A/N: Hey all! Thanks for keeping up with the story this far. My undying thanks and appreciation to crotchety_old_emu over on Ao3 for their incredible beta skills, once again. I hope you like the chapter!

Chapter 15: Butterflies

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are currently approaching Berlin Central Station. The train will terminate here. Please do not leave your luggage or personal belongings unattended. Thank you for traveling with us, and we wish you a pleasant evening." The intercom cuts out with a click.

It's a 44-hour journey from Zürich to the Sokovian border, over 2,157 kilometers, by train. In 9 hours, the Vision and Wanda have crossed over 958 kilometers, more than 595 miles.

He reaches down, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. Wanda does the same, moving to the edge of her seat across from him as the train audibly slows to a stop. They hold back from getting off, waiting for the young couple sharing the compartment to collect their carry-ons and exit first.

The sunset greets them the moment they step out into the station, a clear view of the sky provided by the glass structure overhead. It colors everything in a glow of orange and purple, casting long shadows in their wakes as they walk into the city.

"How long before we have to check in?" Wanda puts her hands in her pockets, her boots lightly tapping on the sidewalk with each step she takes.

"Whenever you'd prefer. The front desk at the hotel is open all night."

"Want to explore a while, then?" The corners of her lips turn up in a small smile when she looks up at him. "I'm jittery from sitting so long."

"Lead the way."

A contented lull falls over them as they meander through Berlin, the street lamps and shop signs flickering on around them as twilight encroaches. Eventually, they come upon a bustling avenue lined with food trucks and carts; the roadway blocked off for patrons to sit at pop-up tables.

"Shall we stop for dinner?"

"Sure."

They pass a handful of vendors before Wanda's gait hampers, her elbow knocking his as they join a short queue. It's only a few minutes wait before they're sat, listening to a group of street performers playing a few tables over.

She takes a swig of her drink and, without preamble, lets out a harsh chuckle. "This is insane." Vision hasn't the slightest clue what she's referring to, and ostensibly, it shows because she continues. "This, being here. It's unreal."

"How so?"

"It's just... if you would've told me, two months ago, that I'd be here, I never would've believed it. I mean, of course, I'd hoped, in the beginning, that we would escape. But once they started, the-" Wanda stops, looking around for anyone within earshot before going on, "the meds, I felt like a zombie, or something. I don't know. After a while, I kind of, uh, checked out.

I thought I was going to die. Until you showed up, I was half-convinced I already had. And now, we're here, and it's so gorgeous out, and I'll be home again in three days, and… I guess it's just bizarre. Like a dream."

It's a lot to take in- her words, their magnitude, the progression in recovery it implies. It makes him want to rejoice. "A good dream?"

"Yeah," she grins, "a really good dream."

The hotel room is cheerfully decorated, an assortment of earth tone furnishings complementing the sage walls and cream coloured linens. A vertical garden serving as a partition between the sleeping and sitting areas. Amid the natural hues, the cranberry velvet bergère by the balcony doors distinguishes itself as the aesthetic centrepiece. In it, Vision lounges, submerged in a state akin to dreaming.

He's rapt in remembrances of the day. Taking stock of the twinkle he caught in Wanda's eyes on the train, the occasional smiles she'd cast his way, the wealth of vicarious pride he felt when she opened up over dinner.

Without warning, his repose is disrupted, a litany of dull thumps and inarticulate whimpers rupturing the quietude of the late hour. At a rate of knots, Vision's by the foot of the hotel bed, attempting to make sense of the scene unfurling in front of him.

The room's dark, lit only by slats of starlight leaking in through the blinds. It's sufficient to see the flush in her complexion; the hastened rise and fall of her chest amid ragged breaths. Frantically thrashing about in a tangle of sweat-saturated sheets, Wanda groans out a string of Sokovian too jumbled for him to translate.

She's in the throes of a night terror, judging from the swift escalation in her symptoms. The heartrending wail that rips from her eclipses his call of her name, validating his diagnosis. Bolts of evanescent energy set the room aglow, ruby lightning blasting through both lamps on the bedside tables, showering the room in shattered glass.

In the nick of time, he shifts his density, narrowly avoiding the jagged pieces whizzing by, shards crashing to the floor all around him. He looks up to see Wanda sit up like a shot, her irises blazing, smoldering fire engine red.

Kicking the glass aside, The Vision weighs the dangers of waking her against the risk she poses under the present circumstances. He makes a split-second decision, siding with intuition.

'Wanda.'

Blinking once, twice, she starts to come around. The blaze in her eyes fading back to jade, the cacophony of sounds replaced with the erratic rhythm of her breathing. "Wha-aah!" She raises a hand to her forehead before wrenching it away, a trail of blood smearing above her brow, the offending fragment jutting from her palm.

"Oh my." The sight activates something within him, conjures images of her covered in bruises and blood immediately after the Raft. Without thinking, he acts. Half-phases through the bed, lifts her into his arms, grabs his bag off the bureau, carries her to the bathroom, turns on the lights, sets her on the counter—all at the speed of sound.

He's rifling through his bag, pulling apart a first-aid kit he nicked from the quinjet, when she wraps her uninjured hand around his wrist. "Vision." She waits for him to still, to meet her confused gaze. "What happened?"

"Your powers lashed out, I believe you were having a night terror."

Wanda drops Vision's arm. Her head is spinning, fuzzy from the haze of sleep and his anxiety. Her hand hurts, and her forehead stings when she squints at the bright bathroom lights.

"Forgive me, this might hurt a bit." She hears his words. But they take a minute to sink in.

And he's already taking her wounded hand in his. Pulling the piece of glass from her palm. Pushing a piece of gauze against the gash. Applying pressure to stem the bleeding.

She manages the slight pain, uses it to ground herself. There's no recollection of a nightmare, or a night terror, as Vision called it. No memories of any bad dreams, whatsoever.

She only feels mortified, bone-tired. He pushes her hand towards her, replaces his hand with hers to keep the pressure. "I can fix the lamps."

"It's not really the lamps I'm worried about." Vision's timid smile doesn't help the light-headedness. He grabs a facecloth, pours a bottle of saline over it before gingerly dabbing at the scratch above her eyebrow.

"Did you see anything?"

"No, nothing. You were talking in your sleep, so I came over to check on you. You started yelling and-" There's a knock at the hotel door, cutting him off. "Excuse me." He camouflages himself before backing away, leaving the bathroom.

The loss makes Wanda realize just how close he was, how affectionate he can be and is. Thinking about it, he always has been with her. Or, it could be that she's reading too much into it.

Vision shouts from the hallway before she can come down on a decision either way. "Darling, shall we order more wine?"

'Hotel staff, about the noise. I told them we broke a bottle.'

"That's alright," she throws in a fake laugh, lets her words slur together for effect. "I think we've had plenty already, dear."

When he returns, he raps on the doorframe with his knuckles. Waits for her to look up ahead of walking in. "It seems as if they believed it."

"Oh, good."

Dropping the human facade, he picks up a package of butterfly stitches from the countertop. "I didn't pack any actual sutures, so these will have to do. Ready, then?"

Wanda hums her consent, hyperaware of his proximity as he steps into her space. The height of the sink puts them almost at eye level, his knees bumping against hers when he leans in. He's meticulous, placing each stitch deliberately and delicately smoothing it down.

"I'm sorry about all this. That you have to deal with it."

His eyebrows crinkle in, gaze still fixed on his task. "What, exactly, are you referring to?"

She makes a sweeping gesture from her head to her injured arm. "This. Me. The chaos that is my life."

"Hmm... I don't see it that way. It doesn't feel as if I have to deal with anything." He scrutinizes his handiwork, pursing his lips. "Your palm, please?"

With her sliced hand in his, he goes about repeating the process of dressing the cut. Applying the butterfly stitches while he speaks. "I've said it before, but perhaps I've not been clear. From my perspective, it's a great privilege to be able to be here, with you. Please don't misinterpret, of course, I'd prefer you not be injured as you are. My point is, you have immense fortitude, and such confidence in the face of your enemies- it's remarkable to witness."

Vision pauses, starts wrapping her hand with a bandage. "Since you were a child, you've had to take care of yourself, and others around you. Your brother, your countrymen, those you've saved as an Avenger, your teammates. It's an honour to be allowed the opportunity to…"

He flips her hand, tucks the piece of gauze into itself. Of their own accord, her fingers curl over his. "Lend a hand, as it were."

If things were different, if her life were like a tv show, then right about now, the romantic music would play. He would smile, and so would she. They'd kiss, and as the credits roll, their embrace would suggestively deepen.

She wouldn't be simultaneously thrilled and terrified at the prospect. Or feel so stupid for needing the reassurance he provides. He wouldn't be risking the only life he's ever known to be here, cleaning up the mess she's made.

Wanda thinks it isn't fair, that he's worthy of much more. And she can't shake the feeling that she's little more than a burden.

There's untold grace in Wanda's vulnerability, an ineffable allure in the trust it implies. It dwarfs his timorousness, serves as an impetus to express his appreciation with earnestness. Her eyes flit between his mouth and his gaze, further emboldening him to lift their hands between them.

"May I?" She nods, and he gains a new understanding of what it means to have butterflies in one's stomach. The brush of his lips against her knuckles is little more than a drop in the ocean of sentiment. It's the briefest of contact, but it feels akin to commencement, like a facet of existence he didn't think he'd experience. Like romance.