#sve2018

The baseball game reached a break in innings. Wanda leaned over to Vision and said, “I’m going to the restroom. I’ll be right back.” He nodded, smiling at her.

She walked down the steps to the concourse. She passed a concession stand and a gift shop, careful to keep her head down when she passed any cameras. As usual there was an impossibly long line for the women’s restroom. She walked a little farther and came to another where there were fewer people.

As Wanda was walking back toward their seats, she caught sight of the jumbotron. There was a giant heart on the screen, and the camera was panning the crowd, looking for a likely couple. She froze when she saw that it landed on Vision and the woman sitting next to him. Wanda hadn’t really noticed her when they sat down, but now that she saw the woman on a big screen, Wanda realized that she did look like a perfect match for Vision. She was tall, blonde, statuesque, and beautiful. Wanda imagined that she might run marathons, and her easy smile spoke of a carefree nature.

Vision, on the other hand, looked panicked when he saw himself on screen. He glanced around for Wanda, but he turned to the stranger when he saw that she was nowhere to be found. The chants of the crowd calling for them to kiss were growing louder and more insistent. The woman could clearly see Vision’s worry as well because she merely kissed him gently on the cheek and turned back to her friends. People in the crowd voiced their disappointment, but their grumbles faded as the camera moved on to its next victims.

Wanda finally worked her way back to her seat. Vision turned to her. He was smiling, but she could see the residue of his earlier fear. The rest of the game passed uneventfully; she pulled him from his seat shortly before it ended to beat the crowds.

Once they reached the outside of the stadium, they hailed a cab. It took them to a corner of the city near where she was meeting the others. Steve was nervous enough about being back in New York less than a year after going on the run, but he was convinced that this mission was absolutely crucial. Though Steve also insisted that he and Natasha had to do it alone, over Sam and Wanda’s protests. They were pulling out within a few more hours, so Wanda decided to take advantage of what little time she had. When she had let Vision know that she would be in the area, he readily agreed to meet her and suggested the game.

As she waited for the order to meet, Wanda pulled Vision into a pizza shop. Keeping hold of his hand, Wanda determined that she would not dwell on her unfounded feelings of jealousy over someone else kissing Vision’s cheek. He deserved to have that. She wanted him to have that. Besides, her rare alone time with Vision was not something she was willing to sacrifice to negativity.

She chewed her pizza slowly, but it had lost its flavor. Outside, people streamed past the shop. Couples were holding hands, and parents were dragging small children along or running after them. Other people were looking down at their phones or listening to music, strolling along with the appearance of having all the time in the world. Wanda wondered if she would ever have the chance to walk through a crowd so carefree again.

When she finished eating, they walked out and headed toward a nearby park to have a little space to themselves. The park was mercifully empty on this early spring day. It felt like a reprieve to be out in nature, wandering aimlessly through the greenery. Wanda still kept her cap pulled low on her forehead. Forcing herself to maintain a light tone, she asked Vision, “So, what did you think of your first baseball game?”

“Truthfully, aside from analyzing the physics and trigonometry necessary to determine the proper angles for throwing and hitting the baseball to obtain the desired results, I found it quite boring.” She noted the frown furrowing the designs laid into his brows.  Wanda could feel the shame emanating from him. She did not think that she had ever heard him admit disliking something so candidly. It was heart-warming that Vision was growing comfortable enough with his preferences, or with her, to be honest.

She laughed. “That’s fair. It’s mostly just guys standing around.”

He nodded slightly. “Although I did enjoy spending the day with you.”

“Me too, Vizh.” At the sound of her quiet agreement, his smile grew wider. Unwilling as Wanda was to bring up the subject, an irresistible curiosity overtook her. “And what did you think of your first kiss?” She grinned up at him. “That is, I’m assuming it was your first kiss.” She continued walking down the path, knowing that he would follow her.

***

Vision had the odd sensation of his synthetic stomach flipping over as he hurried after her. The mood had changed since Wanda had returned toward the end of the game. Wanda was still acting amiably enough, but he had grown sufficiently accustomed to human interactions, and to her reactions specifically, to recognize a shift. He could not properly decipher what the change was, but it felt like a blanket of unease had fallen over their earlier cheerfulness.

Perhaps her observation was the source of the shift. “You saw that?” She nodded, just a tad guiltily. “It was my first kiss.” Vision pursed his lips at that new thought. He had never imagined that he would have a first kiss, nonetheless with a stranger. “I was not in favor of it. The woman sitting next to us seemed perfectly nice, but I had no desire to be that intimate with a complete stranger. Moreover, it seems inherently wrong to do so for the sake of appeasing a crowd.” He fancied that he could still feel the kiss on his skin, slightly clammy and cooler than his usual temperature. His flinch must have been visible to the woman because she had merely given him an apologetic smile and turned away.  

They came across a bench, and Wanda pulled him down to sit on it. Her smile fell as she considered their joined hands, and her eyes turned sad. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. When Vision considered the magnitude of human suffering in the world, he could not weigh the opportunity to choose his first kiss as significant. “It is a small loss, all things considered.”

“You’re still allowed to be upset about it.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. The camera operators probably would have thought we were together.”

“Would you have wanted them to think that?” Interested as he was to hear her answer, he knew it was ultimately good that she had chosen that time to walk away. It would not do to have Wanda’s image projected across the whole stadium. It was too dangerous to come here as it was; he would never forgive himself if she were discovered because of where they chose to meet.

It was her turn to shrug. “I wouldn’t have minded. Would it have bothered you less if it were me?”

“Significantly less,” though privately he felt that his level of panic would likely have been the same, though tinged with excitement instead of worry. “But I would never want you to kiss me out of a sense of obligation.” Her smile, which Vision assumed was meant to be reassuring, took on an out-of-place note of amusement. It unsettled him just as it intrigued him.

He was disturbed by his now unusual failure to read her intentions, and he wanted only to understand her. His judgment was only hampered by the remnants of his alarm at being projected on a screen in front of the whole stadium. The predicament was wholly unexpected. Vision’s only relief arose from the fact that only Wanda knew of his human disguise.

His usual calm was impossible to maintain when he thought back to that moment, the remembered panic clouding his mind. Moreover, Vision still felt a lingering shame at his admission that he did not enjoy the game. All aspects of humanity were fascinating. If anything, watching the crowd at the game should have been fascinating, from the various attire worn to the way the group’s excitement built on itself to lead to new collective behavior. Though something was still lacking. He shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts as he had seen his teammates do, although he recognized that it was a fairly illogical gesture.

Vision wished to think ahead and not dwell on this confusing, though enjoyable day. “Do you know when I may be able to visit you next?”

Wanda didn’t answer immediately, instead she looked away. “I think we should stop meeting.”

“Why should we not meet any longer?” His thoughts froze. He did not understand Wanda’s sudden rethinking of their rendezvous. Despite the slight pall over the afternoon, she had given no indication that she had grown tired of seeing him. She had said that she enjoyed spending time with him.

“You’re risking a lot by meeting up with me, Vision. If the UN ever found out, you’d be arrested for violating the Accords.”

“We have been careful, Wanda.” Vision thought of all the effort and secrecy put into his human disguise, the occasional security camera scrubbed, and their scrupulous attention to secure methods of communication.

“Maybe, but it’s still risky. Even more than that, I want you to have a chance at a normal life. With this disguise, you could learn more about humanity close up. You could go on a date, travel, make new friends outside the Avengers.”

“Exploring humanity is what I have been doing with you, Wanda. I cannot thank you enough for your help in teaching me.” Vision continued, willing her to understand, “There is also the fact that none of these people would be likely to accept me in my natural state. You are the only person who has fully accepted me as I am.”

Tears were welling up in Wanda’s eyes, but her smile was genuine. “You’re the best student, Vizh. It’s been my pleasure to help you.” She looked down at the ground. “But meeting up in secret, hiding, not even being able to talk on the phone most times is not normal.” She stood abruptly and pulled her hand from his. His body mirrored hers, although he was unaware of having made the decision to stand. “I’m sorry our meeting had to end this way, but I think it’s for the best. I have to head toward the rendezvous point.” She began to walk away. He had to stop her; they couldn’t leave their interaction like this.

“Wait, Wanda.” She turned to him. Her mouth was still set in a thin line. Her posture was defensive, hunched in on itself. “Are you upset with me?” He approached her slowly, uncertain what to do with his hands. Vision’s hands almost reached out to her of their own accord, but he put them in his pockets instead.

Wanda shook her head. “Not at all, Vizh.”

“Forgive me, but it seems that you are.” She did not typically shy away from expressing disagreement with him, but it was also seldom that he displeased her.

“I’m not upset with you; I’m just worried about us.” Moving a few steps away from him, Wanda folded her arms across herself, still half turned away from him.

Vision regarded her intently. She was more closed off, both mentally and physically, than he had sensed since the days immediately after Novi Grad and Lagos. “You have listed some of your particular concerns, but I do not understand. I do not share them, and you have not mentioned any concerns that you have for yourself.”

“I don’t have any for myself.” Wanda’s denial was forceful and immediate.

Her reply answered every doubt in Vision’s mind. “Then there is no reason to discontinue our meetings.”

She looked like she was prepared to offer more arguments, but the fight left her in a rush of breath. “Are you sure?”

“Most definitely.” Vision spoke not only out loud, but also in her mind. He did not take the restoration of their mental link, just re-established during the course of this visit for the first time since she left the compound with Clint, for granted.

Her grin returned full force, and he was astonished at the strength of it. “Oh, and Vizh?” He nodded for her to continue. “If I had kissed you for the camera back there, trust me, it wouldn’t have been because I felt I had to.” His words and logic and fine motor skills deserted him, leaving him mute and gaping slightly. The alarm on Wanda’s phone suddenly beeped insistently. She removed it from her pocket, glancing down at it worriedly. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready to leave yet, but I really do have to go now.”

He responded automatically, “Of course.” But Vision followed his earlier desire to take her hand. Her smile turned tentative at the edges. “Just one more moment, please.” She looked at him expectantly. He had not planned what he would do or say next, wanting anything to prolong their visit. The answer came to him from the depths of his unexamined wishes.

Vision’s other functions gradually returned to him. He leaned down and hesitantly touched his lips to hers. Wanda’s smile as he pulled away stemmed the tide of apologies that threatened to spill from his lips. “You are the only person I am interested in kissing.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time, Vizh.” She raised herself up to kiss his cheek, in the same spot that the stranger had. “I promise we’ll talk soon. Bye for now.”

Vision sat stock still, the way that unnerved most people with its inhumanness. He could’ve gone through the motions of breathing, shifting in his seat, blinking, and glancing around, but he was alone, here in Wanda’s old room, so there wasn’t anyone else to consider.

He usually tried to stay away from Wanda’s bedroom, both because he wished to ensure his connection to her remained as inconspicuous as possible, and because something about it felt oddly invasive. He could still hear the echoes of “Knock, Vizh!” and though he knew he no longer had to worry about walking in on her naked, being alone somewhere so intrinsically tied to Wanda without her knowledge or consent didn’t appeal to his sense of propriety.

Today, however, that essence of Wanda was exactly what he was trying to capture. He’d given a lot of thought to her feelings of losing herself and had come to the conclusion that he had to do something about it.

It was honestly no wonder Wanda was feeling frustrated. On the run like she was, she couldn’t look like herself, she couldn’t sound like herself, she couldn’t dress like herself, she couldn’t be herself. One’s identity is tied to one’s appearance, as Vision himself learned when he set about developing his human disguise.

But this wasn’t about him. It was about Wanda.

The first step, naturally, was to figure out exactly what made Wanda feel like herself. After that, he could attempt to integrate those elements into her fugitive life in a way that wouldn’t put her in danger.

Vision closed his eyes and thought about Wanda. He thought about her smile, her laugh, the many different looks in her eyes. He visualized her fingers dancing through the air, the light of her own scarlet power glinting off her rings. The way she hummed when she was preoccupied, and the slight furrowing of her brow whenever Mr. Stark said something obnoxious. 

The way she talked of her home, of the years before the bomb, of her mother teaching her to cook and her father teaching her to dance, of Pietro impish pranks and her grandmother's pet cat. 

The flash of scarlet in her eyes when she mentions the Sokovian civil war, or the communists, or the Nazis. How civil unrest stole her grandfather from her long before it took her parents. Living on the streets, stealing to survive, barely feeling any shame for it, and the shame she feels now, years later. The sad fondness that overtakes her whenever Pietro's overprotectiveness would come up, and the fierce anger at any implication that Sokovia wasn't worth the effort, that rebuilding it was a waste, that maybe this would teach that backward nation a lesson. 

Wanda loved her country, despite everything, and ultimately, she'd given up everything for it. The struggle to make Sokovia a better place had taken her parents, her home, then her freedom, her humanity, and if that wasn't enough, it took her brother, too. 

And she still loved her country, and she still saw it as part of her identity, inseparable from herself. 

Vision opened his eyes. 

He knew what he needed to do.

Vision walked the streets of Novi Grad, clad in his human disguise, doing his best to blend in. He hadn’t seen Novi Grad before Ultron, so he had no firsthand knowledge of the city as Wanda had known it, however before this trip he did as much researching as he could. He wanted to be able to recognize the differences as Wanda would see them, if she was ever able to come back here.

A part of him felt bad for coming without her. She occasionally spoke about bringing him, to show him a place from her childhood, only to remember that it had probably been destroyed along with everything else. Unfortunately, however, if he wanted to get the information he needed, a trip to Novi Grad was the only way, short of asking Wanda herself, which would of course ruin the surprise.

Vision headed away from the city center. According to his research, the best place to glimpse true Sokovian culture was on the outskirts of the city where the damage had been lighter. After the Ultron crisis, nations from all over the world had banded together to rebuild Sokovia, and so far, things were looking up for its citizens. They even had a budding tourist economy based around the battle with Ultron.

That was all well and good, but Vision wasn’t sure Wanda would appreciate a Tony Stark bobblehead that was likely made in China.

After only twenty minutes of walking, he found himself in a much more residential area. There was a bakery to his right, flanked by a brewery on one side and a pharmacy on the other. People were out and about—not as many as he’d seen in other part of the city, but enough to imply that this was a well-traveled area.

He supposed there was nothing else for it except to attempt to strike up a conversation with someone. That was why he was here, after all, but he was suddenly rather nervous.

He scanned the people he saw, deciding eventually to approach one of the men, aware that a strange, foreign man walking up to a woman on the street usually indicated sinister motives. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten someone.

“Excuse me, sir?” he said in accented Sokovian. He was capable of speaking the language perfectly, but for the part he was playing, he needed to seem like an outsider.

The man looked up, distrust evident in his eyes. It appeared that there really weren’t many visitors in this part of town. “Yes?”

“I was wondering about Sokovian culture,” Vision said as smoothly as he could in his accented voice. “Do you know where I could get that information?”

The man’s eyes widened. He clearly hadn’t been expecting that kind of query. “That’s a broad topic.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Vision conceded.

“Are you a professor or something?” the man asked, still carefully appraising him.

“No, nothing like that.” Vision shook his head, belatedly realizing that would have been an excellent cover story. “See, my girlfriend is from Novi Grad, she had to move after the incident, and—” he explained the predicament, and exactly what he was trying to accomplish.

“Oh.” The man paused. “Huh. Well, I’d check out the bakery. Katinka, the girl who works there, she can tell you a lot, and if she can’t, then her grandmother will be able to.” He looked Vision up and down a final time. “Just don’t interfere with business, and I’m sure they will help you.”

Vision looked in the direction the man indicated. “Thank you very much, sir. Have a nice day.”

“You too.” The man walked off, shaking his head.

Vision entered the bakery hesitantly. He didn’t want to detract from business, but generally avoided buying or eating food, as a rule. The bakery was currently empty, however, so he didn’t feel quite as bad about taking up the woman’s time.

She was behind the counter, busy wrapping up various pastries and breads. “Can I help you?” she asked, glancing up.

Vision briefly explained his goals once again. The woman put down her parcels of food.

“Wow. That’s so sweet.” She smiled. “I’d be happy to help! My name is Katinka.”

“Victor,” Vision said smoothly, using the alias he’d adopted for visiting Wanda.

“Nice to meet you, Victor.” Katinka leaned in conspiringly. “I’m really not supposed to do this—my grandmother would kill me if she found out—but I can give you our family recipes, if you want.”

Vision nodded so enthusiastically he began to feel dizzy. “That would be wonderful!”

“Okay, well, the first thing you do is—” Katinka stopped. “Oh, do you need to write this down?”

“I will remember,” Vision said confidently.

Katinka looked skeptical, but didn’t argue with him. “All right. The first thing you do is . . .”

Vision did remember Katinka’s instructions. He remembered them in the same vivid detail that he remembered everything else that had ever happened to him. That wouldn’t be of any help to him, however, if the dough continued to be uncooperative.

He should’ve practiced.

After leaving Katinka’s bakery full of confidence and gratitude, he’d managed to track down the other people she’d suggested, her grandmother and uncle. They were all very helpful, and Vision had thought that everything was going wonderfully. The cabbage soup was simmering, he’d successfully fried the topinky bread (though he was concerned about the large amount of garlic Katinka had told him to use), and the schnitzel was far easier than he’d expected after Katinka’s grandmother’s demonstration.

The trouble came, however, when he tried to make the buchty for dessert. The sweet dumpling, as Katinka had explained, was usually filled with a fruit confit, but he hadn’t even gotten started on that yet, because the dough was just not working!

The consistency was all wrong. Perhaps it needed some more flour? Vision turned, grabbing the bag of flour with one hand, but his other hand was covered in sticky bits of dough. He tried to gently shake it off, and when that didn’t work, scraped his fingers on the edge of the bowl. It only occurred to him later that if he’d simply phased his hand and let the dough fall off, he could’ve avoided what happened next.

In his frustration with the dough, he involuntarily squeezed the open bag of flour in his other hand, causing a puff of the white powder to envelop his face. This in turn, surprised him so much that the bag slipped from his fingers and hit the ground, spilling flour all over the floor. Vision stood frozen in the mess, filled with the overwhelming urge to laugh at his misfortune. Before he could decide on the appropriate response, however, he heard the sounds of the front door opening.

Wanda was home.

"Vizh?" Wanda opened the door to her small Edinburgh apartment, trying to push down her budding excitement. "Is that you?" She knew it was him, she could sense his mind from blocks away, but he wasn't supposed to be here for another week. 

"Wanda?" Vision's voice came from around the corner, and the slight panic in his mind made her pause in the door. "You're back earlier than—” He appeared in front of her, phasing through part of the wall. He took a deep breath like he was steading himself and smiled at her. "Hello.”

"Hi." Wanda held back a giggle and threw her arms around his neck. "What are you doing here?" she murmured into the fabric of his sweater. She pulled back, her brain finally registering the rest of his attire. "And why are you wearing an apron? Are you cooking?"

"I—well," Vision rubbed the back of his neck. "I was trying to—"

"To cook for me?" Wanda interrupted excitedly, beaming. 

Vision nodded, looking down. "Certain things didn't work the way I anticipated, plus you arrived early, so—"

"Can I help?" Wanda interrupted again. "Or not, if you would rather this be one of those things you do for me by yourself."

"Your aid would be much appreciated."

Wanda grinned, throwing her arms around him again. "You're the best, you know that?"

"You’ve yet to see the kitchen," Vision deflected.

"What did you do to the kitchen?" Wanda pushed past him into the other room, grabbing his hand and pulling him with her.

She froze in the door, staring, her mouth falling open.

There was flour all over the place, the floor, the cabinets, the counter, plus a glob of some kind of dough on the wall that Vision had phased through. She figured that the mess was one of the things that Vision hadn't anticipated, but she barely noticed any of it. She was too caught up in what assaulted the rest of her senses.

Vision shifted uncomfortably, misinterpreting her silence. He stepped forward to pick up the bag of flour. "I apologize for the mess. I was—"

"What’s that smell, Vizh?" Wanda's shoulders were tense, and she knew Vision could see it, and she knew she should reassure him that she wasn't upset, but the scent of those spices and the sight of those ingredients were bringing tears to her eyes and the last thing she wanted was for him to think he made her cry when he was such a sweetheart for attempting to do this in the first place.

Vision clearly didn't know what to do, eyes flicking from Wanda to the kitchen and back again. “Uh, well, I made topinky, cabbage soup, and schnitzel. I was attempting buchty, but as you can see, that didn’t go according to plan.”

Wanda whirled around to face him, throwing herself in his arms for the third time. "I love you," she breathed, unable to come up with any other coherent thought. “I love you so much.”

Vision stiffened, arms still around Wanda, but there was no hesitation in his words. "I love you, too, Wanda."

Wanda kissed him, staying in his arms for as long as she could before she had to pull away. "Why—I mean, what made you decide to—" she waved her hand helplessly at the counter. 

Vision looked uncomfortable again. "You seemed like you could use a taste of home."

Wanda smiled, tears pricking her eyes again. "Thank you, Vizh."

“Of course.”

Wanda examined Vision’s first batch of dough. “I hate to say it, babe, but this seems unsalvageable.”

Vision nodded. “I figured as much.” He crouched down and began sweeping the spilled flour into piles with his hands.

“You know that I can get all of that?” Wanda snapped her fingers, letting out a spark of red. “If you’d like.”

“Be my guest.” Vision stood, giving her a ‘go ahead’ gesture.

She smiled, setting down the bowl. This would be harder than most things she manipulated, but if she could extract a cloud of gas from a building, she could clean up a little flour.

A sweep of her hands and few flicks of her fingers, and delicate wisps of red were plucking at the grains of flour, gathering them together into a dust-cloud in the middle of the room. When she was sure she had it all, she sent it flying into the trash can, closing the lid with a satisfying clang.

Wanda turned to Vision, grinning. “Nothing to it.”

“It would appear not.” Vision smiled back at her, and then hesitated like there was something else he wanted to say.

“Yes?” Wanda asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I was going to wait to give these to you,” Vision reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small bag. Wanda recognized it instantly, and her eyes widened. “I thought that there wouldn’t be any harm in rescuing a few of your belongings from the compound. These seemed small enough to go unnoticed.”

Wanda stumbled forward and took the bag from him, fingers trembling as she undid the drawstring and let the contents tumble into her hand. It was her rings, all of them, the ones she’d been wearing when she’d been arrested and the ones she’d left in her room. She put them on immediately, and then laughed, pulling them off again.

“Is everything all right?” Vision asked nervously.

“Yes, don’t worry.” Wanda pressed a kiss onto his lips. “I just can’t cook with all the rings on.”

“Oh, right.” Vision looked embarrassed, and Wanda giggled. He gestured to the ingredients on the counter. “Shall we?”

“Absolutely.”

Cooking was much more enjoyable when Wanda was there to help. It frustrated Vision no end that he couldn't seem to master it, but Wanda's assurances that even many humans are terrible cooks did somewhat mollify him. The food turned out delicious, according to Wanda. He declined to have any so that Wanda would have plenty of leftovers for the rest of the week, but she did make him try a taste of each dish, and he had to admit that the palate was unlike anything he’d tried before.

Vision dried the last of the dishes as Wanda arranged the leftovers in the fridge, humming to herself. Vision figured this was as good a time as any to bring up the next item on his agenda. 

"Wanda?"

"Hmm?" Her head was still in the tiny fridge, shoving things around.

"What song is that? You hum it often."

"Oh." Wanda straightened, letting the fridge door swing shut. "Uh, just something my dad used to listen to. An old Sokovian folk song. I don't really remember the words."

"Would you like to hear it?" Vision asked, producing a small CD player from where he’d stashed it in the cabinet.

"What?" Wanda cocked her head to the side. "There's no way that you—"

Vision pressed play. 

The familiar melody filled the air. Vision was impressed at how well Wanda had been reproducing it after all these years. 

She was silent while the song played, but she didn't try to stop the tears from falling this time. 

Vision paused the CD before the next track could play, the anxious knot in his stomach now a familiar sensation. 

"How did you do that?" Wanda breathed, "Where did you—"

"There was an old street performer in Novi Grad. He claimed to play nearly forgotten music, so I asked him about the song you always sing. It took some time, but he finally figured out which one I meant. He made a CD with that song, and others he thought you might know, and—" Vision reached into the cabinet again, fumbling slightly. Wanda twirled her fingers, and took the CD player from him with a few curls of scarlet, freeing his hands. "And he wrote down the sheet music, so you can learn to play them, if you want. I would have gotten you an instrument—I know you used to play guitar—but I wasn't sure what would be the most appropriate—"

"Vizh." Wanda said quietly, still balancing the CD player with her powers. "I'm so confused. Why did—How—When did you go to Novi Grad?”

The frustration in her voice and the tears still lingering on her face made Vision rapidly rethink his plan. Unfortunately, it was far too late to turn back now.

"Well, I guess—" He stumbled over the words. "Can we go sit down, and I'll explain?"

Wanda nodded, pulling the CD player towards her and cradling it to her chest as she followed him to the couch. 

Vision waited until she was sitting comfortably with her feet curled under her, facing him. She was still clutching the CD player, but Vision took that as a good sign. He templed his fingers in his lap, staring down at them.

"I guess the simplest explanation is that I wanted you to know that you didn't have to completely give up your identity—whether that's your culture, or your personality, or anything else about you—just because you're a fugitive. You can still interact with all of these aspects that make you feel like yourself," Vision explained quietly. “So, I took a trip to Novi Grad to see if I could find something to help you feel better. I met a very nice woman who taught me to bake. Her grandmother taught me to cook, and her uncle was the street performer I mentioned.”

Wanda let out a breath. "Vizh, that's—I—" She broke off helplessly, holding out a hand towards his head. "Can I—?”

"Of course."  Vision leaned closer, always welcoming a stronger connection with her, especially when she was articulating complicated emotions. 

A few drops of red crossed the distance between her fingertips and his forehead, and then he was hit with a wave of warmth, and love, and gratitude, and just a hint of unworthiness, all jumbled together with confusion that anyone would go to all this trouble for her. 

"It's not silly," Vision said immediately, picking up on the errant thought that she had been making a fuss over nothing. "There's nothing silly or inconsequential about your feelings, Wanda." He could tell she didn't quite believe him, or thought he didn't quite understand what she meant, so he persisted. "You think that your feelings of losing your identity were unfounded and ridiculous, and that's simply not the case."

Wanda shrugged, looking away. "I guess, but they certainly weren't worth all this."

"Of course they were," Vision insisted, grabbing her hands and bringing them to his lips. "Darling, you're the one who's always telling me that my feelings are valid, no matter what they are, and I want to show you that yours are as well."

Wanda was crying again. She pulled one of her hands back to swipe at her cheeks, and Vision reached out to cradle her face between his hands, wiping the tears away for her. "I apologize if this was too much. I don't think I've quite got the hang of what is an appropriate gesture. I just want you to know that—as you always tell me—whatever you're feeling is important to me. I want to do what I can to make you happy. Always."

Wanda cracks a smile at the specificity of the statement, his mind so vast and yet during their clandestine meetups it collapses to only reach out as far as what they are doing in the present, disregarding any subtext of a time further than now. “We’ll go back soon.”

A nod and a bump of his shoulder confirms his desire to do just that, “I believe that is for the best,” his voice shifts to being overly concerned, a tone that has been increasingly common for the past several weeks, “I do not believe it is in your best interest to develop pneumonia again.”

Wanda shrugs. In her opinion, the downsides of being sick were far outweighed by other factors. “Got you to stay with me for longer.”

“Yes,” a tiny smile sparks a small, welcomed ember in her chest, “though it also almost led to my discovery.”

“You act like Nat hasn’t pieced us together yet.” Sneaking around is never what either of them wanted as a basis of their relationship, which is why it was almost a godsend when Nat confronted her months ago. Anger mixed with disbelief and betrayal, but in the end was a hope, a guarded, questionable hope, one that allowed for an understanding to be reached that so long as Wanda was safe and checked in when required, she could be happy. Despite this, Vision still insists on never crossing paths with the other rogue Avengers. Likely worried that the pressure of lying about seeing four people would be too much. Giving vague and unhelpful answers to Ross about his time “searching” for her has already taken its toll on his demeanor, she’d never ask him to add to that responsibility. Wanda veers their thoughts from that particular topic, determined to make the most of their rendezvous. “When I started pestering Steve about a beach getaway, this wasn’t really what I meant.”

Vision glances down at her, then to the desolate stretches of sand, before finally settling his gaze on the angry, icy sea. “Though not ideal, tactically this is smarter. During the summer there are upwards of 2 million people in this city-“

“I know, Vision.” It’s been a hard set rule of Steve’s that they avoid peak tourism seasons when determining the locations each time they move around. Arguably large crowds could provide more cover, a greater chance to blend in, but it also means more eyes and cameras that might happen to upload one of their faces to Twitter or Instagram. That doesn’t mean Steve had to send her here in November--even September or early October would have less tourists and have the added bonus of potentially being warm enough for a proper beach vacation. “I just had it all planned out and it didn’t involve freezing our asses off.”

“Well,” he removes his hand from the safety of his pocket and wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to nestle in the blissfully warm crook of his arm, “If it were warmer, what did you envision us doing?”

The images of such a dream flash through her mind, all nondescript as to the beach itself, given she had no idea where Steve would send her, but there are commonalities in all beach resort areas. “We would have woken up early,” a disbelieving wrinkle mars his forehead and she nudges him with her shoulder, “earlier than usual, at least. Maybe we’d grab breakfast and buy some snacks and then head to the beach to claim our spot before all the tourists descend.”

“So far we have been successful with your plan.”

Wanda regrets that they are outside because it means she can’t watch his irises spin in delight at the dryness of his sass, so she’ll have to settle for the slight, prideful smirk on his pale face. “Well if you want to continue with the plan, then slap on a speedo and dive right in.” The incredulous silence stretches out for several seconds. She can practically hear the gears in his eyes swishing while he figures out a response, his distaste of immodest clothing in public (for himself, personally. He believes everyone else can decide for themselves what is and is not comfortable to wear in public) is a topic they have discussed at length when she tried to get him to wear shorts over the summer. Wanda happily fills the continued silence, pushing the idea just a touch more by offering him the argument she had already crafted for his inevitable hesitation in the swimwear. “It’s what all the locals wear, you wouldn’t want to stand out.”

“I-” another long pause precedes the cautious, diplomatic cadence of his diverting words, “well it is really, um, an incredibly unfortunate happenstance for us to be here when it is so cold then.” Vision doesn’t allow room for her to comment further or persist in ribbing him on the matter. “What else, did you have in mind?”

“Well, after we had swam and enjoyed the sun,” the latter not even attempting to peek through the clouds for emphasis, instead remaining hidden in its own winter gloom, “we would walk the pier until we got to the end of it where there’s just the sea in front of us and the sun on the waves.”

“Sounds lovely.”

Wanda smiles at the warmth in his voice. “We’d watch the water, talk some more, I’d definitely kiss you-”

“That part of the plan can certainly still happen.”

“And then,” Wanda pulls her hand from its safehaven in her coat so she can wrap her arm around his waist, relishing the tightening of his grip in return, “we’d grab ice cream and go back to the hotel for some alone time before you have to leave.”

She can sense the wistfulness of his mind soaking in the imaginary sun and it almost makes the air around them feel a few degrees warmer. “Perhaps we can salvage some of it.”

“Oh?”

An enthusiastic, mesmerizing grin matches the brightness of his eyes as Vision looks down at her, “I believe there was an ice cream stand open not too far from here and,” he steps away from her and places his leather-gloved hands on her upper arms, “if I can manage to figure out the radiator, we can adjust the temperature in the room to allow for us to pretend it is summer.”

Wanda’s cheeks ache, possibly from the icy wind assaulting her face, but a more probable explanation right now would be the broadness of her smile, “Sounds perfect.”

The ice cream stand is harder to find than Vision’s plan suggested, their search leading them in a meandering labyrinth of cobbled streets and alleys as they investigate every building that has the same pink and brown ice cream cone sculpture. Eventually, after what feels like twenty stops, they come across a lone ice cream vendor.

Wanda’s image of this moment is different from reality, her memory filled with hot summer days and smiling faces handing her ice cream that’s started to ooze down the ridges of the cone, whereas the man shivering behind the glass case is mutely unimpressed by Vision’s very friendly, “ Dzień dobry*.”

A harsh, “What do you want?” is the reply. Wanda laces her fingers through Vision’s, noting the tension in his muscles and preparing for the talk they’ll have later, at how, because of his accent, among other things, he can never pass himself off as a native speaker wherever they are at. She thinks it’s kind of cute, his belief that he could ever mask his proper English accent to fit in, but she also sympathizes given her own experiences of trying (and failing) to not be an “other” in public after moving to New York.

To help with his attempts to blend in, Vision has started eating with her, treating his choices in food like he does everything else -- with a laser focus and a desire to be equitable to all options. What this invariably means is that he is about to ask about every single flavor, combo, sauce, and cone. Given Wanda already knows what she wants (it’s what she gets every time), she responds before Vision gets a chance to read any flavors, “Stracciatella.” A heaping cone is passed over the counter, her tongue happily running through the creamy, chocolate speckled heaven while her eyes turn to take in the tiny, ill-insulated building as Vision mulls over his choices.

It’s a basic ice cream store. The requisite signs about toppings and pictures of beaming beach goers in speedos (something she’ll kindly direct Vision’s attention to while they eat) lining the walls. There’s a section of the far wall with postcards and fading pictures with autographs. One catches her eye, a recollection of those faces surfacing though she can’t quite place it until she notices a melody in the air. The music is different from the usual happy, bubblegum pop of these places. The song playing from a speaker behind the glass case curves her lips up, the fast paced, punk sound unmistakable. This was one of Pietro’s favorites and she hasn’t heard it in a long time. Wanda makes a mental note to have Vision listen to Hladno Pivo later, even if he’ll dislike it, most likely critiquing the harshness of the vocals and the clashing of the instruments. “And what is this one?” Vision’s voice draws her attention back to the counter where he’s pointing at another flavor and the man, knuckles white around the ice cream scoop, is doing his best to not be annoyed at all the questions.

“ Kasztan, it’s uh,” the man waves the scoop as he searches for the word, then he snaps the fingers of his other hand, turning to Wanda, a congenial almost hopeful uptick in his voice as he switches languages, “kesten, ja?”

A tingling in her chest blooms at the question. “It’s um,” Wanda nods her head, trying to close out the song so she can focus on translating the word. “It’s,” the tingle grows into a claw, wrapping its digits around her ribs as bursts of fiery light erupt from her mind. She turns towards Vision, hoping his curious and bright eyes will do what they always do best: calm her. “It’s um chest-,” yet the words fumble out as her breath begins to fail her, the talons of remembrance puncturing her lungs,”-nut”.

Vision’s Interesting fades away, the movements of the ice cream vendor slowing as he spoons out a cone, but Wanda finds she isn’t really there anymore. Instead she is ten again, lungs spasming into coughing fits as she sucks in the fresh air. Pietro is at her side, hand clutching her own, pulling her each time he coughs to get the last of the dust from his body. You would think, after a bombing and numerous rescue missions, that someone would be helping two children in the street, and yet there are terrifying screams coming from the stretchers being carried out of the building that garner all of the attention from the medics and the bystanders. “Dođi,” Pietro tugs her hand but her feet stay firmly planted to the ground, eyes refusing to leave the hole in the building where their home used to be. “Dođi, Wanda, otišli su.**”

Eventually she budges, head hanging low as they wander the city, no one noticing them until a woman stops them several streets over. Pietro handles the conversation, Wanda’s mind far too lost to comprehend what is being said, something about if they need help or if they are hungry. Whatever is said leads to an ice cream cone shoved in her hand, her fingers begrudgingly scrunching around the paper wrapper. Why she has ice cream is a mystery, it’s not a hot day, it’s not a happy day, it’s not even a filling food after days trapped under a bed. A hand waves in front of her eyes, focusing her energy on the beaming, filthy face of Pietro, a beige hued mound of ice cream hovering at her mouth, “To je kesten***”

A frantically quiet, “Wanda?” dissolves Pietro’s smiling face.

Vision waves a hand through the air, brow etched with concern until she nods, swallowing down the rising bile at the memory, refusing to give in to it now, “Yeah?”

“Would you like to eat outside?” It’s not what he actually wants to ask her, not what is coursing through his mind or painted all over his disguised face, but to maintain their cover, it’s the best he has.

“Um,” Wanda stares at the beige ice cream cone in his hand, attempts to nod, but gets distracted by the room closing in, inch by inch, a subtle, unnerving minimizing of the space around her. A numbness spreads through her hands, one that is different than the flow of her powers, and it follows the rapid increase in her heart rate. Deep breaths should work, at least Vision always made her do it in the early days of their friendship. A steady inhale, hold for three seconds, and then an exhale. Repeat as many times as needed. Eyes, she can hear his voice in the distance, as if through a wall, need to be trained on one item. So Wanda looks straight ahead, only to see the damned cone and the trickle of ice cream oozing over the paper wrapper.

Pietro always ate his ice cream fast enough to not let it melt, no matter if they were ten, fifteen, twenty, he always ate it joyfully and quickly. And it was always the same flavor, he refused to eat any ice cream that wasn’t chestnut, they even learned which parlors carried the flavor, on which days, and who they could convince to give them either a free cone or a discounted one. He should be holding that cone right now.

The trickle of despair dripping into her soul suddenly turns into a downpour and she can feel the bullets ripping through his body, her knees ache at the cuts from when she fell--lost, confused, and angry. Years had passed, literal years without Pietro, and she had coped, survived, learned how to move on, yet she needs him back. Desperately wants that constant, to feel his mind, hold his hand. Wanda’s body starts to shake. She closes her eyes, clamping out the image of the cone, breathing in deeply again and again, though it becomes more difficult, the absence of Pietro too much, her soul torn asunder day after day after day without him. She no longer even has the Avengers, doesn’t have the compound, can’t count on Vision to always float through her wall, or get the shit beat out of her at training to distract her. The world hates her, half her former teammates hate her, she’s a wanted fugitive with no prospect of salvation. Much like when she was ten, clutching Pietro’s hand, eating ice cream. Only he’s not here anymore.

Her chest burns, breaths shallow and labored as the world seems to dissolve, the past mixing with the present, taunting her with a blank and empty future, and she can’t determine if she’s ten, if she’s falling with Sokovia, if she’s sleeping in a shelter with Pietro’s arms around her, if she’s back at the compound listening to the soothing lull of an English accent, or if she’s in Poland on a freezing day eating ice cream with her undercover boyfriend.

Only Pietro ever fully understood her when she spoke of separating from reality like this, of getting lost in the sea of memory, where each wave crashing down brings only more confusion. Wanda is falling now, a weightlessness overtaking her, and she closes her eyes as she feels her home plummet from beneath her, heart shattered and body empty, accepting her fate to join Pietro, wherever he went.

There is a feeling of movement, not of free falling, but hovering, her eyes cracking open long enough to see the world morphing around her: walls dropping away, the wind picking up around her head, stirring her hair, her legs swinging freely. There is motion and there is sound, words muffled and muddled so that she isn’t sure if people are screaming for help in the hell of flames, demanding why they are being asked to leave their homes, taunting her on the streets, calling her a criminal and a witch, or even just asking if she is okay. Her senses function like a kaleidoscope, shifting and rotating so that each combination of stimuli produces bursts of distorted experience that masks what exactly is happening or where she is. Wanda closes her eyes tighter, time slipping through her grasp, her fingers grabbing at the strands of her life, instead scrunching into the fabric of whomever is holding her-- maybe it’s Pietro, guiding her to wherever he’s been; maybe it’s Vision saving her from falling with Ultron’s carcass; maybe it’s the guards securing her after another flare up of her newly gifted powers; maybe it could even be her mother, cradling her after a night terror.

There is a chiming and then the world stops moving.

“Wanda?” A voice reaches out to her, calm though fraying at the edges. “Wanda.” Lavender fills her nose and a sweltering heat cocoons her. “Wanda, it is all right.” The ground under her sinks and creaks. Wanda flexes her fingers, digging her nails into a stiff fabric and a fluffy foundation. “Wanda, I made you tea.”  

She opens her eyes a sliver, just enough to confirm she is on a bed, noting a blurry patch of crimson not too far away. A sound attempts to come from her mouth, but her throat is parched, unwilling to function more than a croaked, “Vizh?”

A hand runs through her hair, each stroke diminishing the thoughts, bringing her back to the present. “I am here, Wanda.” It’s enough to vanquish most of the confusion, solidifying which reality she is currently in, yet still her body sinks under the weight of Pietro’s continued absence. “Do you want to discuss it?”

They established a routine in the early months of being Avengers, back when she was still figuring out who he was and what she was after everything, back before she could kiss him whenever she wanted, before she could slip into his mind at any given time, before he held her in a way that wasn’t just for comfort. It’s been a long time since they’ve used it, but clearly he remembers. Step 1: Neutralize the chance of public detection, Step 2: Utilize the calming principles of lavender and chamomile tea. Step 3: Offer to talk. “I-” Wanda tries to sit up but he lightly presses her down, crawling into the bed next to her so that their eyes are level. The gears are back, whirling in a frenzy that clashes with his overall calm demeanor. There’s so much to say, so much of it has already been said, countless times and honestly, she has no desire to talk about all of it again, can’t help but feel embarrassed at still having panic attacks like this. “Kesten was Pietro’s favorite flavor.”

“I see.” All of his empathy and apologies (ones for not being able to stop it sooner, for not being able to save Pietro, for not being able to take this pain away, for them being forced to moonlight as a couple) are wrapped into the two syllables along with a firm, nonjudgmental understanding that she doesn’t want to talk. “Would you like to try muscle relaxation?”

Wanda wants to know who all saw her attack, witnessed her crumbling facade, whether it attracted too much attention, if someone caught a picture and uploaded it somewhere. But he’s already moved them to Step 4: Regain control. Wanda decides to play along knowing there should be plenty of time to interrogate him as to what danger she placed them in. “That sounds nice.”

Unlike all the other times he did this at the compound, Vision wraps his arm around her, placing a chaste, loving kiss to her forehead before starting the process. “We will start with your hands.”

The first time he had her do this, she felt ridiculous, challenged him on it and refused for a time. Eventually he convinced her which soon transformed into her hoping he’d recommend this technique, as it allowed her more time with him and a chance to purposely place all of her attention on his voice. “Ready.”

“Focus on your fingers,” she wiggles them, brushing his stomach in the process, “I am glad you found them.” The smile is easily detected in his tone, but fades quickly as he instructs her. “Now focus on each hand individually, first squeeze your fingers into a fist, noting the tension," Wanda nestles into his chest, following his instructions, bending the fingers of her right hand into a shaking fist.  "Good, now ease your fingers open until there is no tension left.”

Her mind and powers calm as she begins to loosen the control of her grief, her fingers relaxing and dropping down one-by-one in relief. “Right hand good to go.”

A hand brushes through her hair, “Good job. Now your left hand.” She repeats the process, clenching and then unclenching her fingers, exhaling happily once both hands are resting against Vision’s body. The next step is her arms, so she starts to flex her right arm but pauses when Vision hugs her closer, drawing her forehead tenderly to his lips again. Such contact was never included in their routine, yet he seems indifferent to the change, segueing calmingly to the next part, “Well done, Wanda. Now-”

She stares into his eyes, awed at the twists and turns of life that brought this man to her and how he can so easily transition her from an all encompassing loss to the feeling of butterflies in her stomach.  “You’re changing the protocol.”

“I, um,” Vision frowns, not an upset or angry gesture, but a contemplative and shy move as he runs his fingers along her back, “thought such a gesture might aid in your relaxation. Perhaps a rewards based system of motivation.”

The timidness that fueled each touch and word in the early days of their not-quite-friendship-but-not-quite-lovers relationship has fallen away over the last year, giving way to this new, still cautious, but more confident side of Vision. Wanda grins, “I think it sounds helpful. Want to keep going?”

The half-arc of his lips is radiant, “Yes, now your arms.” He scoots away from her, leaving enough room for her to follow his instructions, “tighten your right bicep, drawing your forearm up.”

“Welcome to the gun show, Vizh.” It’s a joke he didn’t comprehend the first five times she used it, but now he simply smiles, head shaking as he watches her flex her muscles before releasing her arm to lay back down along her side. Then she repeats the action, and the joke, on the other side before Vision moves back, their chests touching as he lays another kiss on her forehead. “Next?”

They move through her body, his even commands guiding her to raise her shoulders up to touch her ears and then lower them into a peaceful state. He kisses her forehead with another “Good job.” Wanda sucks in a deep breath, creating tension in her lungs, only this time it’s under her control and Vision’s supervision, not a sense of gasping but a sense of order, her breath releasing against his face, causing him to blink rapidly before bestowing her reward. Her stomach collapses in and then expands out in time with his voice, only she pushes it farther than she's supposed to, bumping him with her body which leads to a quiet laugh as he kisses her again. “Lastly, Wanda," Vision holds her close, their foreheads touching as he talks, "squeeze your left thigh and curl your toes, then release.” Wanda sighs as she finishes the exercise, body sinking into the mattress, not because of grief anymore, but a sense serenity and contentment.  

Several minutes pass in silence, only the slight buzz from the radiator and the even rhythm of Vision’s breathing filling the air around her with a pleasing warmth. Having allowed her time to bask in her relaxation, Vision tiptoes into his next comment, “I am sorry.”

“For what?”

He shifts slightly, the springs complaining until he settles, lips pursed and eyes twisting in anxiety, “That the day did not match your expectations.”

None of her beachy daydreams included this moment, this is undoubtedly true, yet Wanda finds herself content to be wrapped in his arms, cuddled close on a freezing day. “It’s not your fault, Vizh. The day wasn’t horrible.”

“Not horrible is a poor benchmark for a day when we get so few together.”

Wanda grins at him, freeing her left arm from his embrace enough to draw her hand down his face, watch as his eyes flutter shut at the touch. For all that she has lost, all that she will lose in the future, she’s overjoyed that amongst all of that she has found him. “Well, there’s still time for you to fix the radiator and slap on a speedo.” He kisses her, stifling her laugh and distracting her from the world and all its cruelties for just a bit longer.