asks, and she smiles gently, standing up and stretching, before gathering her long hair into a ponytail and wrapping it around itself, securing it in a bun with a hair tie from her wrist. 

“Yep. Just can’t seem to get it right,” she says through a slight shrug of her shoulder.

“If I may, your ring finger is moving just .82 seconds too slow. It’s causing you to fumble on the F chord,” he murmurs, glancing at the instrument behind her. She frowns slightly, before moving towards the bed, taking a seat next to him. She smiles and can’t help but run a hand down the length of the cable knit sweater currently manifesting itself on his form. Vision’s wearing a sweater in May. Of course he is. She runs her fingers over the texture, so remarkably real. He doesn’t respond, but she notices his mind ripples with something akin to confused pleasure. Anytime she touches him, this happens. She knows that she shouldn’t, not like this, not as friends, but, after months of this man in her bed, she can’t seem to help herself.

“I know. I still can’t get it to move the way I want though,” she murmurs, and he turns toward her slightly, the book now settled on his lap. It’s a collection of poetry from William Blake.

“In your defense, it is considered the most complicated chord on the instrument,” he says through a quirk of his lips, and something low and tight coils in her belly. The heat is thick. He radiates warmth. Or, no, he doesn’t. That must be her. Still though, she removes her hand as she stares at him.

“William Blake still unsettling?” She asks, changing the topic and he lets out a soft chuckle.

“It is still strange, yes. But not necessarily unpleasant,” he murmurs, and she catches his eyes sliding just slightly downward, along the curve of her collarbone. 

Strange, but not necessarily unpleasant. How right he is. 

—

She’s finally allowed to shower. Her wrists are bound to the pipes, as a cold water sprays down over her naked body. She pretends to not notice the guards ogling her. She pretends she isn’t there. 

—

Her eyes stare at the news blankly. They’re using her name now. They’re calling her a “weapon of mass destruction.” Vision had been dehumanized since the moment of his birth, but this is her first brush with it, and she wants to vomit. 

She hasn’t seen him since they returned from Lagos, but her pride is forcing her to keep herself in her bedroom. She hasn’t reached out for his mind, either, because she’s afraid of what he might see. Of how she might view herself. Of how she’s terrified of who she is, now. Or what she could be. 

It’s, of course, ironic timing that he chooses now to phase through her bedroom wall. He stands hesitantly, so far away, too far away. She can feel the tears on her face, and they surprise her, because she wasn’t entirely sure she had any left. She hears her own voice, hoarse and tired in the air.

“Where were you?” She hisses, and she can feel him flinch, even without her looking at him.

“I...was hoping to give you the proper distance. You know, space,” he says ever so gently, using her own stupid, selfish words against her. She can tell, now, that he is hurting as well. And oh, how he hurts. The funny thing is that he’s not even aware of it more than half the time. Her Vizh. Her друг. Always so hesitant to admit the truth to himself. 

“I don’t want space,” she seethes, and she feels him closing the distance between them. Finally. 

“I want to go back in time and fix this,” she says, as more tears fall, and it is distantly she senses his form collect her in his arms, holding her against his taught, lean body. She can hear the beating of his heart, when they’re like this. She turns inward to the sound, letting the tempo steady her. God, he’s so warm. He must have raised his temperature for her. He’s so sturdy, so real. 

“I thought...I thought you were disgusted with me, like all the rest,” she finally says into his chest, and she can feel the confused turmoil in his mind.

“Wanda, no. I-“ he stops, his head dropping so he speaks the words into her hair. “I am only sorry I wasn’t there to help.” She wants to stay this way forever. Wrapped up in him. She wants to sink into his mind, until she isn’t sure where he begins and she ends. She wants his wonder, his awe of the world, his appreciation of its beauty, because often she doesn’t see it without him. She wants all of him, all at once.

“This isn’t your fault,” she finally whispers, moving away from him slightly to glance at the television screen, currently saying her name over and over again. Wanda Maximoff. Key Assailant. Wanda Maximoff. Vigilante. Wanda Maximoff. Alien. Wanda Maximoff. Weapon of Mass Destruction.

“They’re terrified of me,” she murmurs, and she feels Vision’s hand entwine in her own as he squeezes it gently and she finally meets his eyes. They are dark and richly blue. The lines on his face, forever symmetrical, hide his emotion, but she senses it easily from within his churning thoughts. He says nothing, though, and she feels the need to fill the void with more of her desperate words. 

“I’m- I should have been stronger. God, had I just been stronger, those people wouldn’t have- they wouldn’t have- oh god,” she whimpers, and then he’s pulling her to him again as her chest wracks with stomach-sickening sobs, and she grips the molecules of his sweater as his quivering hand strokes her hair.

“It is not your fault,” she hears him murmur into her ear. It’s the closest he’s ever been to her. Even during those long nights, those nights he reads softly to her, he always maintains a safe and wary distance. Always so careful, polite. Always so guarded. But now, now. She feels him pining. She feels his want, the ache for her deep in his core. 

“Yes it is,” she whispers bitterly, before he’s pulling her back just slightly.

“Wanda. Wanda, look at me,” he says, and as she pulls her gaze upward, she watches his eyes turning softly to the left, his face serious, his tone even and sure. 

“You did everything you could to save as many lives as possible. Had the blast gone off in the market, hundreds may have perished, and Rogers and you with it. And...god, if I had lost you…” he drops off, his voice breaking, and she sees it, feels it with everything inside her. She’s falling, falling into him, because she is pressing her mouth to his, and his lips are soft and warm and just how she’d imagined they’d be, but he stiffens, and her mind spins in confusion as she pulls back as if she’s been burned. 

“ I’m...I’m sorry. I thought, well. I thought you-” she stammers, panicking as she fears she’s read everything wrong, that maybe she really is broken, and her powers are failing her. But then his brilliant red fingers are clinging at her sweatshirt, and he lets out a shaky breath as he closes his eyes for a moment, before opening them once more.

“Do it again,” he breathes, and something deep in the pit of her stomach coils at his demand, and his cloying need to validate all that has grown between them.

“What?” She whispers, and then he is reiterating his plea.

“Just, please. Do it again,” he murmurs. She pauses, suddenly nervous, realizing that in her grief she has just mindlessly kissed Vision for the first time. For his first time. She steels herself, this time carefully approaching him, as her lips gently touch his own. He reciprocates, and with each movement, he takes the kiss deeper, and it feels like this is not the first time he’s done this, as her tongue passes over his. His mouth is warm and wet and feels like any other human’s, and her brain dumps of hearty amount of chemicals internally as he groans and takes the kiss deeper still. She realizes his hands on her in a way they never have been before, pulling her close, cloying at her with masculine need, one around her waist and the other settling posessively on her hip and she moans his name, as she gets bolder, snaking a hand around his neck, marveling at how the metal feels cool and his skin is warm, and she could get very used to this, how unique and wonderful he feels up against her body, and he finally breaks away, giving her a moment to breathe, although he appears to be struggling for air, too, even though he insists he doesn’t need it. 

He tilts his head at her. God, that gesture, like she’s a puzzle he’s attempting to break apart just to put back together again, to understand how each one of her fibers and neurons and impulses work as a collective whole. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” she finally says, and she can feel how hot her cheeks are. His doe eyes are wide, pure confusion and wonder emanating from his mind. 

“You-you have?” Vision murmurs. She smiles, and it’s almost enough to chase away the grief she feels as a chord of curiosity strikes her, and she wonders if she can get him to moan again like that. She wonders how much she can turn him on. She kisses his jaw this time, before dipping lower, kissing the base of his would-be ear, before pressing her lips to the seam of where synthetic skin and vibranium meet, both hot and cold, and he shudders underneath her. It’s not a moan this time, but a hiss, and she panics, pulling away slightly.

“Did I do something wrong?” She asks quietly, and his hands immediately fly to her shoulders in reassurance. 

“No. No. It is just...new. A lot to... process,” he murmurs, closing his eyes as Wanda slowly weaves her hand in his, smiling shyly, just as a sharp word punctuates the air.

“Maximoff.”

Maximoff.

—

“Maximoff!” A voice shouts, and she weakly opens her eyes. The man with the pot belly is standing there with a tray of gruel, and her stomach convulses in contempt. He’d been shoving a few spoonfuls of this stuff in her mouth for days, and she can’t fathom letting him doing it again, fully aware of the sickening sexual thoughts flowing from his mind. A spoonful of food wasn’t the only thing he wanted to shove into her mouth, and she cowers against the back wall, as he enters a code and the door unlocks. He slams the tray down on the counter, and smiles at her suggestively.

“You think you gonna open up that pretty little mouth of yours today?” He asks.

—

“For people to see you, as I do.”

A bolt of lightening. One, two, three. Neural impulses. Electricity in the brain, coursing through her body, singing her skin. She counts the surges. She imagines the quirk of his eyebrow as he stops reading at a noise she makes. She sees his hands grip the wheel nervously when she asks him about his sexual orientation. She throws a snowball at him. She misses because he cheats. She dances with him in a compound-turned-ballroom. Confetti and balloons rains from the ceiling. Artillery rains from the sky. One, two, three, BOOM. She wakes up from a nightmare, covered in sweat, and he is there, apologizing. God, he’s apologizing because he couldn’t keep the dream at bay. His concerned hand is steady on her shoulder. She saw Pietro’s faded, dead eyes. She saw her mother’s body. They walk hand in hand down a cobblestone street. He asks her to stay. She hears his voice. He is on his knees, and she is killing him. Ripping him apart with scarlet energy, as he softly encourages her to keep going, murmurs an “I love you” and, and, AND-

You’re never escaping this place.

I...had to do something. I assisted Captain Rogers. I had to make sure you were safe.

Wanda, I am sorry. Please, forgive me. 

I’m beginning to think we should’ve stayed in bed. 

Somewhere, over the rainbow, dreams really do come true. 

Wanda, wake up.

It’s alright.

Wake up, Wanda!

I just feel you.

WAKE UP. 

She sits up harshly in the bed, her hand around her throat. She breathes rapidly, glancing around their darkened bedroom. The grandfather clock ticks loudly downstairs. Tommy and Billy’s minds, full of peaceful dreams stemming from their own bedroom, softly greet her. And….his hand is immediately threaded in her own, as she turns to him, eyes wide.

“Darling?” He asks, brows furrowed in concern, and she softly cries again, hand to her mouth, as he collects her in his strong arms. He pulls her in close, as she cries into his chest softly. She feels small, and the nightmares still permeate through her.

“It hurt... so much ,” she says through tears, clasping her neck with one hand. She feels his body stiffen, only for a moment, before he pulls her more tightly to him. He shushes her, murmuring loving sentiments in her ear.

“I know, Wanda. I know,” he whispers, and his eyes are distant for a moment, before he refocuses on her, tucking her hair back behind her ear, hand ghosting over the faded scars on her neck.

“But nothing will ever harm you again. I swear it,” he murmurs, kissing a hot tear away, and she falls against him, crumpling under his grasp, until his steady heartbeat and the hum of his tenor voice lulls her once more to sleep.