This was based on the new teaser with Wanda accessing the Mindstone and looking concerned. Also, my last speculative fic for Infinity War is wrong, so I thought I'd throw another one out there with the exact same chance of success. :D
AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13587864
She’s only a quarter of the way through her tea when Vision lays his unfinished sudoku on the mattress and leaves the bed. He’s been restless the past three days, at least more so than usual. It’s taken time for him to adjust to their new life, of sneaking around, meeting in new cities every few weeks, wearing disguises to go undetected, but he, for the most part, seemed at peace with the hectic lifestyle until they arrived in Edinburgh. Wanda sips her tea as her eyes trail along with his path, lips pinching into amusement at the way the soft glow of the table side lamp catches the vibranium of his bare feet and ankles, but then the richness and texture of his skin pales, morphing into his “normal” face once he reaches the window. A flourish of his arms parts the curtains and Wanda glances down, attempting to allow him whatever brooding space he needs, though her eyes dart up every three seconds to assess his mood via the slope of his shoulders. Four purposelessly paced, languid sips of tea demarcate the time between him processing whatever new worry has occurred and her stepping in to sooth it away. “You know Vizh.” Her fingers curl nonchalantly around the mug as she waits for him to swivel his body, a silent question in the cock of his head to the right. “The bed is so much warmer with you in it.”
A tiny, impish yet embarrassed smirk scrunches his eyes, this closeness new, this utterly divine change in their relationship a path they had been on for some time but both had feared was over when she was shipped to the Raft. But they found each other again. “I did not wish to tarnish the atmosphere of the bed with my concerns.”
A haze of scarlet guides the mug to the nightstand as Wanda shoves the duvet from her lap, stretching her legs and curling her toes in preparation of leaving the long, delightful night next to him, and then she stands. The room is spacious, nothing extravagant, yet the walk to him feels extended, each step slow and measured creating a sense of crossing a gaping chasm as opposed to a quaint, richly decorated hotel room. Once she reaches him, her hands connect with his body, one snaking up and down his right arm while the other rests firmly on his left shoulder. Given the ambiguity of how long they can persist in their clandestine meetings, she capitalizes on every chance to touch him and confirm he is here, that he is real. “What’s wrong?”
She is not alone in this need for intimacy, his own hands lifting to curve around her waist, fingers cinching the fabric of her nightshirt as she stares at him, waiting for some response. “I do not,” a confused sigh and a small shake of his head cause her to grip him more firmly, “fully know.”
Vision’s eyes drop, glaze over as he thinks, and Wanda readjusts her stance to pull him closer, draws her hand away from him long enough to cup his face and use her thumb to work soothing circles into his cheek. “You can tell me.”
“I am afraid the terminology does not exist to accurately provide a summation.” Usually such redirection from him is playful, but this is deadly serious and her hands itch to delve into his mind. “You may, if you like.”
“Wanda,” the way he says her name, the precisely enunciated w and the full bodied an followed by the uptick in his tone when finishing on the da , is just as exhilarating today as it was the first time he tested her name on his tongue. “I can feel you reaching.”
A tepid blush accompanies the flash of embarrassment at his verbalizing of her desires and the knowing, sightly wistful gleam in his eyes at catching her. Wanda tries to come back just as carefree, “If you insist.”
Her hand remains on his face as scarlet licks at her fingers but then he shakes his head, his long, sure fingers wrapping around her wrist and guiding her hand to hover over his forehead where the Mindstone lays dormant under his facade. “It is not my mind that is troubled.”
The last time she accessed the Mindstone is still harrowingly salient, a crushing sorrow that was heavier and left a deeper mark than his body did in the floor. It was a moment of survival, of pained betrayal, and the mutual destruction of the foundations of trust built between them. He apologized at the airport, as did she, but she vowed never to touch the stone again, never wanting to feel the enormous weight of its power in her hands, his very life trapped within her fingers. Which is why she’s hesitant and needs his full, unconditional and irrevocable consent. “Vision, are you sure?”
The certainty and admiration, and perhaps, she hopes, something far deeper imbues his, “I trust you, Wanda.”
“Okay.” The approval only partially numbs the vortex of unease in her mind, but she shoves her doubts aside, powers pooling into a small, rotating nebula over the Mindstone. It’s when she connects with the stone, a tentative strand of scarlet entering his forehead, that Vision’s hand drops from her wrist and resumes its residence on her waist, clutching her as she probes the stone.
The experience is unsettling, a far cry from the calm, soothing flow of Vision’s mind, instead replaced by a sense of enormity, one that reminds her of being five and staring with awe and trepidation up at the towering spires of a cathedral, enraptured by the expanse of stone and the delicate stained glass windows. But this is far larger than a cathedral, this feels like stepping into the middle of the universe and squinting in an attempt to decipher the numerous stars light years away. She knows they exist, but the sheer distance to them is belittling. Slowly she guides her powers, does her best to ignore the flinch of his fingers on her waist as she delves deeper. And then she feels something, a deep, quivering restlessness and suddenly his recent demeanor makes sense.
If she recalls correctly, it was maybe six months into being an Avenger when they were up at 4 in the morning (Vision simply because he didn’t require sleep and had yet to experience it as hobby, as he does now, and her because of another nightmare). They had been speaking of her powers, the way she felt still very much feral when using them, bemoaning her lack of absolute control, when she inquired about the Mindstone. He had, after some prodding and reassurances, admitted his quest to understand the stone, explaining that though it was a part of him it was, in his words, it’s own entity separate from himself, as if he was coexisting with it. Wanda had nodded in mock understanding but now that she’s in the Mindstone, his description is, unsurprisingly, accurate.
Wanda is about to pull back, nothing abnormal or terribly concerning coming through her link with the stone and then the hairs on her arm stand on end. It’s not quite fear, not really anxiousness, nervousness sort of applies but also lacks the correct weight of this feeling. The terminology is lacking but she imagines this is what it must feel like to be a rabbit, scurrying through the forest and coming upon a clearing cast with shadows from the towering trees. There is no cover, no rocks, the grass is shorn almost to the soil, it is the ideal spot for predators to lurk, high in the branches, waiting until something stumbles into the open. The unease in the stone churns her stomach and she yanks her powers out, breath heavy as she stares into Vision’s concerned eyes. “Who wants it?”
He shakes his head, brow knitting in consternation as his lips open, “I do not know, but each day,” the warmth of his palm vacates her side, hand rising to tap the still glowing stone, “it becomes harder to ignore.”
There is a hunted quality to the ricochet of his eyes, only emphasized more by his attempt at a blasé shrug, “Perhaps it is nothing.”
Aggravation laces her words as she stares at him, “You are rarely afraid of nothing.”
“Wanda I do not know what threat is coming for me.”
Vision is a person who is meticulous in his word choice, a trait that allows his thoughts to be clear without reaching into his mind. “How long were you going to let us carry on with this life and pretend this didn’t exist?”
Her words are meant to metaphorically back him into a wall, and based on the sorrow seeping into his eyes and the downturn of his lips, his muscles growing taut beneath her hands, it works. “I was waiting until I reached an acceptable and illustrative conclusion.”
“Vision,” the thumping of her heart is deafening, a dozen emotions rushing through her mind and filling her veins with a sense of purpose, a terrified purpose, but one she knows is worthwhile. “You don’t have to face whatever this is alone,” Wanda steps closer to him, “You have me now.”
His mouth is at war between smiling and a pursed disagreement, a result that is lopsided and almost a scowl but the tapping of his fingers allows her to feel his contemplation. “If the Mindstone is concerned, the threat may be insurmountable.”
After Sokovia, after the airport, the Raft, the recovery, after months of tentative conversations in dark alleys and looking over their shoulders, after he had so sheepishly (and adorably) inquired if she thought they could be something more , Wanda refuses to let the one truly wonderful thing remaining in her life escape. “I,” the words are firm, unrelenting, and leaving no room for disagreement, but she says them with a smile, one she hopes convinces him to concur with her plan, “will protect you.”
Finally his features soften, the disguise relaxes just enough to let her count the clicking gears in his irises. Vision’s body shifts, arms scrunching together over her own as his hands come to cup her cheeks, and the stoop of his shoulders, which is done in time with the lift of his lips as if his shoulders are puppeteering everything else, is easy to decode, a giddiness building in her body as she bounces on the balls of her feet waiting for him to complete the action. Thankfully it is only milliseconds before he kisses her, the first meeting of their lips deep and steadying, followed by several short, effervescent pecks. When he stops, eyes intent on studying every feature of her face, all of the direness and the enormity of their situation falls away, there are no galactic threats, no concerns about being discovered, forced back into the Raft, there is simply him -or almost him. Wanda runs a hand along his forehead, dissolving the disguise he wears, and uses her other hand to close the curtains with a flick of her wrist, not wanting to stoke his apprehension at someone discovering them. Once they are truly alone, arms entangled and breath mixing in the almost nonexistent space between them, she runs her hand along his textured cheek, settling her fingers on the vibranium dot on his chin. If they are destined to always be hunted, she realizes it would be a mistake to withhold the entirety of her feelings towards him. “I love you.”
His face erupts in a breathtaking and toothy smile, irises swirling so quickly it makes her dizzy, but his words center her, fill her with an unmistakable and unshakable surety. “And I love you, Wanda Maximoff.” The words hang in the air between them and then are trapped in the passionate press of his lips to her own, and she knows, whatever is ahead of them, whatever threat lies in wait in the pummeling rain outside, will never win because she will tear apart the seams of the universe to protect this man.
