Chapter 22: Easy
A/N: It's been a while. For anyone who's waiting, I'm sorry, and, thank you for your patience. I first started this story after my Grandma passed. In the time it's taken me to get to this point of it, my Grandpa has since passed as well. It's been helpful and I appreciate that you've all been along for the ride. Anywho, let's get this show on the road. Stay safe, everyone.
Vision learns that Wanda likes to sing. The genre doesn't seem to matter much, she knows a bit of everything. Whether she's driving or not, she taps along to the song. When they lived at the compound, he'd occasionally heard her play guitar and always enjoyed it. The singing is new, though.
Sometimes, she sleeps while he drives, curled up in the passenger seat. When she drives, he cycles between researching, working, and resting. Mostly, they float from one conversation to another, discussing whatever comes to mind.
On their third day driving, they get in 13 hours before calling it an evening. The downside to driving is the inability to make accommodations in advance, limiting them to hotels and motels. It's not so much a problem, as it is a wager that Wanda won't be recognized.
At present, she's leaning against the hood of the rental car, a black baseball cap slung low over her eyes. It's supposed to make her appear inconspicuous, and allow her to blend in more. Vision thinks it's less than effective. She looks like she stepped out of one of the paparazzi photos he's seen on the magazine racks at rest stops. She's stunning and the hat does little, if anything at all, to hide that. He waves her over, sliding the key card into the door and holding it open.
The room isn't unlike the last several they've shared. It's compact, cramped with what little furnishings it has. There's a television atop a bureau, a rolling chair, a desk, and a bathroom. The majority of the space is taken up by the bed, which Wanda wastes no time clambering onto. She settles herself against the headboard, stretching her legs out and tossing her hat onto the bureau.
"So, should I tell you all the reasons why you are wrong, individually? Or, would you prefer I do it all in one?"
With the door shut and locked, Vision pulls the curtains down over the window. Suppressing a laugh, he resumes his natural appearance. "You are well within your rights to try to convince me any way you'd like." He sits on the bed, his arm bumping against hers as he gets settled. "However, I think you'll find that I won't be easily swayed."
"Piece by piece it is." Counting off on her fingers, she stares him down as she talks, challenging him with every word. "One: Rob and Laura are more relatable, realistic characters. Two: the writing is better. Three: Dick Van Dyke's physicality practically defined comedy for the decade, if not the entire last half of the century. Mary Tyler Moore's capri pants changed the way women dressed. Four: their chemistry is legendary. Five: the Petrie's are the epitome of the American dream. Honestly, I could go on."
He can't help but chuckle. Charmed by the passion in her voice, he asks, "What's the all in one version?"
"Twenty-five Emmy nods and fifteen wins in five seasons."
"A truly impressive testament."
"You admit it, then." Wanda sinks down a little, rearranging the blankets to cover her legs and looping their arms together. "The Dick Van Dyke Show is better than The Addams Family."
"I admit that your justifications are valid and mostly accurate. It's true that The Dick Van Dyke Show represented one version, albeit an incredibly singular version, of the American dream. Though, the same could be said of The Addams Family." She offers familiar touches freely, as she has for weeks. His heightened awareness of her remains constant, as it has since he first saw her. Yet, he's found novelty in its nuances, in its context, in knowing that she trusts him, that she's comfortable, and feels safe enough to be affectionate with him. "Plus, Rob seldom treats Laura as his equal. As characters, they tend to be judgemental and dishonest. They're quick to think the worst of each other, and fast to fight."
"Exactly. Neither of them is without fault, but they make it work. Because, despite all the challenges, they're in love."
"I simply prefer the dynamic between Morticia and Gomez. They support one another, take an interest in each other's hobbies. Both respect and defend the other. Not to mention, they're appreciably more romantic."
"You think they're more romantic?"
"I do."
"What? They are not." She's aghast, genuinely offended, and downright adorable. "Do Morticia and Gomez even kiss?"
"Querida mia."
Her laugh rings out in the room, spurring him on. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kisses her knuckles, the back of her palm, the inside of her wrist once, twice. It makes her pull in a sharp breath, no longer laughing, her gaze locked on his movements. He continues unrushed, moving further up her arm, dropping featherlight kisses every few centimeters, buzzing from the sudden acceleration of her pulse and the intimacy of the moment. Vision tilts his head up, resting his chin on the curve of her shoulder.
"Fine, it's romantic." Wanda presses a kiss to the corner of his smile, matching it with one of her own when he turns into it. She drags the edge of her tongue along his lips, and he struggles to suppress a groan at the sensation, granting her further access in the process. Which must have been her goal, he decides, because as soon as he does, she's licking at the inside of his mouth. It's torturously salacious. When she pulls away, she murmurs, "But, Rob and Laura are more romantic. And, the writing is still better on Dick Van Dyke."
Head spinning, he somehow manages to respond, "The writing is better."
"See? Give me time. I'll sway you, yet." He thinks that if anyone could, it would be her.
When Wanda awakens, only the crackle of a burning log in the fireplace pierces the silent stone cottage in Burford. On the gilded mirror above it, a note reads, "Switching the car, be back soon. - V." Signed with a heart.
She takes the note and her bag into the bathroom. When they first arrived, she was too tired to do more than head to bed and knock out. Upon inspection, it's got the most fantastic cast iron clawfoot tub she's ever seen. Complete with shiny brass finish faucet and fittings.
The handles let out a satisfying squeak as she turns them on. Waiting for the bath to fill, she pulls a few bottles from a shelf. Scented oils and bubbles to add to the stream from the spout. In minutes, the scent of jasmine and violets permeates the room.
She undresses and melts into the water, muscles liquified by the heat. Leaning her head back, her gaze falls to her bag, to the note on top of it.
He's schmaltzy. A trait she'd only caught glimpses of previously, now progressively emerging. It's not something she's experienced in relationships before.
But this thing with Vision. This relationship-slash-running-away 'thing' that they're doing. It's easy in all the ways that make things harder, later. He's easy to talk to, to be with. Easy to be around and to want to be around. Which, in and of itself, is a feat.
Her past relationships were mostly easy, too. But, in a different way. Then, there were no expectations, no commitments. No time for anything more than sex.
Bending her knees, she slides further down into the water. Watching the ceiling morph through its distorted lens as she descends. There are ripples cutting across the water's surface, traitorous in their movements.
Closing her eyes, she ignores the burn in her lungs. Locks the edge of the tub in her grip, and squeezes.
There's no telling exactly how much time passes from then until she hears Vizh. It can't have been too long, though. He's saying something she can't make out through the water, and, what sounds like, knocking on the door.
"Wanda?" Another knock. She pulls herself up, out of the water, gasping, and hears him say to himself, "Oh, what am I doing…" before he asks, 'Where are you?'
'In the bath, sorry, I didn't hear you.' Blinking away the little dots of black and purple swimming in her eyes, she shoots up. Uses her magic to simultaneously remove the drain plug and wrap herself in a towel. "Be out in a minute!"
"Just go."
"I don't think I should."
"It's fine. I'll be fine." Wanda attempts a smile. It's effective, up until an extended coughing fit racks through her body. Followed shortly thereafter by a sneeze.
"That's it." He sits down on the edge of the bed, crossing his leg over his knee. "I'm not going."
Weary, she sits up, stops him with her hand on his. "I'm okay, really. It's just a bad cold."
"Right, it is bad, which is precisely why I should stay here to ensure your recovery."
"You're very sweet," Leaning in to give him a peck on the cheek, she wraps her arms around his waist. "But, I think I'll survive a couple of hours alone."
His boyish features turn torn as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. Frowning, he huffs, "That isn't the point."
"I know. Viz, the seminar is the whole reason we came. It's the only lead we have on Erik. We can't both miss it just because I'm a little under the weather."
He kisses her temple in a show of weak protest and nuzzles into her. Wanda raises a hand to the back of his head. Dragging her fingertips across his scalp where vibranium and skin meet.
These are the moments with him she's come to appreciate the most in their short time together. Quiet, relaxed. Safe.
Before long, another cough creeps up on her, forcing her to double over where she sits. Straightening back up, she sees the alarm clock on the bedside table.
"You have to go soon…" She doesn't want him to go, not really. And she thinks he must know as much. Since, rather than say anything, he pulls her back into the crook of his arm. Attempting to extend the moment, allowing her to burrow back into his chest.
After a few minutes, a blaring beep rings out into the room. She silences it with her powers, murmuring, "You'll miss your train if you stay much longer."
The last thing she hears before falling asleep is his whispered response, "Then, I'll leg it."
Irritated, Vision taps his fingertips on the armrest while he waits for the final speaker to finish. Two hours and forty-five minutes wasted listening to professors spout random, unsupported theories. Xavier never showed (and, the master of ceremonies waited until the absolute last minute to say as much) effectively ruining any chance of speaking to him and finding out more about Lehnsherr, or Magnus, or, whomever Erik is. Worst of all, he'd left Wanda sick and alone in a foreign country, for nothing.
Eventually, the lights in the auditorium brighten, signaling the end of the seminar. The Vision stands, hastening to the exit through the sparse crowd of attendees. Anxious to get back to the cottage, he tries to determine the quickest way back.
He could wait for the next train, but the 45-minute ride feels excessive. A local taxi would take at least as long. Flight almost certainly provides the most direct, fastest route. But it's also the most visible and, therefore, the least viable.
Decision made, he ducks down an empty alley before phasing into the crust below.
The first time she hears it, Wanda thinks it's a figment of her imagination, a remnant from her dream as she dozes. The second time, she decides it must be the next house over, receiving company. That there must be an open window somewhere in the cottage, and the noise is just filtering in through it.
The third knock, though, is unmistakably at the front door. And she knows Vision isn't behind it. While he has gotten better about using doors, there's no reason for him to knock here. Not when he left with the key in his pocket.
Her power brings her to the door in less time than it takes to blink. Instinctively, she extends her power through the wood barrier. Reaching for the mind of whoever it may be, for clues of identity, intent. It turns out to be an unnecessary effort. There's no need to infiltrate their thoughts. She recognizes the visitor's voice the instant it breaches the night.
"Come, now. There's much to discuss."