A/N: Rough chapter warning. This fic is tagged but, still. Anyway, I hope y'all are having a happy Pride! This fic has been beta'd by the queen of making sure these chapters aren't a hot mess, crotchety_old_emu (on AO3).
Chapter 16: Heart
Kraków smacks of what Sokovia could have been. Its architecture recounts its history, a fusion of Baroque, Gothic Era, and modern buildings.
Efficient public transportation systems, well-stocked shops. Laughing children racing their parents into restaurants and under awnings to evade the rain.
It makes Wanda nostalgic, nauseous. She lets out a yawn, grateful when their cab stops at a cottage outside the city instead of the hotel she expected to see.
After her night terror, she'd been too scared to fall back asleep. The risk of her powers lashing out again, potentially alerting someone of their identities, too great.
So, she forced herself to stay awake until the sun came up. Refused to give in during the lethargic 10-hour train ride.
It's granted her the time to ruminate. She should be going over the information about Erik, the questions it's left her with. Try as she might stop them, though, her thoughts betray her. Perpetually reverting to the night before, to Vision.
His softhearted nature and tender disposition. The way his eyelids fluttered shut when he'd kissed her hand. How he's devoted himself to winning back her trust. Every bit of him decent, winsome.
It's intoxicating to be around. The last thing Wanda ought to be focusing on, considering the pressing array of other issues she has yet to deal with. Considering the abject horror she feels, alongside the attraction.
"After you." Ever the gentlemen, Vizh holds the door open, taking her bag and ushering her in. "What do you think? I know we planned for a hotel closer to the train station, but I thought this might offer you a bit more confidentiality in the event, er…"
"In the event that I pitch another fit in my sleep, like a ridiculous child." It's meant as a joke, intended to let him off the hook. Ensconcing into the futon, she watches as he puts their bags by the coffee table, his back to her.
"I don't think it's fair to call it a fit." Rather than relieved, he looks disappointed when he turns around. Like she's kicked his favorite puppy. "You endured a night terror, an estimated 2% of adults experience them."
Vision settles in beside her, slings his arm across the back of the couch. "In light of the exorbitant amount of trauma you've survived, in tandem with the prolonged travelling, it's to be expected. You're not ridiculous, Wanda. You're entirely justified in your emotional response."
As if it's the most logical conclusion in the world. As if it's perfectly reasonable that she wrecked a hotel room over a bad dream she can't remember.
The truth is, her 'emotional response' has a tendency to put other people in danger. And that's pretty damn difficult to justify.
At the outset, the film perplexes him, to put it mildly. It's acutely absurd and whimsical, with characters launching into musical numbers at random. The Vision deems it interesting but nowhere near as captivating as Wanda's reactions to it.
She's as close to enraptured as he's ever seen her, commenting on the scenes she likes, and those she doesn't, periodically singing along softly. The leading players stumble upon a poppy field, and she regales him with a tale from her childhood. Laughing as she describes how she and Pietro would reenact different parts of the movie for their parents.
One hour, thirty-one minutes, and fifty-nine seconds in, Wanda recites a line in unison with the actor, "And, remember, my sentimental friend, that a heart is not judged by how much you love but, by how much you are loved by others."
It's pretty phrasing on its own. But when she says it, dressed in the most genuine smile he's seen in weeks, it's downright staggering, beautiful. "How lovely."
"Yeah, it's a classic." Wanda fidgets with the sleeves of her sweater, the movement distracting him. "The book is, too. It's been a while since I've read it. I loved the illustrations."
"I'll have to pick it up the next time we pass a bookshop." He points at her hand, "Does it hurt?"
"Why wouldn't you, I don't know, download it? And it's not too bad…" Flexing out her fingers, she inhales, sharp. Her smile turns sheepish, given away by the involuntary reflex. "Actually, would you mind rewrapping it for me?"
"Certainly not, I'm happy to be of help." Collecting his bag from where it's been discarded on the floor, Vision digs out the first aid kit before kneeling beside Wanda.
He could acknowledge the renewed sense of agency her asking signifies, that she's worked so hard to cultivate. He could rhapsodize about the elation it evokes in him, or the easy contentment he's become accustomed to from her presence. He could confess his flourishing fondness for her. But, instead, he dismisses the swell of admiration and adoration, preoccupying himself with redressing her wound.
"I could download it. I'm adept at speed reading, and I'm sure I could find it quickly, considering its age. I prefer the real thing, though, being able to flip through the pages of a tangible book. I imagine I've been spoiled, in that respect; the library at the compound was quite comprehensive. Besides, if I have a copy, then you can read it again, too, and look at the illustrations whenever you want."
As he folds the gauze in, securing it over her palm, the events of the previous evening occupy his mind for the umpteenth time. His programming ensures the memory remains perfect, his high-definition recall doing him no favors at the moment. He does his best to rebuff it, to prevent anything trickling through the channel to Wanda. "All set. How's your head?"
"I haven't had any complaints." It's unexpected, automatic. Bypassing Wanda's brain without permission. A fast flash of who she used to be.
She blames the lack of sleep for the bravura. She has to. Not blaming the exhaustion would mean taking ownership. And taking ownership would mean admitting growth in recovery. Acknowledging that there's something to recover from.
In lieu of falling down that particular rabbit hole, she chooses to enjoy the moment. It isn't all that difficult, chiefly due to the look on Vision's face. Confused, searching. Then, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
Lifting a few feet off the ground, he stutters his way around a response. "I-I didn't- That's not- What I meant was-"
Her laughter spills out, egged on by his unreasonably adorable reaction. It must dawn on him that she's joking (albeit at his expense) because he lands. He chuckles, looking down and away before he says, "Cheeky. So cheeky."
They switch to cable after the second or third movie. Flipping through the channels until they find something neither of them has seen. When he reads the description, she's half-listening, drifting.
The cottage has an open floor plan, similar to the layout of a studio apartment. All modern rustic furniture and virtually no privacy, save the restroom. Unlike the hotel room, no partitions to speak of.
Vision offered to give her space. Volunteered to spend the evening outside more than once. Wanda was the one who refused. Insisted that there was no need. That she was totally fine. It leaves no one but herself to blame for what follows.
Wanda's rolling her head on her shoulders to keep from falling asleep. Willing herself not to be tired, she yawns widely, her eyes squeezing shut. When she opens them again, the film's cut to commercial.
An advertisement for a sports product comes on, all fast cuts and extreme close-ups. It zooms in on the actors, the perspiration beading on their foreheads and arms. It's innocuous, a dumb ad, but it's all it takes.
She comes to in a daze of violence. Hands like claws mauling at her, scraping and bruising. A stranger's sweat dripping onto her skin. The vile weight of him shoving her shoulder into the concrete floor.
It hurts like nothing she's ever felt. She could kill him. No powers necessary. She could do it with her bare hands. If she could get her arms free. If she could just fucking move.
There's a resonating crack of her clavicle snapping in two, and she sees white. Reduced to pure agony and the need to escape.
Wanda's fighting against her lungs for air, adrenaline surging. The memory too fresh, too real. The bitter scent of perspiration and vodka prickling at her nostrils. As if she's still living it, as if it's happening all over again. It's suffocating. It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense.
"Wanda?" He sounds close by. She tries to hold onto it. Except, she can't focus, can't escape the feeling she's going to die.
She's gasping for air, breathing in nothing. Half-convinced she's back on the Raft. It makes everything worse, makes her hopeless. Terrified by the thought that, maybe, she never got out. That it was the escape, and Wakanda, and everything after, that she's imagined.
She can't remember, too consumed by fear. She wishes desperately that Vision would say something again, anything to prove her wrong.
"It's okay. It's alright. You're okay. Just breathe." It feels like a life preserver at sea, an anchor to reality. Wanda opens her mouth to respond, and no words form. Instead, she sobs.
'What's happening? I- I can't-' It's an impossible thought to finish. So, rather than try, she uses the channel, a bevy of scattered emotions bursting through. She lets him feel the panic and confusion with her, snippets of her disassociation, her memories, slipping through.
"I'm unsure. I have an idea, I think." He enters her field of sight, extending a hand. "May I?" Clarity in an otherwise blurry scene. She clutches to the contact. Clinging on with her power and both hands, like her life depends on it. She's certain it does.
Wanda's soaked in shame. Drenched in despair. Her mind chaotic, thoughts erratic. In crisis.
But, Vizh- Vision's mind is divine luminance. A gossamer cloth weaved with benevolence, and order, and understanding. Like serenity, like safety. It renders her raw.
'I think you're having another panic attack. The after effects of a flashback, it seems.'
He must be right. It feels like the last one, just worse. It makes her feel powerless. He feels it too, expects it when she weeps harder. Accepts her insecurity with sympathy.
They're barraged with a string of occasions when her instability was met with fear, hatred, disdain. Her belief that every horrible thing anyone's said about her is true, merited. That she's no more than a monster.
'Oh, no. No, that's not who you are.' He inches his hand towards her, his palm breezing over her cheek, and fills her mind with care and warmth. Memories of her, thoughts of her, how he sees her, how he adores her.
The combination of his thumbing away her tears, his unlimited capacity for sincerity. It's more than she can handle, more than she has any right to. More than she deserves from anyone, especially him.
'Wanda, that's not true.'
Red tendrils coil around their hands, and her power spikes against her will, forcing him from her mind. Vision goes to withdraw his hand from hers, and she uses it to pull him closer. For the second time, Wanda falls into him before falling to pieces.