Chapter 8: Honest

A/N: Hola! I hope everyone has a lovely weekend. Of all the fanfics in all the towns, in all the world, crotchety_old_emu (over on AO3) betas mine. Here's looking at you, kid.

Wanda's on the edge of her bed, indignant and staring out the window when someone knocks on her door. She and Natasha share a too-small bedroom in the apartment, at least until Clint and Scott leave later. Assuming it's Nat, she says nothing. Doesn't even bother to look as the door opens.

"Hey, punk."

She swivels her head, ready to be pissed off. But Clint's got the same boyish smile he did all those weeks ago. When she'd almost cut his face to ribbons with a steak knife, and all he had to say about it was, "guess I shoulda knocked." Before it 'all went to shit,' to borrow his phrasing, and everything changed. Her anger dissipates at the memory, and she tries to return his smile when she answers, "Hey."

He sits on Nat's bed across from her, elbows on his knees with his face in his palm. "How you holding up?"

"I'm fine." It's automatic, but it's not dishonest. She is fine, physically.

"Impressive. For a second there, you almost sounded like you meant it. Except, I got three kids, and, believe it or not, I've heard that one before. So, I'm gonna tell you the same thing I tell them when they won't talk to me." He rummages in the pocket of his jacket and manifests several brightly wrapped sweets. "I have candy."

Wanda reaches out, taking the peace offering and popping it into the side of her mouth. Clint's always treated her differently than other members of the team. Like someone he earnestly cares for, more than a colleague, like family. "How is Nathaniel? And your other children?"

"I imagine they're not too happy with me right now. Hoping to change that, tonight. But," he rolls up the colored plastic from his candy and flicks it at her. "Stop trying to change the subject. Do you wanna talk about it?"

Clint would listen. That's the problem. Because if she allows herself the chance to speak, then she'll end up crying. And once that starts, who knows when it will end. "Not really."

"Alright, fine. Then, listen. You don't have to talk to me. It's not gonna hurt my feelings. But you do need to talk to someone. Wanda," He stops, waiting for her to meet his eyes.

"We all saw the state you were found in. Whatever those guards did to you," she visibly flinches at the mention of her injuries. Still, he keeps going, "Whatever they did, you're going to have to deal with it sooner or later.

This kinda thing, if you don't nip it in the bud early on, it has a tendency to come back and bite you in the ass. So, please, talk to someone, soon. We're all here for you."

Clint gives her a light pat on the knee and heads towards the door, turning back to say, "If you need anything, I'm only a call away," before he takes his leave.

There are 86 tiles on the kitchen floor. Together, they make a diverse pattern of hand-painted blue, grey, and white. Over the past several hours, this is the entirety of new information that Vision has acquired. He's restless, preoccupied, too encumbered with the weight of the previous night's events. He starts making a fresh batch of coffee to keep his hands busy, if nothing else.

Witnessing Wanda's dreams had left him livid, more so than he'd ever experienced in his few years. It struck with such force that he'd been rendered virtually immobile. It was why he'd barely spoken during the conversations following. Vision doesn't know what to do with it, never imagined having to contend with such vehement fury. It makes him want to fly up and away, to break something to bits for the sake of it.

But he can't. He's not programmed for senseless violence. He has no directive for how to deal with emotions, his or anyone else's. He's programmed to protect. And maybe that's the root of the problem. His coding is failing him. The way it failed in preventing the outcome of the Accords.

Or, maybe, it's just that he's failing. In the same way that he'd failed Rhodes and Tony. In the same way that he failed to execute the rescue mission as planned. In the same way that he keeps failing Wanda, over and over again.

These are the thoughts racing through his mind, pulling the corners of his lips into a tight frown when she enters the kitchen. Vision stands up a little straighter where he leans against the counter, schools his features into a calm expression.

"Sam and Nat left?"

"Sam decided to join Steve for the journey." He passes her a mug, gesturing towards the coffee pot, and can't help but notice the shading under her eyes. From the nightmare, he assumes. "I believe Natasha said something about a glass of gin and the beach."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." Vision's never had coffee, or anything to eat or drink, actually, but he's noticed how partial the others are to the stuff.

She's quiet while she adds cream and sugar to her mug, and he files the measurements of each away for later. He thinks he should say something to fill the silence. He doesn't, though, instead choosing to count the tiles, again, while he waits for Wanda to open the floor for conversation.

She's about halfway through her cup when she clears her throat and looks up at him. "You know, I never did get to ask. What did you hear last night?"

He's sure he's at average density. Nonetheless, it feels as if the floor's fallen out from beneath him. "You have no recollection?"

"Not really." She puffs out a breath, moving to sit at the bistro table Scott set up before he left. It's still got a pack of cards strewn across it, and she busies herself with picking them up. "I remember you shouting. Before that, I was asleep, having a nightmare, maybe."

"I see..." He sits across from her, folds his hands on the table. "Hmm, you know, I'm not entirely sure. I was sitting in the living room, and then-" Vision cuts himself off.

He doesn't want to lie to her, not when he's only just gotten the opportunity to earn her trust again. Yet, he learned that it's vital for Wanda to be comfortable with whomever she talks to about her experiences from his research. How could he tell her that, in addition to being robbed of her choice in the matter, he'd seen her trauma as clearly as if he'd been there when it happened?

"And then, I heard someone in distress. Before I could investigate, it stopped... There was a conversation, too. It sounded like you were speaking with Secretary Ross."

Her eyes drop to the table, and she picks at the corner of a playing card, briefly, before looking back at him. "That's all?"

He's sure that if he were human, his pulse would be erratic, his blood pressure would be elevated, and he would be sweating profusely. So sure is he, that he's about to be caught in his omissions. Somehow, he manages to nod.

"So, then, why did you yell?"

He rubs the back of his neck, takes in an unneeded breath. "It was a rather intense experience. I was," he pauses, searching for the right word, "overwhelmed." He still is, but she doesn't need to know that.

She lets out a faint, "Oh," and the conversation stalls. A few minutes later, Wanda's finishing her coffee and stretching, her hands together, arms thrown back behind her head.

His eyes flit to where her sleeves slip down her arms, exposing her wrists and forearms. The Vision blinks, a futile attempt to fend off the images his mind brings forward. Images of her in that damned straightjacket, of her arms painted in swirls of purple and yellow bruises. He forces his focus elsewhere. Tries to determine the hex code that best matches the wall paint. He settles on #CFE7FF before he's confident enough in his speech patterns to articulate a question.

"Shall we begin?"