Chapter 4: Red Thread
Not sleeping had its advantages and its disadvantages. The undisturbed solitude of the early morning hours was both.
Vision used to treasure the time he had for quiet reflection. But that was before. Before the Accords, the split, the battle, the classification of Steve, Sam, and Wanda as criminals.
He was no longer at peace with his own thoughts.
This wasn't the first time he'd phased into Wanda's old room in the dead of night. She had remarkably few personal possessions. Her life had forced her to travel light, she'd once explained. Her one indulgence was her ring collection, which she kept in a bowl on the dresser. Rings were small, portable adornments, suitable for her nomadic life. She'd told him once—after two glasses of wine—that at the orphanage where she and Pietro lived for a few years, they had been allowed no personal possessions. Nothing had been just hers. She'd made rings out of loose threads or her own hair, and hid them under her matress, only putting them on in the middle of the night out of fear that if anyone knew about them they'd be taken away. She'd said after she and Pietro ran away from the orphanage, for a few years she would keep any jewelry she found on the street, hording it like a magpie.
He picked up her rings, resting them in his palm. It saddened him to think she was without even this tiny pleasure.
He handled her rings carefully. Not that he was afraid he would break them, but that touching them felt oddly intrusive, like he was trespassing. But they made him feel closer to her.
He examined the rings one by one, ran his fingertips over them, remembering them on her hands.
He would probably never see her again, never touch her again.
He left her room and returned to his own. It was almost ironic that he had more possessions than she did. A shelf full of books, framed photographs, art, souvenirs. Perhaps it was his way of trying to be more human.
As he stood contemplating it, he detected a red flash from the corner of his eye, from out the window. He turned to look.
The woods beyond the compound grounds were dark, seemingly empty.
And then, deep in the tree line, there was another flash of red.
"Wanda?" he whispered.
It had been a small, brief flash, inconspicuous. It might have been a firefly.
He phased through the window and flew to the forest, then glided through the trees to the place he thought the light had come from.
The forest was quiet. He heard crickets, the breeze through the leaves, the hoot of an owl somewhere far off. No human soul.
The crickets sounded mournful.
"It must have been a firefly," he whispered to himself.
Then a quiet voice from behind him said, "Vision."
He turned, and there she was, illuminated only by the soft glow of his Mind Stone. For a moment, he doubted she was real, she looked so much like a ghost, or a fairy, or a dream.
"Wanda..." He glided to her.
"Hello," she said quietly.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, his desire to protect her winning out over the impulse to wrap his arms around her. "If someone sees you, you could be in danger."
"You're someone, and you're seeing me," she pointed out.
"How did you know I wouldn't attempt to apprehend you?"
She slowly, deliberately, took both his hands in hers. "Vision, after everything I've done—everything: HYDRA, Ultron, causing the Hulk rampage, the explosion in Lagos, the fight in Germany, and most of all what I did to you—I'm dangerous, Vision. I know it, you know it, the world knows it. I trust you more than anyone; if you think I should be locked away, I won't fight it."
He looked at her hands, folded in his, and suddenly realized what she was doing. She needed to use her hands to direct her power. Her physical strength was no match for his. If he held her hands, he could render her helpless.
"My life is in your hands," she said.
The weight of that trust frightened him. He wanted to push it away. But at the same time, his hands were touching hers. Not just her rings, with their memory of her, but her own, dear hands.
He forced himself to release her hands and draw away, worried that if he held on any longer she would think he was actually considering it.
"Wanda, nothing you have done necessitates or justifies your imprisonment. Volunteering for HYDRA and helping Ultron were mistakes you've already paid for, far more than you deserved. The deaths in Lagos were an accident you are blameless for. In Germany you fought beside Captain Rogers to protect an innocent man, and, as you believed at the time, the safety of the world. I should have been fighting by your side. My support for the Accords was a miscalculation, and it should not have kept me from trusting Captain Roger's judgment. And regardless of my beliefs, I was wrong to attempt to prevent your departure with Clint."
"No, I was wrong to go. Nothing could justify what I did to you. Clint said Steve needed our help, and I just...I didn't think." She bit her lip, and tears spilled down her cheeks, gleaming in the dim yellow light.
It pained him to see her in pain. He pulled her into his arms, holding her. A sob shook her body.
"Please don't cry," he begged her.
"I hurt you."
"You had no choice."
"I could have stayed. I should have stayed. I should never have done that to you."
"You didn't harm me," he assured her.
"I violated you. I used my power to take control of yours and used it against you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"It's alright," he whispered. His shoulder was wet from her tears. All he wanted in the world at the moment was for her to be happy again.
"How can you forgive me?" she asked.
He didn't know how to explain. His mind didn't work like a human mind. He didn't hold grudges, or even assign blame. He judged threats by the potential for harm. The mere fact that Wanda had chosen to come, that she regretted her actions, meant she did not present a potential harm to him. She was not a threat. But that wasn't all of it.
"There is no need for forgiveness. You did what you had to do."
For a minute or two she just sobbed, and he just held her.
"Everything's gone so wrong," she said into his shoulder. "Rhodes is hurt, Steve and Sam and I are fugitives, and this is probably the last time I'll ever see you."
Panic gripped him at that thought. "No." He hadn't meant to say that out loud, and he hadn't meant to suddenly clutch her closer. He had feared he'd never see her again since the moment he learned of their escape, but contemplating it now while he was actually with her, holding her, he couldn't countenance that possibility.
She took a few deep, ragged breaths before saying, "I'm sorry."
"I need a way to connect with you," he said, thinking it through. "I need to know if you're safe."
"There's no way. It's too dangerous. We can't risk communication, we can't risk staying in one place too long."
He ran his hand up and down her back, soothing her and giving himself time to think. "There may be a way. An experimental communication device Mr. Stark has in development, a two-way transmitter that operates by quantum entanglement. It would provide instantaneous, untraceable, untappable communication between two people anywhere in the world."
A change in her breathing signaled the hope that suggestion kindled in her. "You think you could steal a set?"
"I think I could build one. It will take time. You would need to return for it."
She drew away from his embrace and looked up at him. Her face was wet and puffy. "How much time?"
"Give me three weeks. Can you meet me back here three weeks from tonight?"
She nodded. "I'll try."
"I'll watch for you."