Aleph

kitchen
emergency
come now
also tea

...at least it wasn't coffee. Wanda Maximoff brewed Turkish coffee strong enough to kill a horse. And even at 5 am, Sam wasn't brave enough to try it twice.

As weird (and unsolicited) texts went, this was certainly at the top of the list. But Wanda Maximoff was the youngest Avenger, still just a kid in many ways, so if Samuel “It’s Too Early For This Shit” Thomas Wilson could put on his running shoes and shorts and haul is his lazy ass around the DC Memorial Circle just to catch a coupla fit guys in skin-tight muscle shirts every morning, then he could drag his damn ass out of bed to deal with a literal teenage mutant (ninja?) crisis happening down the hall, way too early in the morning or not.

Sam stretched. Yawned. Stumbled towards the communal kitchen, blinking blearily. He was then assaulted by Serbian? Russian? Sokovian? shit he didn't even know anymore and music sure as hell wasn't even an approximation at about 100,000 dB. At this point Sam was pretty sure it registered on the Richter Scale.  “What. The Fuck.” Sam said as figurative fucking ice pick lodged itself behind his left eye.

“It’s несрећom невеста,” Wanda shrugged from her seat at the table, absently stirring tea-tar from those jars with a spoon into mugs while halfway across the fucking room, reading a Cryllic gossip magazine on her Stark tablet. Sam had been wrong. It was Way, Way Too Early For This Shit in the morning to deal with this.

“What, like I’m supposed to know?”

Wanda looked up from her tablet and grinned. “Here I thought you appreciate good music.”

“What,” Sam deadpanned, “and this is good music?”

“I believe Wanda was referencing the unparalleled influence of black musicians and black culture on the music of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries,” Vision appeared/explained out of nowhere, interrupting somewhat (un)helpfully(?)/terrifyingly/pantshittingly and fuck Sam was having a goddamn heart attack and yeah, he’d definitely jumped out of his own damn slippers. “And I have been informed you are black, Sam Wilson,” Vision continued, as though instantaneous physical manifestation at Ass O’Clock in the morning were the norm in any civilized society. “My experience with human vernacular and cultural studies would suggest this was an attempt at American racial humor.”

Wanda smiled, a forced, murderous smile, but a smile all the same. “Yes, thanks, Viz.”

“Oh, you’re quite welcome. Are we drinking tea?” ‘Viz’ asked. “Exclusive we,” he clarified. “That is to say non-inclusive we, of course. Semantically speaking. I do not physically...consume...beverages…” he trailed off helplessly.

“Sam and I are having tea,” Wanda emphasized, giving the center of his chest a tap with one matte black finger tip. “You are not. And also not invited, I think.”

“Oh. Yes. I will—simply leave then. Enjoy your tea,” dude nodded politely, then stepped through a goddamn wall like, 'no big deal, I'll just, you know, vary my atomic density because it's less effort than using a door like a normal fucking person'.

Sam felt a bit dizzy. Sam sat down. “Is he—“

“Always like this?” Wanda sighed. “Yes. We are taking ESL class online together. Introduction to American Humor. He is terrible. He does not understand sarcasm. Or nuance. Or racism,” she wrinkled her nose. “Did you know. He sees. More than we do. His vision—“ she chuckled at her own pun. “Is more of the spectrum? He sees us from emitted infrared heat signatures, not reflected visual light. He can see fever, hypothermia, skeletal damage—“

Oh, geez, Sam's brain as his skin began to crawl. Right through our—

“X-rays let him see right through our clothes, you are right,” Wanda said, swiping through images of Eastern European-looking girls in cute long-sleeve t-shirt dresses on her Stark tablet, all casual like discussing the weather. Then— “Jam?” she asked, then nodded at his unconscious response as three teaspoons of the stuff just fucking poured itself into her mug. It was like breakfast with Professor McGonagall. Or Mary Poppins. Or Sam’s brain was still tripping off those mushrooms he and Riley had done together in college. Sure, suuure Sammy-boy you grow up to be a flying pararescueman called the Falcon and Cap’s best friend. Sure you’re an Avenger. And, oh you’re a fucking wizard, Sammy. Here, have a pony, Sam sighed. Some days it sure made a helluva lot more sense than any of this shit being real.

“He does not understand those, either. But is nice. He is naive, maybe sometimes seems stupid, to us. But when it comes to our skin, our race, he is actually color blind.”

“That’s—“

“Refreshing,” Wanda finished for him, as two teacups floated themselves over. “I am Jewish Romani Omega Mutant. From Sokovia. Believe me, I know.” Wanda Maximoff: +10 diversity, everyone! (Also she could move the dice with her telekinesis powers so she rolled a perfect fucking 20 every damn time. Seriously. Home girl destroyed at D&D.)

“Yeah," Sam offered. "I’ll bet.”

“And yes. He is weird," she sighed, grasped the handle of her floating tea cup and took a sip. "But I love him. What should I do.”

“Haha,” Sam said, rolling with her broken English and putting his cup on the goddamned table where it belonged. It was kinder, he’d learned, than trying to be helpful. Girl could read minds. Knew from the moment Sam heard it she’d meant ‘what can you do’, and she'd remember it for next time. “Yeah, we’re all pretty fond of his weird red ass. Actually—I don’t really know if his ass is red and damnit, I don’t want to,” Sam stopped in sudden horror. “Does he—“

“Know that he is red?” Wanda grinned, letting go of her cup and it just...hung there...and shit, Sam thought, the girl had an idea, a horrible, awful, evil idea. “That this is not normal color?”

Her nose wrinkled up even more as she she laughed. “He sees so much, from infrared to gamma radiation, not just visual light. He tried to make it the visual spectrum for us, so he looks how we look. To him. He thinks,” she smiled fondly. “So no. I do not think so.”

“Should we—“

“Tell him?” Wanda finished for him as that girly smile disappeared and the grin grew—if possible—even wider and more wicked. “What, and spoil the fun?”

“You are terrible,” Sam groaned. Hit his head against the counter top. Because, yeah. No. Sam Wilson was NOT spoiling this for himself, or for the human race. Alien robot wants to blend in, do the whole Old Testament angel “Be Not Afraid” thing so he goes and makes his skin fucking red in order to humanize himself and offer comfort. It was—adorably thoughtful, really. And hilarious. He’d go with both.

“So what did you call me down here for, anyways?” Sam finally sighed, attacking his tea. It was either him or it, as far as Sam was concerned. Barnes, Natasha, and Wanda were all fucking weird when it came to hot beverages (their cold beverages, on the other hand, Sam could appreciate. There was a store of very, very fiiine vodka kept in stock in every Avengers freezer.). Something about those Eastern European winters, man.  “You didn’t haul my ass outta bed just to talk about Vision’s weird red one.”

“No,” Wanda snickered. “Well, yes, actually. I mean, I love him,” she emphasized, returning to Sam’s earlier, unvoiced critique. “What should I do.”

…Oh, hell. Samuel Thomas "Falcon" Wilson was an ex-Airforce LCSW specializing in military trauma and veteran reintegration. He was NOT qualified for this shit.

“Don’t you have, uh, Barton? For this sort of thing?” Sam asked weakly. Dude was her adopted dad—or odd uncle?—or maybe even older step-brother who was kind of weird? Definitely weird. Then he remembered her dead kid brother and oh god oh shit she's telepathic don't think about what'shisface don't thinkaboutwhat'shisface...

“Clint,” Wanda snorted. “Is walking disaster. There is hole in his floor and his dog has fleas and eats pizza. Besides, he is divorced three times.”

“He’s been making it work with, uh—“

“Laura?” she rolled her hazel eyes. “She is sister.”

Brain fart. Sam poured scalding Sokovia-style tea all down his lucky Captain America PJs and didn’t even notice. “What?”

“Laura Barton is his sister. Her husband is dead. He helps support them,” she shrugged, then frowned at her tea. "Needs more jam."

Accio jam, Sam's broken brain supplied as the jar floated over and emptied itself of its own accord. Then Sam's brain went on permanent vacation. “But, what, wait, why—“

“Is simpler this way,” Wanda explains. Because, and Sam still got the creeps over this, bitch could READ MINDS. “He does not tell anyone because it is simpler. To assume. So no one asks her questions.”

…questions like “if her husband’s dead how come she’s pregnant” and "that is some weird Lannister-level shit going on" and “were they adopted” and “what business does a single, widowed woman have having kids anyways”. Yeah, Sam, he cringed. Way to be supportive.

“They are her husband’s,” Wanda explained, sipping her tea. “He died. Iraq, I think. But they wanted children. So they did that thing. Before. With sperm. And freezing. So now they have them.”

“But he’s—“

“Dead,” Wanda said, eyes hollow. “Should she love him any less.”

“But that’s—“ just weird, Sam’s brain insisted. Also none of your business, Samuel Thomas Wilson. So shut up. And his brain did.

“Vision is sentient Android powered by alien technology. I can move things with my mind. My best friend literally ran away and joined the circus as child and now is special ops sniper who fights robots with bow and arrow. Steve is on hiatus from the Avengers again because Yasha went into heat and does not like suppressants,” Wanda said. “You are man who flies. We are all weird.”

But— Sam’s brain supplied.

“But we make it work because we love each other. Now come on, you are counselor. I am in love with agender, asexual, artificially created sentient android from outer space. What do I do?”

“Uh…” Sam began.

“I can not just tell him,” Wanda slumped back on the kitchenette bar stool with a sigh. “Is more complicated than that.”

“Why, ‘cause he’s not—uh, human?”

“He is human as you or I am,” she frowned. "Just because he is artificial does not make him any less."

“I mean—the whole—“ SEX THING, Sam didn’t—refused to—say aloud (Did dude even have a dick? Would Ultron/Helen Cho have even considered that—?). Christ, Wanda was a teenager, but Samuel Thomas “Good Ally and Women’s Lib Advocate” Wilson was not about to slut shame some kid for wanting a piece of that android ass, even if it did make him hella uncomfortable. It was the last thing home girl here needed.

“Please, Sam. I am Omega. I have heat supplies,” she rolled her eyes, took another sip of tea as if discussing sex toys with a stranger over breakfast was a normal occurrence where she was from. “And suppressants. I am young, but I am responsible for my own orgasm for many years.”

“Oh, okay, then,” and Sam was blushing like a damn fool. “If it’s not the sex, is it—“

“I am Jewish,” Wanda groaned, hiding her face in her hands, well manicured, matte black nails clashing with the sudden mop of her sleek brown hair. “How do I tell him this—?”

“Wait, your wanna-be-boyfriend’s an agender, asexual android from outer space and you’re worried he won’t, what, keep kosher—?”

“Sam, I am not kosher. Have you seen the way me and Yasha eat? I love sea food. Also cheeseburgers. With bacon. Lots of bacon,” she iterated. “Bacon is delicious.”

“So you’re non-observant—“

“Not orthodox,” Wanda corrected. “Not same thing.”

“Right. Right. You’re a Sokovian, Jewish Romani Mutant Avenger who’s worried about broaching the subject of romance because your guy’s not, what—“ Baptized? Sam thought unhelpfully.

“Baptized is the word,” Wanda cut across his thoughts, lifting her brows. “We invented it, you know. You get that from us.”

“Huh,” Sam said. “Didn’t know that.”

“What, you think John Baptist just decides this? Please, Birdman,” she grinned and leaned forward, mischief in her eyes. “We are doing it for century before.”

Sam shook his head. Ran a tired hand through his hair. “Lemme guess. You’re about to go all ‘Jesus was Jewish’ on my dumb black ass.”

“Wow. You are telepathic,” Wanda said in mock surprise, two fingers to her face. “What is with these Catholics, anyways?”

“I know, right?” Sam lets out a weak laugh. “Sprinkling, Popes…hell, they’re even the ones who put the Bible in fucking Latin for sixteen centuries. Like the Romans. You know, the guys who killed Jesus?”

“Wait, I thought Jews do this,” Wanda said, mouth agape in mock surprise. And oh, girl got sarcasm, all right. “That is why you Christians kill us, no?”

Sam threw up his hands. Threw in the towel. “Hey, man. I’m just saying.”

“Well. You say things are ghetto? You get that from us, too,” she winked, and shit, this kid was trouble. Would give Sarah “Gonna Laugh At Your Dumb Black Ass All Day” Wilson-Carson  a run for her money. He kept forgetting she was raised in a HYDRA cell orphanage. For mutant child warriors. By a brain-washed Barnes. And yeah, judging by that, he’d say Yasha’s sense of humor was actually worse. “You are welcome.”

And Sam didn’t know whether to laugh or run the hell away. If Sam’s brain had any say in it, he was voting buy at one-way ticket to Tasmania and get the fuck outta here.

“No, stay,” Wanda groaned, Sam's chair scraping back into position. “Drink tea. Pretend I am normal teenager. Now help me with boy problems.”

And that, boys and girls, is the story how Samuel Thomas “Oh Hell No” Wilson, Beta son of a Baptist minister, found himself drawing the short straw and nominated to explain the concept of tevilah to an agender, asexual, artificially created sentient atheist android from outer fucking space. Because, as Wanda explained, "He will not understand and he will think is stupid and he will say is illogical and I will get angry and we will argue and it will be like talking with this Mr. Spock and I will hate it and I will hate him and we will both be angry at each other and I can't ask Yasha because Yasha would laugh and then lecture me and then kill him I know he is Vision but Yasha is Yasha,” she said all in one breath. “He would find way.”

...Oh, Great.