#My hands are 7 inches from crease of wrist to tip of middle finger

[dogstomp]

Dogstomp #3131 - July 28th

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[smol-and-grumpy]

Golden Cage - Chapter.08

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: She’s a spoiled little princess — at least that’s what people say. Her father is the King of all Kings, the man who everyone fears. Then, along comes Dean Winchester, the one guy who manages to see into her soul, but — — is Dean really who he says he is?

Chapter Warnings: Violence, threats, minor character death, fluff, angst, doubts

WC: 5675

Beta’d by: @deanwanddamons​ <3

Series Masterlist ~ SPN Masterlist

Become a Patron ~ Buy me a coffee

Dean’s in the bathroom, dressed and ready for the day ahead of him, when he hears furious banging against his bedroom door.

“Be right there!” He shouts out with his mouth still full of toothpaste. Dean spits it out and rinses the brush. 

He already took a shower this morning, as he needed it to wake him up. Maybe he also needed it to calm himself down because he was so goddamn hard and there was no Y/N next to him. His cock was aching for the intimacy they shared last night, but he thinks that his heart ached more for the closeness, he just doesn’t really want to admit it. Can’t possibly admit it just yet because he’s a stubborn idiot.

“We’re leaving in ten!” The voice says and Dean knows that it belongs to Ed. Benny had most likely sent him to get Dean. It’s probably not because Benny wants Dean to tag along again, but more because Azazel wants it that way. They’re all not really happy about him being nosy in their operation at all, but Dean can’t really fucking care about that.

And yeah, he wants to be there this morning because he has a fucking blood bath to prevent. He doesn’t even want to think about what would happen if the dude didn’t have the money like he promised he would. 

Dean rinses his hands under the warm water and turns the faucet to cool before splashing some cold water onto this face and dries himself off with a washcloth, “I’ll be down in ten.” He calls out and flips his wrists to check his watch. It’s 6.37 AM. It’s way too early for his taste and he’s still so tired.

Last night was fucking amazing, there’s no doubt about it, but Dean has maybe slept two hours, tops. He’s even more grumpy when he doesn’t get his four hours of shuteye and there’s a pounding in the back of his head. He has to be careful that it won’t grow into a full-blown headache.

The lack of sleep is really his own fault, though. Dean really has no one else but himself to blame. 

Last night, he waited until she fell asleep. Then, waited some more to make sure that she was in a deep sleep before he scooped her up to carry her over to her own bedroom. He had to do it because there wouldn’t have been a good way to spin a story of how she would wander from his room into hers in the morning when everyone’s up and awake. He’s sure someone would have seen her if he would have let her stay and it pained him that he had to do it, it really did.

God knows how much he wanted to let her stay beside him. How much he didn’t want her to leave his bed at all, but this whole thing is fucked up enough as it is, he doesn’t need to pour gasoline on a goddamn fire. 

This whole thing is fucking stupid and risky—

—and yet, he knows in his heart that he can’t possibly walk away from it. From her.

Dean braces his hands on the sink and drops his head. He’s smirking as memories from last night flashes before his eyes. He came fucking twice! Within fucking minutes! It had never happened before and he wasn’t lying when he told her that never wanted to stop fucking her. How could he? It felt super awesome being inside of her wet heat. And the way she came on his dick? Jesus, he’s getting hard again just thinking about it. He’d like to experience it again sometime, would really fucking love to.

The fucking was awesome, he’s established that. But the thing after was also super great? Like, Dean didn’t account for that, if he’s honest. 

The way she laid in his arms, the way she curled up against him, the way she fell asleep. It was great and Dean felt a calmness in his heart he never experienced before. He couldn’t stop himself from touching her. Couldn’t possibly stop, no matter how much he would have wanted to. No, there was no stopping because he wanted to memorize every feature of her face, wanted to memorize the bumps and creases of her skin with the tip of his fingers. 

Carrying her over to her room was hard for him to do because he had to make sure that she didn’t wake up while at the same time making sure that nobody heard him walking around. He even wore fucking socks so as not to make too loud of a sound. 

He laid her into her bed and pulled the cover over her, tucking her in gently, before he kissed her lips one last time, lingered a little longer than he first wanted. It was just so hard to part. 

Dean shakes his head to clear out the pictures of her swimming around in his mind and clears his throat after, to get the bittersweet taste out of his mouth, before he pushes himself away from the sink and makes his way out of the bathroom. 

Her panties and the shirt she came into his room with are still on the floor. Dean picks it up and stuffs them deep into the hamper, making sure that nobody will find them. He doesn’t think that anyone would search in there anyway. 

She didn’t ask any questions last night about why Dean handed her his shirt instead of hers. It was a spur of the moment decision for him. It was just.. when he came out of the bathroom and looked at her shirt, he felt the sudden urge to give her one of his. There was a sudden possessiveness that crept up his spine. Dean can’t really explain it himself, to be honest. He smirked when she pulled it over her head, thought that she looked fucking cute in his shirt, but he tried to not be too obvious about the joy he felt.

Walking over to the door, Dean turns around again to take a last look to see if he left anything behind that could bust him — bust his ass for the things he’s already doing and of course bust him for fucking her. When he’s satisfied that there are no traces, he leaves the room and closes the door. He doesn’t lock it, fears that it would raise suspicion if he does. 

Dean walks along the landing, has to pass her door on his way down the stairs, and he almost stalls, almost knocks on her fucking door. Almost. He catches himself on time, reminds himself that he’s running late as it is. Besides, it’s not even 7 AM. She’s most likely still sound asleep. He hopes she is. He also hopes that she’s not too sore.

She did ask him to fuck her harder. 

Dean chuckles at the memory, gets flustered too. His ears are burning. He hopes that they aren’t too red because it’s hard to conceal.

Jesus, this fucking girl.

He shakes his head as he makes his way down the stairs and suddenly, there’s another thought popping into his mind. There’s still an issue he has to talk to her about. Wanted to actually talk last night, but when he saw how exhausted she was, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Dean makes a mental note to bring it up as soon as he would meet her. He hopes it’s going to be today.

 *

 Dean’s the last one to arrive at the restaurant. Benny and his boys are already inside because even though Dean said he’ll be down in ten, the fucking gang had already left. So much for taking him along. 

To say that the incident is making him even more grumpy is an understatement.

He barges into the door to find the restaurant owner strapped to a chair yet again. The man’s sobbing uncontrollably, he is gagged with a tie. The man’s wife is already laying on the ground, a bullet wound through her chest and the middle of her head, which seems a bit of an overkill. It happened just a moment ago because he can see that the blood has only started to seep from under her body.

Dean takes it that they didn’t manage to get the money.

The kids are each strapped to a chair, both of them squirming and crying, both of them have ties around their mouths, too. 

And that, pisses Dean off to no end.

“What the fuck is going on?” Dean roars it out so loud that the other men are flinching, “Who the fuck did this?” He gestures wildly at the dead woman on the ground.

Glancing at the men, Dean notices quickly who fired the shots because Benny’s the only guy who has a fucking gun in his hand. 

Dean rushes over to Benny, presses up close in an act of dominance, their faces only inches apart. 

Benny snorts, “Who the fuck are you to tell me how to fucking do my work?”

Oh, Dean’s angry, alright. He knows everything about how they fucking operate. Bobby made sure to tell him details and this never came up. They don’t shoot women. They don’t fucking kill children. 

“I don’t fucking care, Benny, you don’t fucking bite off a hand that fucking feeds you!” He spits out his words into Benny’s face. 

The other man snorts some more, “He doesn’t have the fucking money!”

Dean turns away and paces around, still shaking his head. At last, he turns to face Benny again, but from a safe distance, “Then fucking shoot him and not her!”

“We just want to scare him,” Ed chimes in and gets shot down by Dean’s menacing glare. The man quickly shuts his mouth. 

“Well, he is scared,” Dean says. His voice is a little calmer now. He had noticed the wet pants around the man’s crotch, “Congratulations! Mission accomplished. I hope you’re fucking proud! And what now?”

“We kill off the boy next,” Benny says drily and the dad whimpers while the boy screams. 

“And then?” Dean asks, because he can’t wrap his head around it. It’s not what the family stands for. Not at all.

“Then the dad.” Ed shrugs as if it’s no fucking big deal.

“And the girl?” Dean asks, and he fucking knows that he shouldn’t be discussing any of it in front of the victims, but that’s just how it is, and there’s no way for him to talk to his men in private. 

Benny smirks, “We have connections and I’m personally thinking about expanding the family business, branching out, you know.”

Oh, Dean knows. Dean knows exactly what Benny’s talking about, and he’s not happy about it. 

“Does Azazel know?” 

“Not yet,” Benny shrugs, “But I’ll have a meeting later, I’ll bring up the new business idea.” 

Dean looks from Benny to the kids and back at the guy, “I’m taking them with me—”

“—You will do no such thing!” 

Benny cuts Dean off before Dean could even finish his sentence. The man’s also in Dean’s hair, inches so close and pushes at his chest, “You let us do our fucking job and you do yours!”

There’s a lot of staring each other down, a lot of quivering lips and steely gazes. Dean sighs before he resigns. Not because he wants to, but because he knows that he has to. He would overstep his duties, and he would make himself suspicious. More than he already is in the men’s eyes. 

So Dean does what’s expected of him. He takes a step back and walks out of the room without another word. 

 Y/N wakes to the sound of soft knocking at her door. She blinks the sleep away before her eyes scan her surroundings. It takes her some time to realize where she is. 

She’s back in her own room.

Disappointment clouds her face and she curls up on her side. Her eyes stay open as she stares at the door where someone knocks again.

“What is it?” She calls out grumpily. Today’s not a good day, she can already feel it. 

“Madam,” The maid says, “It’s past 1 PM, would you like your lunch?”

What? Past 1 PM? How? She never gets up this late. Has probably never slept past 10 AM in her whole life.

“No, thank you.” She says, “I’ll go into work once I get up.” 

“Alright, Madam. Just ring me if you need me.” 

“Thanks.”

Y/N sits up in her bed, pulls the blanket aside, and notices that she’s still in Dean’s shirt. And then it dawns on her. That is why he wanted her to wear something for bed, wasn’t it? So that he could carry her back into her own room. 

Bringing the shirt to her face, she sniffs at it. Couldn’t really do it last night when Dean was next to her. She smells him. Smells his cologne, his soap, his musk. He probably slept in it the night before, because it doesn’t smell like it has been washed in a while. And strangely, she doesn’t care. It smells heavenly. 

The scent of the shirt brings her back to last night and her mind starts to spin. God, they really had sex. Dean’s a great lover, he made her come more than she had with any other man. Even on his dick alone, which never happened. It was totally different from Adam. Adam didn’t really make a big effort if she had to compare, but also she doesn’t know what’s the norm? Was Dean just over-attentive or is that standard? 

Jesus, she even forgot to go pee afterward and that’s what she should have done, right? Ellen told her so many times already that she should go pee after having sex so as not to contract UTI. She completely forgot in her blissed-out state. 

Dean did that to her. She was incapable of forming one coherent word afterward. 

Y/N liked everything about last night. Like how he took care of her, liked how he fucked her. But most of all, she liked how he took her in his arms afterward, how his hands brushed over her face, how the gestures lulled her to sleep.

Getting up, she peels the shirt from her body and stows it away underneath her pillow. Just in case. And she wants to wear it again tonight just because she can. It’s hers now, she won’t give it back no matter how much Dean would want it returned to him. 

On her way to the bathroom, she feels something warm running out of her vagina and she hurries to the bathroom, doesn’t necessarily wanting it to drip on the carpet because she would have a hard time explaining it to Ellen. That woman has bat ears and eagle eyes, she would know, Y/N’s so sure of that.

Inside of the shower, she inspects the wetness that runs down her thighs and it keeps running out. God, just how much did Dean come inside of her? Because it’s a lot and it was his second time too, having spilled the first load onto her stomach and pussy. 

She turns on the shower, washes herself down there with water before soaping herself up. Her hand rubs at her clit and it somehow hurts a little because it’s very sensitive. It doesn’t help that she actually wants to rub there some more because of the tingly sensation she feels inside of her guts. Dean has really left a lasting impression on her, that much is clear. 

After the shower and with no release because it just hurt too much, she walks out of the bathroom frustrated and grumpy. It also doesn’t lift her mood when she sees Ellen in her room. The woman has a key to every door in the house and she’s not afraid to use it. 

Ellen’s in the process of stripping her bedsheets and she already notices the edge of Dean’s shirt hanging out from the laundry basket.

“No!” She shouts and runs to the basket, fishing the shirt out, “I want to wear it again tonight.” She says, but then she realizes that she maybe shouldn’t have said it, “I mean, I just pulled it out of the closet and… uh, it’s still good to wear. It doesn’t need to be washed yet.” She stammers, trying to somehow make sense. 

The woman looks at Y/N with a frown on her face, “Hun, since when do you care if I wash a shirt you’ve only worn once?”

“Uh, I don’t know? Just— I know that I want to wear it again, okay?” She clutches at the fabric and pulls it out of the basket, proceeds to walk with it to her walk-in closet but Ellen was having none of it. 

The woman tugs her back by her arm, “Y/N, show me.” 

“Ellen!”

“Do I have to use force on you? Because I’d rather not.”

God, she hates how Ellen goes all mom on her. The woman’s been here since before Y/N was born and when her mother died, she came closest to being a mother figure to Y/N while she also took care of her own child. Ellen knows her better than she knows herself, even knew about Adam, but Ellen didn’t tell. She wonders if she can tell Ellen about Dean? If she should tell? No, that’s probably not a good idea since Dean doesn’t want anyone to know.

“Y/N, I’m asking nicely.” Ellen holds out a hand, waiting for her to hand over the garment. 

She sighs and rolls her eyes, “Fine!”

Ellen doesn’t even wait for her to lay the shirt into her awaiting palm, instead, she tears it from Y/N’s grip. 

The woman holds it up, frowning, “That’s not your shirt.”

“How do you know?”

“I know every item in your wardrobe, Y/N, and this shirt isn’t yours,” Ellen says and puts the shirt to her nose to sniff at it. Y/N cringes, “Yep, definitely a man’s shirt. What happened?”

“Nothing?”

“Well, I hope that nothing knows what he’s done and that he’s in a lot of trouble if the King finds out.”

“I told him—” Y/N says meekly, “—about Adam.”

“Good, boy needs to know.” Ellen hands the shirt back to her, “Please don’t tell me it’s one of his.”

She doesn’t say anything but also, she doesn’t meet Ellen’s questioning eyes, avoiding them at all costs.

“Dear God, honey! No!” Ellen sighs loudly, “This is not going to end well, and you know it!”

“It’s different!” She shouts, “He’s different!”

“Yeah, tell that to your father when he has the boys balls in his hand ready to cut them off, will ya?”

Oh god, the image of it makes her skin crawl. Ellen is right. Of course the woman’s right, and Y/N hates that she is.

“He doesn’t need to know,” Y/N mumbles softly. 

Ellen gestures with her hands and there’s obvious irritation on her face as she rubs a hand over her forehead, “Look, I’m on your side, okay? Just please be careful, and I’m going to get you new pills, I’ll drop them off and hide them in your room in the evening, okay?”

Y/N’s pout turns into a big wide grin as she throws her arms around Ellen’s neck and sprays kisses on her cheek, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ellen says, “I love you, okay? I just want you to be safe.”

“I know.”

 Dean’s sitting at the counter of a roadside diner a couple of hours out of the city. To be honest, he didn’t know where to go at first, just got into his car and thought about leaving it all behind. He knows that he can if he really wants to, knows that he’s allowed if he has a good reason. 

While he drove, he thought about the reasons, but he came up empty-handed. Apparently, corruption of his own moral compass isn’t good enough of a reason, and he knows that too. It’s not going to be a reason for them to accept it because he’s been in his game long enough. 

But he has decided something for himself on his way out here. After this is all over, he’s going to leave the Bureau. He’s going to leave it all behind, get in his car, and drive. He has the feeling that he’s getting too old for all this bullshit. When he first started, he really had the impression that he could make a difference, that he could help make the world a little safer, but the reality caught up to him pretty fast, and now, after doing what he does for a decade, he knows that the world doesn’t change. When he catches a bad guy, there are at least five more who are going to take that guy’s place. When he closes a case, there are going to be ten more coming up. It’s a vicious circle that keeps on spinning.

He’s here now, isn’t he? He’s going to get this over with and Dean started to think about reasons for him not to leave, and there are some. There’s also a chump holding him back by clawing into his skin. That chump comes in the form of a stunning girl with a beautiful smile. That’s when Dean realizes that he doesn’t have a good enough reason to leave, but has a better reason to stay.

It’s afternoon and the diner is more than half empty. He’s nursing his coffee that tastes more like water with a sprinkle of coffee flavor as he waits. 

He knows it’s fucking risky disappearing after what happened at the restaurant this morning. It’s fucking risky to just get in his car and drive away without telling anyone where he’s going, but he needed a breather and he especially needed time to sort things out in his head. 

This whole operation is fucking with his mind. Fucking with his grip on morality. He has always known what’s right and what’s wrong, and he’s worked undercover before, but it never involved innocent fucking children for god’s sake!

The bell of the diner chimes and he notices a woman coming in. She walks to the counter and sits next to him.

“You got any news?” Dean asks, but he doesn’t look at the women. Instead, he stares down at his coffee, signaling for the waitress to pour him some more. 

“Not much.” His supervisor says, “You know we shouldn’t meet like this, right?”

Dean snorts, “We shouldn’t be doing a lot of things, Naomi. Yet, here we are,”

The woman ignores him.

“We found out that Benny is in contact with Marv,” Naomi says, while she signals for the waitress to bring her a cup as well. 

Dean debates on telling her that the coffee tastes like shit, but he decides against it. It’s the little thing he finds joy in nowadays. Instead, he tries not to frown too much as he asks, “Marv?”

“Marv Armstrong. He’s big in the human trafficking business.”

“Oh no,” Dean rubs at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, bringing it together in the middle to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He didn’t sleep nearly enough for such fucking bullshit.

Naomi thanks the waitress and takes a sip from her cup, spitting it right out with a disgusted expression on her face, and Dean has to hold himself together so as not to laugh out loud. 

The woman soon regains her composure, even before Dean’s done with laughing, “Try to be there when Benny meets Azazel. We want to know more about it.”

Fucking Christ, first they have a mole in the fucking family, and now this? Dean didn’t fucking sign up for fuckery, did he? 

He sighs and gets up from the stool before he fishes out a five-dollar bill from his jacket pocket, “I’ll try.”

“You want to leave so much for a bad coffee?” Naomi grits her teeth but doesn’t look at him.

Leaning down a little, he places the bill on the counter, “Hey, everyone needs money to get by, doesn’t matter how bad the coffee is.”

Dean walks out without another word and hurries to his car. He knows he has to be there for the meeting, but he has to do something else first.

 Y/N spends some time working in the restaurant after lunch. After she ushers Ellen out of her room, she gets dressed and puts some makeup on her face in order to hide the dark circles around her eyes. She arrived at the shop hangry, so Garth had made her a delicious burger and fries because he somehow knew that she needed it, and it really did help lift her mood a little.

Garth always knows what she needs and she loves him for it, is thankful that he enjoys working in her restaurant. He never complains about anything and always smiles. Sometimes, Garth is indeed the light of the restaurant and it makes her workdays so much more bearable.

After the meal, she checks in on her other employees to see if they have trouble managing the whole place without her being in as much as before, but apparently, everything seems to be going fine which actually disappoints her a little because it shows that she’s really not needed at all. 

Her dad’s right about it, and she hates that he is.

When she’s about to go to the back and continue with her inventory, the bell chimes and her dad walks in with some of his entourage. He walks straight to the counter and doesn’t sit down in his booth like he normally does. She senses that something must be going on.

“Are you hungry, dad?” Y/N asks and looks back at Garth who’s tossing some fries into the oil, “Garth’s making a new batch of fries.” 

“No, I already ate,” Her father says, “Is Dean in?” 

Well, should he be? She doesn’t know, because she hasn’t heard from him since last night. Her cheeks burn up at the memories.

“I’ve not been here long enough to know.” She says simply. Maybe because it’s the truth and maybe, because she does want to sound like she cares. 

God, she does care, though. Where is Dean?

“We’re going to be down for the rest of the day. Send him down when he drops by,” Her dad says and doesn’t even wait for her answer. Instead, he strolls to the back door, his entourage following him. 

“Benny is in but I haven’t seen Dean,” Garth chimes in from the back, but she doubts that her dad registered it. It doesn’t matter to her dad what Garth has to say anyway. 

Garth’s still smiling and it almost breaks her heart. She watches as Garth just shrugs and continues to whistle a tune while he takes out the fries as if he doesn’t really care if people don’t like him. He’s just being himself and that’s what she admires him for. She wished she could be a little more like Garth.

“Jo, you got this? I’ll be in the back,” she says, as Jo walks back to the counter with an empty tray after having served customers. 

“Sure thing,” the girl smiles at her.

Y/N nods with a smile before walking to the back thinking that she’ll definitely miss working in here.

 *

 About a half-hour into boring inventory, she hears the doorknob being turned. She has stopped listening to music while she’s in here, it just doesn’t seem safe when she can’t hear her surroundings. Her hand immediately goes to her gun that’s laying on the shelf next to her clipboard, as a precaution.

“Leave it, it’s me.” 

Y/N doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is. She’d recognize the hushed whisper anywhere. She’d recognize the smooth bass of the voice, even if her eyes were closed. It’s crazy how the sound of someone’s voice can jump-start her heart in a flash.

She doesn’t turn around, doesn’t know if she’d be able to look him in the eye, because she’s still a little salty that she didn’t wake up next to him, even though she knows that it’s irrational to be salty about it.

It’s absolutely stupid, she knows. 

He did the right thing, because how should she explain if she would have gotten caught going out of Dean’s room in the morning wearing only a shirt and panties? There’d be no way to talk herself out of it and it would land Dean in so much trouble. It’s just… her brain is incapable of thinking rationally at the moment, and she’s as far away from being reasonable at this very moment as she can be. It’s probably the princess-effect. 

“Dad’s waiting for you.” She says simply, trying to occupy herself as she takes her clipboard and writes something on it. She doesn’t even know what to write, draws stupid circles, and makes up numbers to write on it, hoping he doesn’t see the doodles. 

Still with her back to him, she feels him coming closer, feels the broad of him standing right behind her. The heat of his body radiates over to hers. And she smells him too. Smells the soap on his skin, the cologne on his shirt. 

God, it clouds her mind.

Dean places a hand on her shoulder, the other hand strokes down her back until it weaves around her waist, fingers span wide on her stomach. He pulls her closer, molding her back to his firm chest, and places a kiss on her neck. She feels the roughness of his scruff, which sends shivers up her spine.

“Have I upset you?” He whispers into her skin. 

She tilts her head a little and Dean kisses her temple, leaves his lips there as the grip around her waist tightens. 

“Just disappointed that I woke up in my own bed.” She mumbles.

Moments pass before she hears him chuckle next to her ear. 

“I’m sorry,” He says and kisses her once more on her cheek. 

He breathes out after, and she smells coffee on his breath, wonders where he got one. Wonders if he had one here. She places the clipboard on the shelf, turning around in his grip to meet his eyes for the first time, noticing when she sees him that he looks tired. There’s worry on his face also. 

Y/N hooks her arms in the back of his neck and Dean leans down, presses his forehead on hers, “I got something for you,” He says and smirks before he pecks her lips. 

Dean’s hand leaves her waist, goes to his jacket pocket and she feels something hard poking at her from in between them. It’s a little box and she leans back to be able to take a look at it. She takes it in her hand, examines it.

 Plan B

One Step

 The words read boldly on the box, and she looks up at Dean with a frown etched between her eyebrows. 

He chuckles and lifts his thumb to rub at the crease, “I shouldn’t have, uh, you know, come inside of you. I’m sorry about that, but you said things that made me forget my own damn name.” 

“I don’t need it,” She whispers, holding the box to him and wants him to take it back. 

This time, it’s his turn to frown. There’s clearly irritation on his face which she has to laugh at. 

“Why?” He asks, but he doesn’t take the box back. 

“I’m taking the pill, Dean. It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

Dean exhales loudly. His hot breath fans over her face. He takes a step back and paces around, before he threads a hand through his hair, “Jesus,” He groans in relief, “It was nagging at me the whole day! Fuck!” 

Y/N laughs when she watches him pace around some more and there it was, the realization that dawns on him, the tension that ebbs out of his body. Suddenly, Dean’s on her, wrapping his hands around her and lifts her up, one hand around her waist and one at the base of her neck as he draws her in for a kiss. It’s soft and gentle, tongue only teasing at her teeth, but when she opens up her mouth, he sucks in her tongue. 

God, it feels incredible. 

He chuckles when he parts and lets her down, but she’s still lost in the moment, still chases his lips with her mouth, her eyes still closed. His chuckle grows into a laugh and he pecks her nose, making it wet. 

“Baby, your dad wants to see me,” Dean whispers, pecking her lips once more and she groans out in frustration. His big hands go further down, cups her ass in his palms, and give it a squeeze, “I’ll see you, okay?” 

“‘K,” She nods, and licks her lips as he places one more kiss on her forehead. 

Dean leaves to walk to the door.

“What’s with that?” She still has the Plan B box in her hand and waves it around. 

“Keep it,”

“What?”

“Well, I can’t possibly turn up with Plan B in my jacket.” 

He’s not wrong, but still. Now she needs to walk around with it in her purse so she rolls her eyes, making him chuckle as he opens the door to the hallway.

Dean takes a last look back at her, lips curving up, creases deepening around his eyes, “You know, you’re really the only thing that keeps me going. I don’t think I would still be doing the shit I’m doing if you weren’t in it.” 

Y/N feels the color rising in her cheeks and Dean closes the door with a last nod of his head.

Chapter.09

Please share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear your feedback.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Marked (Part 24)

Dean x Reader

Word Count: ~4700

Warnings: Good ol’ fashioned missionary sex, heh. Discussion of some of the same issues that have come up so far in this series. 

A/N: Thanks to @stunudo, @dean-winchesters-bacon, and @fookinghelljensensthighs for checking this out in its early stages. Also thanks to everybody who has been so kind to this series; @dawnie1988, @the-chocolate-moose, @thoughtslikeaminefield, @covered-byroses... you all are so wonderful. 

This is the last “real” chapter of Marked, although there’s an epilogue coming soon and at least two codas planned already. I love these two fuckwits and I’m not ready to say goodbye to them quite yet. 

This references several other chapters, most notably Part 1 and Part 12. If you want to refresh your memory or catch up, the masterpost is HERE. 

The split lip from the barfight was the last visible reminder of Dean. It faded within a couple days. I stared blankly at my face in the mirror, when it was gone. I felt like I should have scars everywhere, thick and knotted, visibly holding me together. 

I kept busy. I dusted my little house. I bought a punching bag and set it up in the living room. I got my old job back. 

This is healthy, I told myself. This is normal. You’re doing the smart thing. 

I pulled up outside the roadhouse for my first shift in what felt like a lifetime, and then I sat there, frozen, with my hands on the steering wheel, suddenly paralyzed as I remembered the way he’d looked at me that first night, leaning over the bar and tossing back whiskey like it was water. 

I’d gone with him, that night, even though I knew how badly it might end. I knew he might hurt me. I let him strip me down, mark me as his own, fuck me and fuck me up until I was bruised and aching. This thing between us had been dark and messy and twisted from the beginning. It had always been painful.  

This is the right choice.

I took a deep breath, pulled down the mirror, checked my makeup. I stared at my reflection. I looked fine: pale, drab, washed-out, but fine. I couldn’t move. 

I didn’t want fine. I wanted jade eyes and ruby scratches across my back. I wanted pink-flushed skin under blistering hot water. I wanted freckles under my tongue and scar tissue under my fingertips. I wanted Dean. 

Painful, dark, twisted, messy… but it was ours, and it was honest, and we fit together. I loved him, broken pieces and all. My world was brighter, more vivid, more colorful with him in it. He was worth every moment of pain.  

Besides, I’ve always enjoyed a little pain with my pleasure.

This is the smart thing to do. 

I drove out of the parking lot so fast that gravel went flying. 

I never said I was a smart woman. 

———

The motel smelled the same. It hit me, when I walked in the door, and I had to stop and blink away the fog of memories for a moment. If I closed my eyes, I could almost taste him. 

I’d told him 8:00. I had ten minutes. 

At 7:56, I stripped down and knelt at the foot of the bed, ignoring the nasty rough carpet and the chill down my spine.

8:03. 

Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he’d decided it was easier to stay apart; maybe I was about to humiliate myself. 

I folded my hands in my lap and breathed: in and out. 

8:05.

Maybe the front desk mixed up the rooms, gave him the wrong key. 

In. Out. 

8:07. 

I started shaking when I heard him at the door. I closed my eyes and waited. 

The door swung open and then closed again. I heard a barely-there gasp and then nothing, just shocked silence and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. 

In, out. 

I looked up at him. He was frozen, standing there staring at me open-mouthed, eyes wide and wild. He looked like he had just skidded to a halt at the edge of a cliff: poised on tiptoes, velocity still propelling him forward. 

He took one halting step, then another. I swallowed around the painful lump in my throat, my eyes locked with his as he crossed the last few feet between us with big rushed strides, and he fell to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut in a hunched, curled-in version of my own pose. 

We knelt, face to face, in silence. He slumped to the side, slowly, tilting his head against the bed as if he was too tired to support himself. 

My mind was blank. I’d completely forgotten the speech I’d planned. All I could think about was how goddamn beautiful he was; I looked at his lips as they parted around quick panicky breaths, and I looked at his freckles, and I clenched my hands into fists to stop them from shaking. 

“What is this?” he asked, voice catching on the words. 

My heartbeat was getting louder, thundering in my ears. 

“I wanted to show you,” I whispered. “That… I’m yours. I’m all yours, and I have been since the night we met.” 

Dean drew in a ragged breath. His eyes were darting back and forth, searching for something. Solid ground, maybe. There was nothing but open air beneath our feet. 

“But what about - everything? What you said?” 

There were so many things I wanted to say, but I was drowning in the sparkling green-gold of his eyes. 

“Can you just kiss me, first?” I said hoarsely. A shadow of a smile flickered over his features. 

He leaned in close, cradling my face in his hands, stroking my temples with his thumbs tenderly, and I met him in the middle for a kiss that was so much gentler than it should’ve been for all the raw passion behind it. 

We were both holding back; Dean’s hands were trembling, and I could feel the way he wanted to suck and bite and swallow me whole but instead he brushed his lips over mine chastely, again and again, taking tiny delicate tastes of my mouth. My entire body was vibrating with the barely-controlled urge to feel him all over me, and my skin felt too hot and too tight and I could barely fucking breathe, but I just curled my fingers around his wrists, holding his hands in place where they cupped my cheeks, and tried to remember which way was up. 

He let out a shaky little sigh and pulled away, just an inch at first, enough to nudge the tip of my nose with his, and then the rest of the way, slow, stretching the space between us like taffy. I released him reluctantly.

“I’ve got some shit I need to deal with,” I stammered, starting somewhere in the middle of my well-planned speech, all jumbled up and almost choking on the words, “and you’re all sorts of fucked up -” 

He let out a strangled laugh, and his hands twitched on his thighs like he wanted to reach out and lace our fingers together. 

“- but somebody told me once that it’s not a destination,” I barreled on, determined to get the words out. “Healing, I mean. You don’t just wake up better one day, it’s all about the steps. And I want to take those steps with you.” 

He scrubbed a hand over his face and bit his lip so hard I could see the skin around his teeth going bloodless white. 

“What if I hurt you?” 

I shrugged, smiling around the lump in my throat. “You did. But… I’m still here, right?” 

“That’s not what -”

“I’m still here, Dean. Broken pieces and all. And I’m sure you’ll hurt me again, and I’ll hurt you, because as far as I can fucking tell, that’s what love is; it’s showing someone your weak spots and handing them a knife and inviting them to cut you open. But we’re tough fuckers. We’ll live. It happens.” 

He was studying me, lips slightly parted, forehead creased like he was trying to solve a puzzle. 

“You’re serious,” he said, with a stunned little laugh. “You’re saying -” 

He hesitated, mouth working soundlessly, and then scowled like he did when he was trying not to cry. 

“You sure?” he asked hoarsely. I remembered the first time he’d asked me that question, and I smiled. 

“Yes.” 

He glared at a point somewhere over my shoulder.

“I’m going to hurt you again,” he said, and I could hear the panicky edge in the words. “I don’t want to hurt you again.” 

I almost laughed, the memory so visceral I could feel the phantom ache of his fingers on my thighs. 

“Do you remember what I said? The first night, when you said… ‘if I hurt you.’” 

“You said… Please hurt me,” he said raggedly. “But -” 

“Dean. I gave up control that night, just like this, and… I’m starting to realize, I was never going to get it back,” I interrupted, twisting my hands in my lap as the words started to spill out all at once. “I was kidding myself, thinking I could. When it comes to you… when it comes to us? It’s not gonna be easy, but we could work on ourselves for a fucking century and it wouldn’t be easy, so let’s fucking work on it together. I know it’ll hurt and I’ll never have any sort of control and… and you’re worth the risk. I trust you, to take that risk with me. I trusted you the night I met you, for fuck’s sake, I stripped down and I asked you to hurt me and I knew that you were worth the risk, and I don’t regret it for a fucking second, and even after everything…” 

I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, shivering, trying to slow down. Everything I wanted to say was flooding out all at once. 

“Breathe,” he said softly, and his hands settled at my waist, firm but gentle, grounding me. 

In. Out. 

He tugged me closer, until I was straddling him, and shifted so that he was sitting with his back against the foot of the bed. I slipped my arms around his neck and leaned in, resting my forehead against his for a moment, steadying myself. 

In. Out. 

My vision had gone all foggy and strange. When I blinked away stinging-hot tears and forced the world back into focus, he was starting to smile, slowly, hope sparkling in his eyes like the sun coming out from behind a cloud after a storm. 

“I know exactly who you are,” I whispered fiercely. “I know that you suck at talking about your feelings and I know how bad things could go. I’ve seen all that shit you’d rather keep hidden. And I still think you’re worth the risk, so. Here I am. I’m all yours. I love you. I love you, dumbass, okay? I’m right here. Let’s do this.” 

“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. Breathe.” 

I was lightheaded, so desperately, wildly, stupidly in love with him that there was no room left in my chest for something as trivial as oxygen. 

“In and out,” Dean repeated. He wrapped his arms around me, one palm warm on my lower back, the other pressing between my shoulderblades. 

“Okay?” I echoed, nudging my nose against his. 

“Yeah. Okay. I love you too, and... I’m in,” he murmured, and chuckled softly. “I’m scared shitless, but I’m in.” 

I let out a hiccuping hitch of a breath and then a slow, shuddery sigh. I wiped tears from Dean’s cheeks, brushing my fingers over his freckles and then down to trace the shape of his mouth. His kiss tasted like salt and felt like a promise. 

“Bed?” he whispered. I sniffed and nodded, unfolding my stiff knees and crawling up to get under the coverlet. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I mumbled, as Dean kicked his shoes off. He shot me an oddly shy grin as he unbuttoned his shirt; I could see his fingers shaking. He was moving slow and deliberate, like he had to think carefully about every step, and I was freezing the moment in my mind, savoring the sight of every inch of skin even as my pulse hammered crazily in my ears and my fingers itched to touch. He fumbled nervously with his belt and almost tripped stepping out of his jeans, and we were both giggling, high and wobbly, as he finally lifted the comforter and got between the sheets with me. 

I turned on my side, facing him. He slid in close, hooking an ankle over my legs, fingers brushing my hair back before his hand settled on the side of my neck, and I slipped an arm around his waist. My giggle died in my throat as we stared at each other without saying a word. 

His eyelashes were dark and spiky-wet, but the tear tracks down his cheeks were already drying. The bedside lamp gave him a little halo of gold. He was smiling, and he was mine, and he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, broken pieces and all. 

I squirmed closer, inching in until I could kiss the corner of his smile, then the Cupid’s bow of his upper lip and the lush curve of his lower lip. I kissed the tip of his nose, then the bridge of it, and I kissed his freckles, running my mouth over them slowly before I pressed my lips to his temple and his cheekbone and his jaw. 

When I slid on top of him, rolling him onto his back, he looked up at me through heavy-lidded eyes, a slight wrinkle creasing his forehead, and trailed gentle fingers down the side of my face, reverent. 

I ducked down, nosing at the stubble on the underside of his jaw and then dragging my lips down the side of his neck, peppering quick kisses along his collarbone and mouthing at the round of his shoulder. I traced the edge of the anti-possession symbol with my tongue and shifted back, inching down his body until I could press my ear to his chest, right over the steady thump-thump of his heart. I rested there, listening, as I swept my fingers down his ribs, down his hip, swirling my fingertips in little circles. He ran his fingers through my hair slowly. 

I kissed my way down his body, inch by inch, the dip of his belly button and the jut of his hipbone. I licked down the crease of his hip, then up the flushed length of his cock, slow, taking my time; I could feel the pulse of a vein running under my tongue, could taste bitter salt at the head, could smell him all around me. 

His hand cupped my cheek gently and I turned, nuzzling into the touch, and then kissed his palm before looking up at him. He was watching me with something like wonder in his eyes, his face shining with the breathtaking softness that made him such a walking study in contrasts. 

When he looked at me like that, it was fucking impossible not to kiss him; I crawled up with my eyes locked helplessly on his, hypnotized, until I could press my mouth to his again, licking between his lips and losing myself in the taste of him. 

I didn’t want to stop kissing him, once I’d started again. He tangled one hand in my hair, flattened the other against my lower back, and he held me close with a barely-restrained urgency, muscles trembling behind a gentle, tender touch. We kissed syrupy-slow, deep and breathless and bruising, until my mouth was swollen and my skin was on fire with it. 

He rolled us over without warning, flipping me on my back and looking down at me with wild-eyed desperation as we both panted, trying to catch our breath. 

He kissed my neck with those puffed-red velvet-soft lips, dragging his teeth down gently until he could caress my collarbone with his mouth. It was such a careful touch; he wasn’t biting, wasn’t sucking, wasn’t leaving stinging overheated skin in his wake, but I still felt the intensity of it like a thousand volts as he kissed the hollow of my throat and the flat of my breastbone. 

He palmed my breast, calluses dragging at pebbled skin, and followed the rough dry touch with the slick soft warmth of his mouth, swirling his tongue. Heat blossomed low and deep in my belly. I ran my fingers through his hair and then down, stroking his freckled shoulders. His teeth scraped with just enough pressure to make me hiss before he soothed with his tongue and sucked gently, and then he did it again, alternating rough-soft-rough-soft. By the time he switched sides, my nipple was taut and aching. He just repeated the process patiently, tongue and teeth and lips working me over until I was whimpering and squirming under his touch. 

I could feel the heavy panting breaths from his open mouth as it grazed my skin. He kissed my freckles and my scars, nuzzled the soft give of my stomach, and when he finally slid down between my legs, he mouthed my inner thigh and brushed his lips delicately over my stretch marks before finally, finally, flattening his tongue over my clit and giving a long, slow, luscious lick. We both moaned in unison, and then he was opening me up with two fingers and tasting, teasing with sloppy open-mouthed kisses, stroking me with his tongue and humming like I was his dessert. 

Until Dean, I’d never really realized how intimate this could be, how vulnerable, how gut-wrenchingly sweet. It felt like he was fucking worshipping me with his mouth.

It wasn’t just that he knew how to touch me. It was the sounds he made, wet obscene noises like he was taking a slurping bite from a juicy overripe peach. It was the way he buried his face between my legs unabashedly, not just licking but leaning into me with his lips and cheeks and nose and chin, his stubble harsh on the insides of my thighs and his groans muffled against my slick skin. It was the way his entire body seemed to press into the swirl of his tongue, muscles rolling under the pale skin of his shoulders and his back, down to where his hips were rocking into the mattress like he couldn’t help himself. 

I twined my fingers in his hair and let my head fall back as my spine bowed up, my hips tilting and twisting to follow the movements of his mouth. I hooked one leg over his shoulder, my heel digging into his back and shoving him closer as my thighs started to shake. He sucked hard, lips sealing around my clit and making me groan, low and broken, as sparks of heat swept through me. 

“Slow - slow down, I -” 

He didn’t. He didn’t slow down, didn’t give me a chance to pull back, just did something incredible with his mouth as he curled his fingers into me, and the shimmery pleasure of it rippled up and left me shuddering. He made this desperate overwhelmed noise that I could feel vibrating against my clit, and all those sparks of heat pulsed brightly, flared, swelled hotter and higher until there was nowhere left to go. 

I just gasped as I came, dizzy and whimpering, riding the crest of it for what seemed like a long, long time. Dean was drawing it out, twisting his fingers into me gently, massaging my clit with his tongue, leaving me helpless, and I let it crash through me and carry me along until the waves started to recede. 

“Gorgeous,” Dean rasped, smearing an open-mouthed kiss up my hip as he crawled up my body, something about the slinking set of his shoulders turning it into a cat-like prowl. I slid my hands around his neck as soon as I could reach him, pulling him down into a deep, greedy kiss. 

My pulse was kicking up in a wild jig. My entire body was lit up with the feel of his skin on mine, with elation, with absolute terror and incandescent joy all at once. 

His hips slotted in solidly between my sprawled-open legs and he pressed down, grinding against me, hard and hot in the crease of my thigh. His head dropped and he buried his face in my neck, letting out a sigh. I could feel his long lashes fluttering against my sticky skin. His hair was damp with sweat at the temples when I ran my fingers through it, scritch-scratching at his favorite spot behind his ear. He practically purred at the touch before licking his way up my jaw. 

“Can I…?” he whispered, voice wobbly, lips pressed right up against my ear. 

“Please,” I breathed, and again: “Please, please, Dean, just - yeah.” 

He shifted slightly, reaching down between us, and I could feel the way he was shaking. He dragged the head of his cock down against where I was soaked and spread-open for him and he cursed, going still, shoulders heaving with a deep breath as he nudged against my slippery-wet center. 

“Not gonna - this is not gonna last long,” he gritted out, with a breathless laugh. I just fisted one hand in his hair, slid the other to the dip of his back, and pulled him in until he sank down, silky-thick and scorching-hot, so fucking deep, so fucking perfect. We both shuddered and clung to each other, breathing in unison with these big ragged gulps, sucking in air like we were drowning in each other. 

“Fucking - god, Dean, feels so fucking good,” I gasped, half-laughing, marveling. 

“You have no idea,” he growled, and he kissed my temple, my cheek, my forehead, then my mouth again. 

I was trying to pull him closer even though it wasn’t physically possible. I rocked my hips, feeling the drag of dripping-wet friction radiating out, rippling, rolling through me. 

“Love you,” I whispered, and I could feel his shiver all the way down his spine. His hips jerked deeper and my entire body throbbed in response.  

“I didn’t think - I didn’t know if we - if I’d ever…” 

His voice broke on a strangled sigh, and I lurched blindly for his mouth, kissing him hard and hot enough to swallow the little sob that followed. 

“‘m here,” I said fiercely, and I hid my face in his neck for a moment, eyes screwed shut, holding back the fucking tidal wave of emotion that was threatening to swamp me. 

“Mine,” Dean said, gravelly and tender. He drew back slow only to slide in even slower, a long delicious thrust that I could feel everywhere. He made an anguished sound through gritted teeth as I clamped down, squeezing the rock-hard thickness of him, arousal shuddering through me in wild shivery pulses. 

“Yours,” I promised. 

He was barely moving, clutching me close, breathing harshly in my ear. 

“God, I was so fucking scared,” Dean confessed. “When you called, I thought - thought we’d never get to do this again, and I just - never felt like this with anybody, not ever. Never felt this fucking close to anybody.” 

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Yeah, I - god, scares me so fucking much sometimes.” 

I could feel the desperation in his body, in every muscle, every inch of sweaty skin that was flush against mine, in the way he was quivering and trying so hard to hold back. He groaned, hips rocking in tiny shallow figure-eights. 

“Just - need a second, fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he panted, and he slid a hand down between us, smoothing the pad of his thumb over my clit. I arched up into it and he rubbed me in slow, steady circles, each roll of his thumb ratcheting up the tension that was building rapidly in my core. 

“Jesus, Dean,” I hissed, squirming and suddenly desperate. “Fucking close, c’mon, need you, I -”

He hitched up my knee and readjusted, and the next stroke felt like it was splitting me open, angled against something white-hot and sensitive inside me. My fingers slid down the sweat-slick expanse of his back as I tried to hold on. His hips smacked solidly against my inner thighs and he twisted up, screwed in deeper; I could feel the bruises already but I hooked my ankles more securely around his waist and bucked up to meet him. 

Instead of pulling back again he just stayed, swiveling his hips and grinding into that spot with spine-melting strength. I let out a whimpering moan, seeing stars. Dean was cursing, saying my name like a broken prayer, and molten heat was pulsing low in my belly. 

“I’ve got you,” he rasped. “Let go for me, sweetheart, let me feel you… I’ve got you, I’m right here, I -” 

“Love you,” I choked out. 

“That’s my girl,” he breathed. “Love you. Love you so fucking much, god.” 

I arched up as the next twist of heat pulled me tight like a bowstring, and through half-open eyes I got a glimpse of his face: the slack red shape of his mouth, the shine of sweat trickling down his temple, the glitter of unshed tears in his eyes, all of it bright and vivid and mine. 

“Love you,” I said again. It was the only thing I could hold onto; everything else was starting to dissolve in Technicolor swirls, and then the first spasm slammed into me and sent me spiraling out. I felt him jerk and shout and drive in deep, wet-hot bliss surging from where I was squeezing around him. There were big jagged lightning bolts in my guts, splintering out to my fingertips, my toes, every inch of me thrumming like I’d been plugged into the power grid. 

We shuddered through it together, straining against each other with a pull-push-give-take ebb and swell like the moon tugging at the tides. I felt so full, so complete, that it drove everything else away; the blinding flashes of electricity between us didn’t leave room for darkness, and the raw joy in my ribcage didn’t leave room for doubt. 

Little butterfly-wing flutters of pleasure skittered down my skin for what felt like a long, long time. We held each other. He ran his hands over me carefully, like I was something fragile, and I shivered. 

The world outside the motel room didn’t exist. It was just Dean and me, his body tangled with mine, breathing each other’s air and dripping with each other’s sweat, as naked and vulnerable and close as two people can be. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, and I just laughed. 

-----

He slipped up behind me while I washed my face the next morning, slid his arms around me, smiled at my reflection in the mirror. I admired the way the light caught in his long eyelashes and made them look like spun gold. He smoothed my t-shirt down over my hips and hooked his thumbs in my belt loops, holding me close as he kissed the side of my neck. 

We looked whole and perfect and happy together. I knew it wasn’t the truth; the scars were there, even if they didn’t show in the bright morning sunlight. I didn’t mind, though.  

Cuts scab over, bruises fade away. Our bodies knit themselves back together. When I look at my scars, I don’t see damage. I see proof that I survived. 

Every experience (every experience worth having, at least) changes you in its own invisible way. The things that shape you, the things that matter, leave their own scars. Love always leaves a mark. 

“What is it?” Dean asked, his eyes bright in the mirror. I turned in his arms and kissed him, just because I could. 

“Wondering how long it’s gonna take you to try to push me away again,” I teased, and he rolled his eyes. 

“Probably not long,” he said wryly.

“It’s okay,” I said, smiling. “I’ll pull you back. I’m stronger than I look.” 

He grinned at me, soft and sparkling. “You sure are.” 

“There’s this guy who’s been teaching me how to fight. He’s pretty cool.” I winked at him. “Let’s go get some food, I’m starving. Worked up an appetite.” 

I grabbed my bag and he turned off the lights. He waited for me by the door as I took one last look around at the shitty motel room, the stained carpet, the rumpled sheets, the thick dark curtains. 

Then I grabbed his hand, lacing our fingers together with a smile. We stepped into the sunshine together. 

.

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Next part HERE. 

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[anonthenullifier]

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 7

A Victorian Scarlet Vision AU

Chapter Title: In which there is bliss and then it all goes poorly

Chapter summary: After learning more about Stark's plans for the Exhibition of Industry, Wanda discovers her past merging with her present as she hurries to warn Vision of impending peril.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/38013749

Hope you enjoy!

Wanda wakes rested, energized, and thrumming with the afterglow of euphoria. A scan with her powers reveals it was not just a pleasant dream, the presence of Vision’s slightly groggy mind flaring brightly from the main room. She dresses quickly, hands occupied with roping her hair into a tight knot while a puff of scarlet opens the door, her lips traveling upwards at the sight of Vision standing in the middle of the room, one sleeve rolled up to the elbow, shirt unbuttoned down to the glint of vibranium on his sternum, and his hands and mind concentrated on unrolling and fastening his other sleeve around his wrist. It’s not clear if he’s seen her, his fingers working out the creases in the fabric with meticulous movements, two tugs of his shirt cuff and then a smoothing out with his palm. Wanda considers removing herself to her room due to an odd, somewhat thrilling feel of intimacy watching his morning routine, but she remains, eyes following the confident, hypnotic repetition of his actions on the other side of his body, the metal rods of his arm disappearing into the well-honed disguise of a butler. Yet Wanda can’t be fooled by the impeccably tailored armor, knows the personality, the intelligence, and the caring that hides beneath the facade no matter how high he buttons the shirt or how serious the pattern of his waistcoat. “Good morning.” His salutation catches her off guard, mind furiously attempting to refocus from his shirt sleeves to his face, relieved when she finds delight not vexation in his smile. “Morning.” The question of how he slept is forgotten as she watches him run the long, flat tie through his fingers. Her father never wore ties, maybe only three times in her life and she remembers the way her mother would grow fed up with how long it took him to preen himself. Vision does not falter the way her father would, no aggravation at the floppiness of the fabric or the complicated loops needed to complete the process. Instead he works through it methodically, popping his collar, draping the tie around the nape of his neck, lining up the fabric on his chest with gentle, fine-tuned guidance, folding it over his fingers���first the left side and then the right―pinching the two sides together and then sliding the last of the fabric through the back.  “That’s impressive.” A pleased confidence flashes in his eyes, one that, if used too often, might permanently destabilize her knees, especially when paired with the assured movement of his fingers straightening out the tie, “Thank you, it is a point of pride.”

“Oh? “Yes,” he turns towards her now, buttoning the last of his shirt and gingerly folding the collar down, ensemble almost complete minus his coat, gloves, and hat.  “During my recovery, the physician gave me numerous physical tasks to regain mobility, ranging from walking five steps without aid to tying a bow tie.” Wanda is drawn in by the steady gaze of his eyes. “It took me three hundred and twenty six tries to develop the necessary dexterity.” Once she’s close enough, she reaches out, experimentally placing her hands on his chest.  When he doesn’t move away, his mouth inching up a minuscule amount as he talks, she begins tracing up along the lines of his waistcoat. “Most days I am now successful on the first attempt.” Her fingers continue their journey, stopping at his neck to pinch the tie in both hands, pretending to fix it despite the fact it already lays perfectly in place. “Very impressive.” If there was any worry that the sun would chase away his affection it is defeated soundly when he bends, a coy “Thank you” tickling her lips. He pauses, silently seeking permission, and Wanda grants it, pulling him down the last half inch by his bow tie. This kiss is longer than the night before, more confident and affectionate, her fingers curling tighter into the silk and erupting with scarlet when he places a hand firmly on her lower back.  Vision shifts, and if he dares to think he can end this kiss now, especially if he insists on leaving for weeks, then he truly is an imbecile. To make her intentions irrevocably clear, Wanda’s hands vacate the tie so she can wrap her arms around his neck, guiding him closer to her. He obliges, more so than any book of butlering would recommend or etiquette likely allows, the gentle poise of his body fading the deeper she kisses him and the tighter her arms get to eliminate any last iota of space between them. This action is rewarded with an electric feeling tingling along her spine as his hands come to grip her waist, holding her firmly against him. “Miss Maximoff,” the way her name sounds in his euphonious accent and the smile glancing her mouth only increases the desire spreading from her chest to the tips of her toes, her lips begging for one more kiss, which Vision seems to heavily consider, voice quieting at her amative stare. “Regrettably I, I do nee-,” Wanda gently leads him back to her, his conviction to finish the sentence crumbling as his lips descend comfortably back to hers, fingers scrunching around her waist. If he never finishes the thought it means time will remain locked in this moment, a wholly desirable outcome.  Yet he won’t concede, pulling back just enough to pepper the rest of his sentence with apologetic tenderness, fingers still clutching her waist as if he doesn’t want to believe the words either, “I need to leave.” Vision tilts his head forward, lips moving strategically out of reach while his forehead comes to rest against hers, his voice uneven and breathy, “May I call on you, when I return?” “Of course.” A contented smile meets her words, a gentleness signaling he is about to step away, but she is unwilling to lose this just yet. “You know Vizh,” she intends to draw out his name, entice him closer, but the last syllable is smothered by the curious squint of his eyes and the alluring, pursed smile on his lips. So she commits to the shortened moniker, arms descending slightly, her palms skimming along his shoulders as she angles into her next attempt to elongate their time together. “The weather looks quite dreadful today, it might not be in your best interest to leave.” Vision twists his body, the movement turning her as well, to examine the undeniably cheerful sunshine streaming through the windows. His eyes travel along her face, his expression torn between apology and amusement, “Wanda, believe me, I desperately wish to stay.” “Will Stark send someone if you don’t come back?” The line of his mouth develops a grimness despite his eyes remaining jovial, “After an entire night away, he might come himself.” Wanda gives an exaggerated grimace at the information, finally admitting defeat with a sighed “Fine,” and releasing him to step away. She crosses her arms, attempting to still the rapid beating in her chest, while her eyes follow as he gathers the rest of his belongings.  Pinpointing exactly what she feels is difficult, the thrill of this new development in their relationship battling the crestfallen pang of the absence of his touch and the reality of not seeing him for weeks. What she does know for certain is that these last moments need to be utilized strategically to allow her to enjoy his company before it’s gone. “You said Stark is bringing three demonstrations?” It’s not the ideal topic, the mixture of Stark with any sort of desire unwelcome, yet it is the one that guarantees she can hear him talk freely, relish the soothing intonations of his explanations.

“Yes,” gingerly he tears the pages from his notebook containing the tarot translations. “Mr. Stark is showcasing his luxury steamboat, the Virginia,” the notebook slides into the inside pocket of his coat along with the pen, “which we are actually taking down to the Exhibition.” 

Wanda watches him pick up his coat and smooth out the stubborn creases created from hanging all night. “Not the railway?”

“Mr. Stark has sworn off such travel after his bid to fund the New York Central Railroad mergera was denied.”

There was some talk about the merger, she thinks, but none of it really mattered to her, until now, when suddenly she feels the need to become a more faithful patron of the railroad. “So he built a boat instead?” 

A conspiratorial grin flirts with Vision’s mouth, an expression she’s never seen on his face, yet it may already be one of her favorites, particularly given it is in response to Stark’s utter ridiculousness. “Mr. Stark is very gifted at channeling his rejections into innovations.”

“Just sounds like a sore loser to me.” If they were around Stark now, or anyone for that matter, she knows Vision’s face would be inexpressive, neutral to a fault, luckily she is able to see his lips give in to temptation and quirk up at the jab. “What else is he bringing?”

Vision slides his arms into the coat as he answers, “The opening demonstration of the Exhibition will be of a full-bodied mechanization deemed the Iron Man,” distaste scrunches Vision’s nose, a lighthearted annoyance imbuing his words as he explains further,  “I have attempted to point out that Steel Man is more accurate to the actual composition of the suit, but Mr. Stark says it is not as flashy.”

The politics of naming, though amusing, it not something she feels like she should enter at the moment. “And the last one?”

Vision buttons the jacket, eyes downturned to focus on his slightly shaky fingers. “Mr. Stark is holding a private demonstration of the Arc Infusion Pump.”

An easy shrug of his shoulders shifts his coat to its proper place though Wanda barely notices, her mind latching on to the last point, the pulse of her powers growing in her palms at his words. “You’re taking the arc reactor into the public?”

“Well not the public, a private demonstration for only the most prominent names in medicine.” Technicalities do not change the fundamental issue nor the vertiginous descent of her heart. “Wanda, are you feeling okay?” 

Concern is etched on his face and she attempts to keep her voice level and curious, throwing in a touch of revulsion when she reaches Stark’s name, “Is Stark making you do the demonstration?”

Vision’s wariness remains, brow wrinkling at the change in the atmosphere, “No, Mr. Stark asked for one of the physicians to bring a patient.” This does little to quell the pebble of worry growing in her mind. “It is quite exciting,” a tentative hand runs along her arm, guiding her to look up at him and the inquisitive enthusiasm brimming in his eyes, “the possibility of engaging these great thinkers to develop the technology further to help others. It is the vision of medicine Mr. Stark always talks about.”

He’s clearly excited for this and so she feels the need to echo that with a half-empty, “That sounds wonderful, Vizh.” The lack of conviction in her response pulls his features down, his mouth taut and seemingly torn on how to proceed.

“I need to leave.” The proclamation is hesitant, the syllables hovering in the air as he waits for some sign from her on what to do. Wanda smiles, a small nod releasing him to finish getting ready. For a brief moment, when his back is turned and he can’t possibly see the suggestion on her face, she considers trapping him in scarlet, absconding away with him to the furthest reaches of the country, starting a simple life with no trace of their pasts, yet such daydreams are impossible, the squeak of his leather gloves sliding over his scarred hands a reminder of how brief such a fantasy would be before reality caught them. He turns back towards her, ignorant of the wondrous albeit fleeting plan, and nods, his feet taking him reluctantly out the door.

Wanda follows him to the carriage, the unease she has at his leaving causing her thoughts to sprint and collide in her brain, rendering any intelligible sentences unutterable. The last thing she wants is for him to leave in silence, so she finally suffices with a, “Be safe, Vision.”

It seems an appropriate comment, a tender turn of his mouth accompanying his, “I will.”  Vision glances around them, confirming they are still completely alone, yet it seems even the threat of a random traveler coming over the hill restricts his movements, his mouth still trapped in the half-moon smile, but instead of stepping closer he reaches down, sliding his fingers under hers, his blue eyes studying her intently. “I-um,” the gloves seem to have sealed away his confidence, returning him to adept politeness, yet he manages to bypass etiquette long enough to eek out a quiet, breathtakingly genuine, “will miss your company,” as he eases her hand to his mouth, a light, heartfelt press of his lips to her knuckle sending a flutter through her stomach and cementing her adoration of his man. “Farewell, Wanda.”

“Goodbye, Vision.” Wanda waves as he leaves, heart sinking in time with his descent down the hill and out of her sight.

Wanda assumed the sunken feeling would dissipate as the day went on, and yet her heart seems to only keep dropping. The memories of his visit war against an ever expanding anxiety, one she has tried to chase away by throwing herself into chores, even walking to the market to assess the damage done to her stall from the storm. Nothing she does, however, can stop the cacophony of emotions from ricocheting inside of her, her body practically vibrating as her scarlet tinged fingers toil at reattaching the curtains to the slanted poles of her stall.

Ideally there is no reason for her to be this anxious, Vision is fine (hopefully more than just fine), Stark is, unfortunately, fine, they are leaving to present inventions, an activity Stark is well known for, his panache legendary. She should be allowing her mind to lose itself in the memories of the soft ridges of Vision’s lips and the thrill of the pressure of his fingers curled around her, this time out of desire and not pain. Yet her mind continually cycles back to the arc reactor, an item prized by many, one even her own existence has revolved around.  The image of the wires and the stone is committed to her memory, having been beaten into her body each day while she and Pietro learned to use their powers and fulfill their duty.

Another angry knot secures the fabric to the pole before her hands move on and her mind transitions to her next futile attempt to stave off the decision she knows is on the horizon.

According to Vision’s interpretation, Stark’s plan is charitable, sharing the invention with others in order to help more people (people such as Vision), but it is also, no doubt, simultaneously a carefully constructed demonstration where he can tout his superiority over the minds that should have made the breakthrough. It is entirely possible there is nothing more than this -- a simple demonstration of bravado after which the reactor will return to the manor and famed obscurity once more. Vision, who should care very much about the safety of the machine, seems unconcerned, eager even, but he also believes she is extraordinary, that there is nothing to fear about her, and so has shown his own questionable, naive placement of trust. Wanda is well aware, however, of the roiling clouds of her past sins, ones too dark for even her to have clarity about her identity, which is why she knows, deep down, there is no possibility this is a simple, intimate meeting of minds. Just because it is private doesn’t mean Stark has kept silent on it -- his loose lips even more legendary than his showmanship.

Wanda releases a furious, exhausted huff at the path that lays before her. If she had remained unattached and indifferent, she could shrug her shoulders, continue living with the peace that she had nothing actively to do with Stark’s demise, and all the while remain free of the shackles of her prior decisions. But it’s not that simple, not anymore.  

Gingerly she ties the last of the rope before standing and inspecting the small satchel at her waist, jingling it for a sense how much is left from Mrs. Mesnier’s palm readings. The journey from her tent to the office is short, maybe a two minute walk, and yet her feet slog through the dirt, her instincts screaming to turn around, pack up her things, and keep moving until everything is forgotten. In contrast, her heart constricts at the thought of Vision being hurt by her inaction, the guilt of harming him not once but twice, and this time potentially irrevocably, too much to bear.

Wanda tamps down the stifling sense of foreboding cocooning around her as she walks through the doorway of the office. Though the town is small, the presence of the lumber mill means there is a telegraph machine, a contraption she doesn’t fully understand or trust, having only used it twice under dire circumstances. “Excuse me?” The man sitting behind the desk is lost in the newspaper, turning the black-and-white page at an achingly slow pace. A louder, firmer “Excuse me” startles him.

“What can I do for you?”

“How much to send a telegraph?”

There is likely a sign to answer this information or so the exaggerated eye roll suggests.  The newspaper snaps shut, a muttered curse going along with his choppy movements as he stands and pulls out a sheet of paper. “Quarter a word, fifty cent if it’s going past the city, umble-cum-stumbleb ma’am?”

Wanda nods, sorting through the menagerie of metal pieces in her hand, trying to figure out how to send her message in the fewest words possible so she doesn’t spend the last of her earnings. “Okay, may I?”

“I can do it,” the quill is poised over the sheet, the impatience at her interrupting his newspaper reading still very much present in his tone, “ma’am.”

Wanda clamps her hands shut, forcing an amicable smile on her face, “Very well.” Whether he realizes now or as he sends the message that it is in a different language likely won’t impact the expected anger from him, but Wanda always tries to keep her status as unnoticeable as possible. “A-R-K, space,” she checks his writing as she talks, unwilling to let her money be wasted by inattentiveness, “N-A-D-E-N, space, P-L-A-N. End.”c

The only sign he cares for the unusual words is the frown that drops in time with the rising of  his eyebrow, yet thankfully that is all. “Where to?”

She hesitates, not at the information but at what she is willingly stepping back into with this message. The tempest of indecision whips through her mind, threatening her resolve until the memory of Vision’s sincere, trusting eyes and the warm touch of his lips to her knuckles guides her into the calm eye of the storm. “Castle Garden, New York City, box 5.”

“Seventy five cents.”

The money is counted four times before he accepts it, “Do I come back for the response?”

Tired, annoyed eyes inspect her from across the counter, his face conveying how he just wants to read his paper. “Either I deliver it for a dollar fifty or you come back and ask for it.”

Wanda recoils at the charge, attempting a nonplussed smile as she steps back, “I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

The message, however, doesn’t come the next day, or the day after, or the day after that, even though each morning Wanda is waiting at the building to greet the half-awake grouch of a man. It’s not until the fourth day that the telegraph operator's mostly incomprehensible grumble is different, hopefully informing her that he has her message. This supposition is confirmed when he silently, and with stilted annoyance, waves his hand for her to follow him before he rifles through a stack of papers. “Castle Garden?”

“Yes.” Sleep has been fleeting, unlike the night Vision visited, her giddiness replaced with recollections of tortured minds and carefully explained diagrams of how to determine she had found the arc layered with a very new, vibrant image of what might happen to Vision if she’s correct.

“Here.” The folded up paper is shoved into her hands and followed by a pointed shooing movement that sends her into the orange tinged morning. Wanda pries open the paper, fingers almost as unsteady as her heart. She takes in the words, immediately crumpling it in her fist. It’s clear now there is a best solution and it’s not running away, it’s not pretending the confirmation of her worst fears aren’t true. No, it’s to shift her focus solely to protection, a new motivation for her, one long ago buried with Pietro.

A resounding thud vibrates from the brass door knocker as Wanda releases it for the sixth time. She knows, logically, this is five times more knocks than Vision would ever allow, yet she can’t accept the silent answer from the door. Another desperate rise and fall of the knocker is met with an exasperated and unnecessarily loud sigh from the rickety wagon behind her. Wanda glares at the steadfastly imposing door before spinning around, a stern finger raised asking for just a mite more patience from the man clutching the reins. If it hadn’t taken an infuriating hour after packing up a small bundle of her belongings to procure a ride (a careful dance of bartering several palm readings, almost the last of her money, and a foolhardy promise of meeting the famous Tony Stark) and then another hour before the farmer deemed it acceptable to leave, she’d be more understanding of his waning cooperation.  Instead she keeps her eyes forward, refusing to make eye contact with him, and stomps along the cobblestone drive, following the curve of the railed porch until it transitions into brick and then end.  She cranes around the edge of the house to take in the serenity of the lawn, the planks of the stable glowing under the morning sun, the chicken coop in the distance a paragon of domesticity, all against the backdrop of the pond, complete with the stunning, snowy plumage of a swan floating happily in the water.

The picturesque scene is discomfiting, but the swan is the ultimate omen.  Vision is gone, already on the trajectory to a reckoning neither he nor Stark are privy to.

She returns to the wagon, hoisting herself up onto the seat, features striving to remain calm in the face of his annoyed, “You done?”

“Can you take me to Green Island?”

“Green,” the impregnated pause accentuates the slow drop of the leather reins onto his lap, “Island?”

The easiest argument is that technically it is on the way back to Normanskill, but given that would emphasize the needlessness of coming all the way to the manor, Wanda grasps at some other incentive.  “I need to speak with a friend there, he’s a blacksmith, can shoe your horse.”

His unimpressed, “Just shoed her the other day,” pairs well with the oozing disappointment of not only failing to meet the notorious Stark but also having his day wasted. 

Wanda switches her tactic to emotional manipulation, trying her hardest to allow the thrumming of her anxiety into her voice, “I really need to get there soon, please it’s an emergency.”

“And I’d like my wheat to grow faster.”

With nothing left to barter, there is only one more method.  Wanda hides her hand in the folds of her skirt, masking the scarlet glow as she dips into the shallowest depths of his mind, seeking anything that might convince him. There isn’t much to harvest, his thoughts rotating around fears of blight, the concerning limp in his horse’s trot, and the hopeless ire at the fact his son hates agriculture, but then a brief, flickering memory streams past and she latches onto it. “You hunt, correct?” She tries to make it sound inquisitive, as if she had been paying attention to all the things he told her on the way up, instead of admitting she gleaned it from his memories.

The man is slow to respond, fingers squeezing tight around the reins. “I do.”

It is tactically unwise to offer a prize dependent upon another person, but there is nothing left in her arsenal. “You take me to Green Island, I can get you Barton arrows.”

The man’s grip on the reins loosen as his body hinges at the waist, head turning slowly to scrutinize her face. “How am I,” the leather dangling from his hand slaps his chest as he gestures through the question, “going to afford masterpieces like that with what you paid me?”

Clint’s likely disbelief at her next comment is only okay because it is outweighed by the ticking clock of hopelessness. “I’m like,” she hesitates at the exaggeration, “a little sister to him, I can talk the price down.”

The man’s grin stretches across the entirety of his face as he urges the aging horse into a trot. Unlike the journey to the manor, this one is filled with jubilant words informing her of all the things he and his son will hunt  in the coming season.  She doesn’t pay attention, however, skirting her usual rule of at least attempting shallow conversation, mind torn between Vision and Clint. On one side is a brewing portent of doom and on the other a nervousness of how he’ll take the news because the issue with offering exquisite prizes in a bargain is that you do actually have to follow through sometimes.

It’s not long before she has an answer to one side of her quandary. “Yeah, sorry, what did you just say?”

“I offered him your arrows,” Wanda plasters an apologetic smirk on her face, “at a discounted price.”

The smithy is hellish, the thick, wooden walls trapping the fire raging in the furnace, merely walking in on a summer day elicits droplets of sweat. Yet she has never minded, the days she’s spent with Clint in this building count amongst the better ones of her life, the ordered chaos of the fire, the smelting, and the lancing calming to her mind. Except right now, his gloved hands gripping the handle of a straight-peen sledgehammer and his face unimpressed and unbothered by the sweat dripping into his eyes. Clint blinks slowly as he stares at her, “And why would you do something like that?”

“I’m trying to find Stark.”

The incredulous, silent stare coupled with raised eyebrows means Clint listened intently the few times she bemoaned Stark and Stark Industries, how she disliked the man and what he stood for, how she may have wished harm to him. “Why?”

Wanda considers how to proceed, a need to balance the truth with oversharing, “I received a message that someone was going to hurt Stark.”

“Like...a spirit message?”

“No, I-” she reaches into her satchel, pulling out the wrinkled ball of paper, “a telegraph.”

Clint beckons her to hand it over, brow matching the creases of the paper as he attempts to read the message. “It’s just gibberish.”

“It tells me to go to New York to learn more about the plan.”

This has clarified nothing according to the flail of his hands, “What plan, Wanda?”

She doesn’t have to lie this time, her own ignorance and powerlessness an ever-increasing weight on her lungs, “I don’t know, but it’s not good.” Scarlet almost bursts from her hands to get the message back, but she squelches it by balling up her fists and shoving them down towards her hips. “Someone is planning to hurt Stark and I need to warn him.”

“Nat’s with him, he’ll be fine.” Clint’s shrug seems final, his stance shifting into victory at winning the argument, possibly even saving his arrows from the deal.  “Surprised you even care what happens to Stark.”

Wanda can’t accept this blasé dismissal but also knows she can’t be convincing when talking about Stark nor can she convey the difference of this threat to the other malignant intentions people have towards Stark, so she amends her concern, “It’s Vision I’m worried about, not Stark.”

A casual hmm harmonizes the cling of the sledgehammer as Clint lays it down, turning back towards her with a paternalistic smirk, “Well, Stark passed by earlier with his band of merry socialites, might still have time before they leave.”

Boarding a steamboat doesn’t take long, but the hope she clings to is the likelihood that Stark insists on having an elaborate christening ceremony. “Thank you.”  

“Hold on there,” she stops partway through the door, peering over her shoulder at his crossed arms, “you don’t get to just give my arrows away and run.” Clint’s eyes remain on her as he removes the leather apron, laying it reverently on a table, “Plus I doubt Mr. Arrow pacing out there wants to take you to the docks.” Wanda considers heading out the door, but stays, powers oscillating uneasily while she watches Clint wrap some arrows in a cloth and then grab his own quiver from the wall, slinging it over his shoulder like an old friend’s arm. “Just let me say bye to Laura and the kids.”

Patience, though a virtue, is in limited supply as Wanda stands in the grass outside the shop, overhearing Clint lecture the farmer on the proper storage and use of the arrows, on how, if he misuses them and chips any of the metal tips, he has to stop using them instantly. She can’t hear Clint’s goodbyes to his family over the thud of the wagon heading back to Normanskill, and won’t attempt to rush him even though each minute that she waits here stretches into the eternal possibility of missing Vision.

Eventually Clint returns, leading a horse behind him, the movement of helping Wanda up into the saddle and then loping up himself natural, something they’ve done numerous times. She is thankful he doesn’t try to talk to her, question her further as to why they need to make it to the dock, he simply urges the horse on along the newly placed plank roadsd, the rush of their journey accented by the rhythmic click of horseshoes on wood. The thudding gives way to the whisper of waves, ones stirred by the windy day and the movement of ships in and out of the dock. The white flutter of seagulls and their incessant, imploring caws is a shrill experience compared to the mourning doves and robins along the road, but none of it matters once her eyes alight on the coal colored chimneys coming from out of the top of a massive, incredibly impressive white-railed steamboat. The arched railings are decorated with swooping red and gold fabric, twisting with the curves of the boat, outlining each beautifully designed angle. Even the paddle at the back is a brilliant red flecked with lines of gold, something Wanda has never seen on any of the steamboats she’s been on. None of this can hold her attention, however, once she spies, amongst the flurry of activity on the docks, the lanky, well-dressed form of Vision, his arms waving stiffly at the dockhands hauling crates into the lower chambers of the boat. The pressure in her chest loosens with each second he remains in her line of sight, hope very briefly replacing the terror that’s been smothering her since he left her house.

“Wanda,”  a hand on her arm snaps her back to the horse. Clint already standing on the ground offering to help her down, “You keep staring, we’re going to miss the boat.” She swats away his hand, sliding as gracefully as she can from the horse and ignoring the knowing wink Clint sends her way.  

The bustle of the dock envelopes them, the people milling about create a mismatched scene, women in voluminous dresses, parasols in their hands and finely dressed men on their arms, walking in amongst the sweat stained yelling of the dock hands. Steamboats are lined up next to barges which themselves are next to naval vessels and peppered throughout are smaller fishing boats, a juxtaposition that only makes Stark’s luxury boat stand out even more. There are so many accents and voices, joyful conversations of adventure, tears of saying goodbye, some fighting words as well, that Wanda is immersed in the flow of the thoughts around her, not actively reaching with her powers, but large groups of people are hard to block out. She allows Clint to lead them through the people, winding in and out to avoid stagnant groups.

“‘Ello good sir,” the atrociousness of Clint’s mock English accent dispels away the inundation of the rest of the minds, her attention now fully focused on Vision standing in from of them, shoulders tightening just a touch at the unexpected voice, “You have more room on this fancy boat?”

Vision turns around with a deliberate slowness, mouth already forming a rejection, until he sees them, stops, mouth falling into a frighteningly neutral line while his eyes bounce between Clint’s foolish grin and Wanda’s attempt at a friendly, non-anxious smile. “Mr. Barton,” he politely nods his head at Clint, leaning slightly to the right to examine the arrow shafts sticking up over the blacksmith’s shoulder, the only indiciation this might be alarming is the tiny rise of his eyebrows and the fog she feels forming at the surface of his mind. “Miss-” Vision’s confusion blossoms into a full storm when he faces her, features dreadfully empty of emotion despite the roiling in his mind, “Maximoff. I did not,” he glances down, breaking his usual unperturbed air, yet when he finally looks at them again, he has reaffixed his public mask, eyes set into a serious, business-like gaze. “I was not made aware you would be joining us for the trip.”

An arm snakes around Wanda’s shoulders, pulling her amiably against Clint as he leaves no room for her to warn Vision about the message, “Yeah, you know, Wanda here was telling me all about it and this boat,” the awe at the impressive vessel fills his voice, his free hand pointing excitedly at it, “how could I turn down a trip in a thing of beauty like that?”

The logic is wanting and yet Vision seems to accept it, not without reserve, a crack in his mind allows Wanda to peek into the dissidence he holds back. “Well, fortuitously, Mr. Stark did not invite enough people to fill the vessel to capacity. I can show you onto the boat, if you wish.”

“That’d be great.”

A thud and colorful cursing erupts behind them followed by deep, slightly slurred voice, “Whaddaya want us to do with this, lime-juicere?”  

A frown descends on Vision’s face and almost as rapidly is gone, replaced by a politely apologetic, “Please excuse me for just a moment.” Vision swivels around, body poised and at full height. “Sir, I have respectively informed you numerous times not only where in the cargo hold each crate must go but also that you should be conscientious in handling them given the extreme fragility of the contents.”

The dockhand nods to the burly man next to him, hands braced on the edge of the wooden crate, “You understand a word the flapadoodlef said?”

Wanda is tempted to counter the insult, do what Vision is admirably not willing to do, and let loose her fury at the way the men are acting. The sprout of temptation isn’t allowed to bear fruit when another well-dressed, though not nearly as impeccably as Vision, man steps in. “Hey V,” the man, who Wanda recalls seeing once at Stark’s manor, is shorter and rounder than Vision, his suit jacket a bit too large and pants a bit too long, and he’s far too expressive for a butler, a friendly pat to Vision’s back accompanying a cheerfully helpful, “let me handle it.”

“Happy…” the serious tone of Vision’s voice is unsuccessful at eschewing the offer.

“No, I insist, been trying real hard to show Tony why he should promote me into asset management.” Happy moves to shove VIsion away, but Visions is a step ahead, avoiding any more physical contact with a casual move to the right. “Plus looks like you need to get them,” both men turn to look at Wanda and Clint, garnering a friendly wave from Clint that is reciprocated by Happy, “on the boat. I got this.”

Vision hesitates before reaching his decision, hands journeying to unite behind his back which allows him to give a slight bow. “Very well, please be diligent in your supervision, nothing can be left behind.” Happy attempts another friendly pat, but Vision veers out of reach, rejoining her and Clint in five easy steps. “Please, come with me.”  

The closer they get to the steamboat, the more impressive it becomes, dwarfing everything around it in grandeur, not just in size but the sheer opulence of the shiny paint, the metal detailing, the golden rims of the windows, the spindles of the railings carved into mythological figures that appear to struggle holding the weight of such majesty on their shoulders. Even the smoke sputtering from the smokestacks is like a pair of waltzing lovers careening through the sky instead of the angry dragons of the factories. “Miss Maximoff.” Vision’s voice is timid, as is the hand he has lightly placed on her wrist to stop her momentum.

Wanda cranes her eyes down from the boat to his face, smiling once she meets his cerulean gaze. “Yes, Vision?”

“May I escort you onto the boat?”

“You only asking me as a butler?” 

The intended reaction is one of his shy smiles, perhaps even a blush, some indication his mind has remained on their blissful morning together not long ago. Vision instead glances to the left, dragging her own eyes first to watch Clint amble up the wooden gangway, then to take in the other people congregating within earshot. He shuffles his feet, eyes not quite meeting her own until he begins talking again. “Miss Maximoff, may I please escort you onto the boat?”

She knew he would never cave and fully bypass his manners or position, but the coldness of his actions is well past anything she would have surmised for his behavior now that they aren’t merely acquaintances. “No, I can walk up it myself.”

“I insist.”

“Do you?”

His hand wraps gently around her wrist, the movement hidden by the folds her skirt, but it is small and intimate, an impropriety for a butler towards a guest, which stirs her heart into a frantic rhythm. She stares up into his regret-filled, anxious face, “Wanda,” his voice is almost a whisper as he makes the world shrink in around them, enticing her to step closer to hear him, “you are about to enter a ship that is governed by a fine-tuned, delicate web of formalities. A lack of acumen in etiquette can swiftly lead to ostracism.”

Everyone is aware the upper echelons of society function differently, Wanda herself has seen it in the fancy manors where she performed her séances. There she was immune to it, an assumption she would act counter to their etiquette, often serving as a cheap parlor trick for their enjoyment. An ill word was to be met with a smile or by simply ignoring it, lewd jokes and offensive slurs ingrained in her line of work. Wanda always found ways to respond, usually by choosing to expose the dark secrets of only certain people to the group. Not everyone can read minds though, she even remembers a time watching a young woman, no older than herself, dressed in a ruffled, obnoxiously bright pink dress, use the wrong spoon to stir her tea. The response was measured, a polite correction, and then a silent abandonment of her, leaving the woman on the outside of every conversation for the entirety of the evening. Wanda hadn’t thought far enough to consider the environment she’d be entering, mind honed in only on finding Vision. Yet now that they are a walkway from an alien world, she understands and reciprocates his nervousness. No séances or parlor tricks can hide her on this boat. “Can I just stay with you?”

Vision squeezes her wrist, a forlorn shake of his head dashing her hopes. “I am part of the staff, it would be indecorous for an young woman to adhere herself to someone of a lower rank in front of the other guests.” His eyes betray the utter audacity of the rules, admitting he is aware they have become something more and yet it would be a burden to her perception to acknowledge it on the steamboat. “May I?” He steps away, offering his arm once more and Wanda takes it.

“Thank you.” Her fingers grip the fabric of his sleeve, tethering herself to the safety of his presence for the time being. “Any other conduct rules I should be aware of?”

“I do have some recommendations.”

“Please.”

As they walk up the wooden stairs Vision quietly informs her of survival tactics based on his observations at similar gatherings: don’t speak to the staff unless it is for food or drink, do not stand away from the crowd for extended periods of time, do not speak to eligible young men without a chaperone, do not sit with any groups of women unless expressly invited, do not ever sit with a group of men, do not drink more than three glasses lest one wants to be the rumored lush on board, do not sit at the table first, do not turn down invitations to go for a walk on the deck with other women, and do not venture into the back of the ship as that is for the servants only.

“Vizh,” he’s walked her to a settee near a gathering of women, their dresses full of billowy, expensive lace with gossamer trims to match their delicate gloves, a far cry from the dirt encrusted rough cotton of her own clothing, “is there anything I can do without offending anyone?”

A contemplative silence answers her more clearly than any words. If the walking dictionary of etiquette cannot readily provide her a foolproof answer, there is no hope. “Officer Rhodes always says he finds it useful to locate at least one person who will readily speak with you without assuming airs of superiority,” he gently helps lower her onto the couch, fingers gripping her hand a half second longer than he should in this environment. “Perhaps locating Mr. Barton or Miss Romanov would be ideal.” A glance around confirms no one has taken notice to their closeness or extended conversation yet. “If by supper you are in need of reprieve, I will be on break. You may,” he points knowingly at his temple, “find me, if you wish.”

The confluence of revelations, emotions, and bribery that brought her to this ship centered around one thing - to warn Vision. Oddly, and annoyingly, her tongue shrivels into parchment when she takes in the earnest remorse settling on his face at the notion of abandoning her. Wanda should shirk off the constraints of civility and ask him to meet with her now, perhaps even leave the ship, but it is also tempting to use the hours long voyage to more finely configure her explanation of her presence (the question of her being here still at the pulsing center of Vision’s mind) so that she is prepared to answer all the questions he likely has. “I’ll find you at supper.”

“Very well.” His bow is reticent, face stuck halfway between the butler and her lover, and his body uncertain on if he turns away or continues to face her. A decision is reached when he angles the polished tips of his shoes towards her. “You know what I find humorous, Miss Maximoff?”

Wanda is enamored at the way his lips seamlessly curve into a boyish smirk, one that instills in her mind a sense of a shrug though his shoulders do not allow such outward casualness. “What?”

“I successfully relocated you away from this very river, and yet,” his smile rises a millimeter, just enough to pucker the skin around his eyes, “here you are again.”

“Here I am.”

“Extraordinary.” Another bow fully removes the smile, replaced by a Robert Roberts approved scowl of indifference. “I must go, I will check on you throughout the evening.”

Vision’s departure punctures the tenuous security wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes finally alighting on the surroundings. Stark’s manor is extravagant, if not a bit understated. Whatever restraint was used on the manor, however, has been lost here, the boat luxurious and palatial, the inside room contrary to that of other boats where the idea is to cram as many people as possible. Wanda has been on two floored steamboats lined with rickety wooden benches, yet she has never seen one where all the upper floor was removed to carve out a single vaulted room.  If not for the gold threaded tapestries and painstakingly carved columns, the glistening candelabras on the walls, or the embossed ceilings, she would think she was outside due to the spaciousness. Wanda feels small, insignificant, a vast change from minutes before where the entirety of existence lived in a single face. She stands up, noting the lack of noise from her boots, the floor carpeted in a glorious floral pattern, one that matches the plush couches and chairs (not a single bench in sight) arranged in clusters around the room.

“Can you believe this?” Clint’s voice assaults her, his unbridled joy only calling more attention to how very much she does not belong here. “Just butter upon bacon! There’s even an archery range up top. I gotta find Nat first though.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, too swallowed up by the opulence to notice the harshness of her question. “She’s always my go to with life or death things, figured she can probably help.” Which logically makes sense, having a trained spy would greatly aid their cause, but Wanda can’t muster the enthusiasm for it, not after their encounter at the séance . “Want to come?”

Natasha is not the most pressing issue and so Wanda declines, “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Okay. I’ll find you later.” Clint marches off, quiver bobbing happily along with this exuberant steps, and Wanda is jealous of how at ease he seems. He isn’t in a suit, might not even own a proper waistcoat or loafers, yet no one stares at him as if he is an outsider, his confidence too high and his qualms with fitting in non-existent. In contrast, Wanda knows she is being watched, judged, and sentenced without any words directed at her. She can feel the flow of thoughts as eyes roam over her, take in the poorly mended practical clothing, the tight knot of her hair because she still has not figured out how to tame the curls in the humidity of this area. Wanda watches a woman enter the room, can’t tear herself away from the way the voluminous white skirt bounces with each step while the diamond shaped burgundy corset at the woman’s waist ensures the bloused top remains still, the ease of her graceful entrance conjuring a tangible and aggravating self-consciousness Wanda feels whenever she is faced with high-class women.  The distinction between classes exists everywhere, but it was only upon entering a culture in which Wanda had no prior knowledge and no ability to communicate, that she truly felt the brunt of social norms. Women with the same pedigree as, say,  Miss Potts, had been particularly cruel and impatient with Wanda, her first palm reading a disastrous affair when she could not remember the word desire and the woman, while angrily yanking her lace gloves back on, demanded her money back, muttering how Wanda was “Worse than the insufferable Paddiesg” Now she finds herself surrounded, with no palms to hide behind or minds to manipulate into spirits, uncertain how to proceed even with Vision’s rules running through her head.

Wanda determines movement might help, at the very least remove her from the prying eyes of the gaggle of women her own age who keep tittering in her direction, so she begins walking, hovering close enough to the wall to study the intricate and beautifully woven tapestries, but far enough away that she is not secluding herself. A frenzy grows towards the far end of the room, voices muddled but she can recognize Stark’s onerous ego anywhere. Wanda keeps moving, creating more distance from herself and Stark’s gathering, fairly sure he will not be pleased to see her on the ship.  

Once she reaches the far end of the room, Wanda stops to study the threads intertwining to form the image of an angel, wings spread out in a righteous fury. “If it’s at all encouraging, I hate these things too.”

The voice is familiar, not enough for her to place it until she faces him, recognizing his dark skin and the navy uniform instantly, “Officer Rhodes.”  Wanda thinks she’s supposed to curtsy, based on watching all of the other people in the room, so she briefly drops her hips and face. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Rhodes is fine,” his smile is easy despite his hands apprehensively wrapped around a cup. “I, it’s nice to see I’m not the only outsider here.”

“But you are one of Stark’s closest friends.”

Even as she says it, she regrets it, knowing full well the meaning of his comment, but it’s too late. Thankfully he laughs, “That only counts for so much. These people,” he waves his hand towards the room, the amber liquid sloshing  in the crystal cup as he moves, “half are born into their wealth, the other half are society maddists.h Doesn’t matter which it is, being free is never enough to make you equal to them.” The comment is dampened by him taking a drink, the admission one that seems to make him uncomfortable, perhaps because he has no way of knowing how she will respond, what type of person she is in this crowd.

Wanda treads carefully with her inquiry, not wanting to imply anything she does not mean, “Was the ship too tempting to turn down?”

The answer is obvious, based on his tone, “I mean, look at it.” Rhodes sips his drink as they stare at the long, bustling expanse of the room. “No, well, yes, the ship was part of it, but I’ve been contracting with Tony on one of his inventions. Figured I could be here for moral support and to save him when he inevitably gets stuck in it or sets himself on fire again.”

“Does he do that a lot?”

“More than is natural, unfortunately.” Wanda can feel her muscles loosening, even a smile forming on her face. “I didn’t see your name on the list.” Then everything tenses once more.

Truth is unacceptable right now, but a good lie incorporates in moments of veracity, preening away the undesirable bits and refitting it with softer facts. “Vision told me all about the last Exhibition, made me want to experience it.”  

“Knew it.”

His voice is gleeful, proud, and victorious, nothing she expected. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“I’ve been telling Stark since the séance  that his butler,” on the next word Rhodes points his hand toward the graceful movements of Vision through the crowds, a tray perched atop his gloved hand. He expertly utilizes his height to weave in and out of the people, the traying rising and falling depending on who he is encountering. “Is thoroughly and completely crushedi and about to go all filly and foalj on us.” Of all the people who have seen them interact, she realizes Rhodes is the one who has caught them in the most presumably incriminating though wholly innocent position. Yet she still is surprised at the response, joy alone present in his voice, no judgment, no questioning, just unbridled giddiness. “You ever need a gooseberry-pickerk, let me know.”

The offer is too kind, especially from a man who is practically a stranger, “I will, thank-”

“Excuse me,” an older woman draped head to toe in emerald silk interrupts their conversation, an empty wine glass clasped aggressively between her fingers, “You know you aren’t here to stand around, I’d like another drink.” Wanda stares silently at the woman, attempting to determine how to respond or what to think, willing to accept her own clothing might suggest she is a servant, but Rhodes is dressed in a naval uniform. “Despicable, the help you get these days.”

Rhodes shakes his head at Wanda, urging her to forget her anger and simply wait until the woman leaves, and then a new voice joins them, the smooth, rounded way he speaks filling her with the same awe of church bells on a quiet morning. “Officer Rhodes,” Vision bows deeply to Rhodes, exaggerating the bend of his waist and standing at an unhurried pace to elongate the act of reverence, “Given you are one of Mr. Stark’s most distinguished guests, he wished for me to inform you that his best scotch is available to you at a moment’s notice.”

“Thank you, Vision.”

The butler bows his head before turning to Wanda, “Miss Maximoff, Miss Potts has offered her personal dressing quarters to you should you need them any time today.”  Vision begins to leave, a careful pantomime as if he hadn’t noticed the other woman, and then he snaps to her attention, a slight inclination of his head (not willing to fully forego manners), “Mrs. Adams, would you like any coffee?”

A huff lingers in the air after the emerald monster has left, and Wanda finds it delightful the complete lack of remorse on Vision’s face and the way she sees the mannered facade break down in this moment, his smirk matching the grin breaking across Rhodes’ mouth, “You know she’s about to complain about your horrible manners, Vision.”

“Yes, well,” he gives an unconcerned sniff, tray rising up as his elbow bends, “it would not be a Stark event without Mrs. Adams filing a complaint.”

“Why does he even invite her?”

Vision answers Rhodes immediately, a straightforward, serious reason,  “She is the matriarch of one of the richest families in Albany.” Momentarily his attention shifts to the room, scanning all of the people, an attempt, she thinks, to determine his next destination. Before he leaves, however, he glances at her, face still serious but his voice concerned, “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Maximoff?”

Wanda smiles, almost reaching out to pat his arm, yet she maintains a socially acceptable distance, filling her voice with comfort and briefly touching his mind, “I’m fine, thank you.”

"Good."

“I’m fine too, you know.”  Rhodes’ response doesn’t reach Vision before he is enveloped in the crowds once more.

The next couple of hours go by slowly, Wanda moving from tapestry to tapestry, hovering on the outskirts of conversations, overhearing chatter about venture girlsL, business dealings, betrayals, deaths, and courtships, all while waiting to see if she can be invited in. For several minutes she even contemplates mental manipulation, sending a nudge into the mind of one of the women to ask her to join. This, however, is not an avenue she decides she is willing to take, so she continues to hover. Several times she spies Clint, returns his wave but never approaches, the calculating gaze of Natasha at his side enough of a deterrent. Wanda has never felt so entirely out of place in her life. The experience only momentarily brightened by the brush of a gloved hand along her back when the crowd is thick and the numerous offers of beverages from the same, blue-eyed butler.

“Miss Maximoff?”  

Wanda blinks several times, eyes trailing along a painting (one of candlesticks that look decidedly similar to the ones she helped Vision clean) before tilting her face up to take in the marginally concerned squint of Miss Potts. “Yes?”

“I realized only recently that we have not formally met.” The woman’s expression shifts back to a polished neutrality, an easy, albeit empty, smile forming on her face as she reaches out a gloved hand, knuckles pointed towards the vaulted ceiling so that her fingers dangle in a delicate invitation. Wanda steps forward, eyes never leaving the woman’s hand, and has to effortfully instruct her arm to rise until she wraps her fingers around the satin fabric of the glove. “I am Virginia Potts, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Wanda musters a polite smile at the conflicting information. Etiquette, she believes, dictates that she withhold any inquiries, the higher status individual the one in charge of the interaction, and yet she cannot seem to stop her mouth. “Virginia? Like the boat?”

The sharp exhale makes it quite clear this is an unwelcome topic even if the woman still answers, dropping Wanda’s hand as she gives the most subdued and yet emotive shrug Wanda has ever seen. “Yes, though I strongly detested the idea.” It is a simple comment, one that provides information but also keeps their social distance at merely acquaintances. Even with the airs of politeness, Wanda can feel herself calming, shoulders settling into a more comfortable position and her breath coming easier at the friendliness of the woman. “Would you care to sit with me?”

“I-” the expectant arch of Pepper’s eyebrow provides the anticipated answer, one that Wanda finds herself acquiescing with despite vehement misgivings. Even if she has been striving for such an invitation, the idea of it being with Pepper is beyond what she can fathom. “I will gladly join you.”

“Delightful.” Pepper turns to inspect the room, if she is displeased by the state of the surroundings -- almost all of the couches and chairs taken, people beginning to show signs of intoxication through both increasingly louder voices and more relaxed bodies -- she doesn’t draw attention to it, instead stepping casually to a leather couch under a bay window and sitting down, powder blue skirt rustling as she crosses her ankles. Wanda mimics the actions as best she can, remaining silent, both for the sake of propriety but also because her mind is empty of conversation starters. “Have you always been a spiritualist?”

The question is unexpectedly personal for their level of familiarity, but Wanda recognizes in this woman a certain mutual unconventionality. “No,” her fingers twist together as she considers what to reveal, unconventional or not, Pepper is closely tied to Stark. “When I first arrived in the country I was employed at factory that manufactured rudders for steamboats.” A decision she regretted instantly, but the pay was slightly higher than the meat packing factory, and a better alternative than being a house servant or joining a brothel. She only remained at the factory until she attended the Fox Sisters’ seminar with heightened confidence and grand plans of revolutionizing the methodology of soothsaying. “I have been a full-time medium for a year and a half.”

Pepper folds her hands in her lap, attention remaining steadfastly on Wanda. “How were the conditions of the factory?”

The inquiry is innocuous and yet women such as Miss Potts rarely share words that are not intended to gather certain information, so Wanda proceeds, maintaining an equally inconsequential tone as her companion. “Surprisingly generous.”  Unlike the factory in Sokovia, there were posted guidelines, a set number of timed breaks, instructions on how to handle disputes and injuries, and a rigid rule on the number of hours worked per week.

“Good.” There is unmitigated pleasure in her voice as she shifts her torso and grins at Wanda. “The Potts Steam Company prides itself on protecting and respecting our workers.”

“I-” truthfully she was never able to read the name on the side of the brick building, perhaps she heard it at some point, but what truly mattered at the time was keeping afloat amidst the turmoil that was her life. “Your family are steam,” there is a word she recalls hearing lobbied about by the big names of the city, “tycoons?”

Pepper’s laugh starts at a polite and pleasant high note before floating down to a whisper. “Yes, though the company has been solely under my tutelage for five years now.” It’s said so casually that Wanda has to replay the statement in her mind to fully grasp the meaning. Even in spiritualism there is an understanding that it is a flippant living, the only sect of the movement receiving any clout is the male-dominated mesmerists. A gentle touch of gloved fingers to her hand brings Wanda back to the conversation, Pepper smirking at her shock. “You should see their faces when I sit at the head of the table.” The knowing wink that goes along with the statement procures a small smile on Wanda’s face.

“I’m certain it is a shock.”

“Truly.” Her voice grows biting and unapologetic, “An affront to the sensibilities of good business, and yet somehow the company thrives.” All sarcasm leaves her voice as she leans towards Wanda, gloved fingers gripping her wrist in earnestness. “I was in Seneca Fallsm, surrounded by other enterprising women such as ourselves. The world,” another squeeze and Wanda feels a genuine burst of excitement at the thrilling fierceness in the woman’s eyes, “is about to change for us.”

“Pepper, I need you.”

An unmerciful eye roll dances with Pepper’s fine tuned sigh as she stands, fingers delicately arranging the bell shaped skirt so she can turn to greet Tony. “Tony we have been over this, there is nothing in this world that you need me for, want is a far preferred term.”

“This time,” his hands flail, trying to muster a believable defense, “this time it is a need.”

“I’m sure,” the patronizing way she pats Tony’s shoulder only confirms the wrongness of their pairing, Wanda even more confounded at the coupling of such an independent and fantastic woman with, well, Tony Stark. “What if I said I wanted to continue speaking with all the guests? I was enjoying my conversation with Miss Maximoff before you so rudely interrupted.”

Stark inhales while craning his neck to face the couch where Wanda remains. There is a war on his face, his temper flaring in the defined frown pulling his mouth down but a defeated matteness of his eyes conveys that he is cornered by the situation. If he raises a fuss now, it will cause alarm and impact the joviality of the ship. If he doesn’t acknowledge her, then he is granting her permission to be aboard through omission.  Wanda half expects him to call her out, reveal her own motives and explain how her scheming led to the dire situation of his butler and his manor. But instead he heaves his breath back in and returns his attention to Pepper, “Come on, Pep.”

“You may attempt to goad me with pathetic and sad eyes, but you’re going to fail.”

Tony frowns at her, hands reaching out to rest on Pepper’s arms, “But I need you to help me announce supper.”

The answer to his request is both surprising and said with such conviction Wanda can’t find it in herself to stop from grinning, “I’m certain you can manage that yourself.”

Tony bows his head, resting his forehead on Pepper’s shoulder in a display that violates at least four rules of courtship that Wanda is aware of, and yet there is no movement from the woman to abate the action even amongst a crowd of so many eager onlookers. “Pep, please.” In another affront to civility, his hands come to rest on her face, thumb rubbing her cheek as he speaks, “you know no one will listen to me and then we won’t eat for at least another hour and all that will be said about the Virginia is that we don’t properly dine our guests.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“That a yes?”

Pepper inches her lover away from her with two hands, resetting to a proper distance before she turns towards Wanda, “My apologies, Miss Maximoff,” she offers her hand, fingers delicately hanging in the air, and Wanda takes it, “we can speak more at a later time.”

Unlike before, Wanda’s presence is not ignored, the seats around her populating once Pepper walks away, discerning eyes framed by cascading curls and expertly woven ribbon silently taking her in. It is a sign she has at least been accepted as possibly being worthy of conversation, even more telling is how, even though their bodies angle away from her, their voices are raised just enough that she can hear them gossip about which of the eligible gentlemen on the ship is behaving poorly. Frankly, it’s all too frivolous for her right now.

The people in the room begin to dissipate, the waitstaff directing the guests towards the dining room. This is the sign she has been anticipating since arriving on the ship, an overdue break from rules and manners and side-eyed judgmental gazes. While joining the crowd, Wanda sends out a tendril of scarlet, seeking Vision’s mind, lips curving up once she locates him slipping away towards the stern. She follows Vision’s path, changing direction to move against the crowd, her body parting the excited sea of supper-time guests.

Once outside the main room she is met with the sloshing of the river, waves crashing and receding with the movement of the boat and the churning of the paddle. It’s blissfully devoid of crowds, an escape she wished she had known about earlier. “You’re going the wrong way.”

All evening she has felt the fire of a stern and unrelenting gaze, and now that she finds herself faced with Natasha Romanov, draped in folds of ebony taffeta held in place by a crimson belt, Wanda realizes she did not put forward enough effort to strategize how to handle this threat.  “I’m not hungry.”

Natasha folds her hands demurely at her waist, a location Wanda recalls houses at least one knife, and flashes a knowing smile producing an overall effect of a predator biding her time. “I know who you are, Scarlet Witch.” Wanda wants to counter back, insist the moniker is no more, deny the lives she ruined, but she recognizes the unshakeable conviction in the woman’s eyes. “Clint told me why you’re here.”

The woman’s voice is eerily calm, devoid of any sign of what she is thinking other than that she views Wanda’s intentions incorrectly. “I’m not here to hurt Stark.”

“Yes, apparently you are trying to help him.” Delving into Natasha’s mind could eliminate her as an obstacle, allow Wanda to escape, for now, but doing so would come at the cost of losing any lingering respect or trust. If she is going to help Vision (and Stark), there is no way of being successful without Natasha. Yet the woman does not make it easy, expertly prodding the still healing sores of her past. “Just like you were no doubt doing in the ammunition factory in Zagreb.”

There are numerous regrets Wanda has working for the Baron, not least of them is her own hand in inciting political hysteria by implanting rebellion into the people’s minds. She truly felt it was right, at the time, considering all that had been stolen from the lower classes, all they would never be allowed, until she saw their bodies piling higher and higher. “I’ve tried so hard to leave it behind but it keeps finding me.”

If Natasha is moved at all by the tremble in her voice or the tears gathering in her eyes, there is no sign on her stoic face. “Do you know anything about the plan?”

Wanda almost gives an outright no, except it would be a lie, not by much but enough to likely tempt the knife resting beneath Natasha’s hands. “Only that it involves the arc reactor. Nothing more yet.”

A relieved breath flows from Wanda’s lungs as Natasha pulls her hands away from her waist, an uppish sniff denoting the displeasure at the lack of information. “Don’t tell Vision anything.”

“Why not?”

Natasha cocks her head to the side, seeming to view Wanda’s question as too idiotic for comprehension, “Because if you tell Vision he will mention it to Tony, and once Tony knows, well, no one is as gifted at ruining my strategies than a man who thinks himself smarter and more cunning than everyone else.” She shrugs, her statuesque mask cracking slightly to show Wanda the annoyance of remembrance on her face. “He isn’t as skilled as he thinks and tends to cause more issues by being involved.”

“Fine.” Wanda waits to see if there is more, is suspicious when there is nothing else, but takes it as a release from the confrontation. Effortlessly she latches back onto Vision’s mental signature and turns away.

“Wanda,” she stops, glancing over her shoulder at the woman, her red hair catching the sunlight so perfectly an artist could easily use her as a model for the angel of death, “you leave this boat, I will follow you. You leave Stark Tower, I will follow you. You try anything and we can finally answer the question of what would have happened had I we met while you were still my mark.”

Wanda leaves without remark, hands gripping her skirt and lifting it so she can hustle away. The longer she is on this boat, the less certain she becomes of her choices, fearing that the only path left is a complete descent into her prior life. Perhaps it is her fate, no matter how far or how hard she runs, her past pursues her. It become clear that the only way forward is by embracing what came before. This train of thought is blown away by the breeze rushing over the stairs leading her to one of the upper decks. All hesitation and doubt in her choices are fully eradicated at the sight of Vision standing at the rail, staring out over the river. Wanda approaches him, her hand trailing along his back, pleased at the twitch of surprise in his muscles followed by the smile he turns towards her. “Wanda.”

“Hi, Vision.”

There are people visible below them, no guests, based on the clothing, but an array of workers, some in suits like Vision’s, others in aprons and rolled up sleeves, the women are all in ankle length dresses with their hair tied back.  Each position wears a set uniform that makes it impossible to misidentify their status. Vision, understandably, does not lean into her or move to show affection, rightfully wary of how quickly rumors of their closeness would spread. Wanda finds it exhilarating, however, that he is even standing at the rail with her to be seen. “I secured you one of the main courses since you are missing it.” He directs her to a small table set up out of sight of the people downstairs, two plates with metal cloches resting atop a cream colored linen. “My apologies that it is lacking,” the sincerity of his voice is more confusing than the comment, a private dinner on top of a luxury steamboat is far more than she expected or has ever experienced.

“It’s fine, Vizh.” He helps her sit, removing the cloches before sliding into the seat next to hers, much like she did the last time they were together, his legs bumping lightly against her own. “Wait,” Wanda stares at the two plates, hers a piece of art and Vision’s indistinguishable from what she’s seen pigs eat in the market.

“Staff eat different meals than guests, I could only reasonably procure one guest plate.” His words are weighed with finality, further confirmed when he picks up his spoon, “I truly am not bothered by it.”

There is an apprehension building in the air between them, one she assumes is due to Vision being far too polite to vocalize his concerns, both as a butler and as a man newly entered into a courtship. Perhaps it isn’t even fair to expect him to broach the topic given it is her own unannounced visit upending everything. “Do you,” Wanda places her fork down, hands resting in her lap so her fingers can scrunch the fabric of her skirt, “have any questions for me?”

“Yes,” the word is held for several seconds, his hands in disagreement over whether they remain on the table or fall in his lap to mimic her own stance. One ends up on the table, and the other he waves nervously through the air as he speaks. “I wish to preface this with the, um, caveat that I hope you do not misconstrue my befuddlement at your presence as a sign I am unhappy at your being here.” A heavy pause and no eye contact puts his inexpertness on full display. Wanda contemplates how long she lets him flounder before reassuring him she has done no such thing, but he saves himself, finishing the statement in a way that seems sincere and a bit rehearsed. “Please know that I am positively thrilled at the opportunity to spend time with you.”

“Me too.” Now he meets her eyes, the trenches of anxiety smoothing out on his brow, “You know that wasn’t a question.”

“I suppose it was not,” the youthful smirk she so desperately hoped to see earlier finally surfaces, accompanied by a gleam of challenge in his eyes, “though I would argue the question of your unexpected presence was implicit in the statement.”

It is tempting to jostle him further, point out the careful dance of his words as he attempts to not rudely question why she’s on this boat, to not mistakenly add a subtextual layer of displeasure to the conversation.  Now, regrettably, is not the time to distract him with banter. “I received a telegram, a few days after you left.” Whatever he was expecting, this is not it, his eyelids narrowing in bewilderment as he waits for something more illustrative. “It implied there is some plan to interfere with Stark’s demonstrations.”

“May I see it?” Wanda recalls hearing a street performer once recite a tale of curiosity and regret, something about opening a box and realizing how desire and good intentions can breed complications and unintended consequences. It feels as if she is opening that box as she reaches into her satchel, removing the embarrassingly wrinkled message and handing it to Vision. His gloved fingers smooth out the paper, lifting it close to his eyes in a foolhardy attempt to decipher the words. “What does it say?”

The lid of her metaphorical box clatters to the ground as she recites the translation from memory. “Come to the city to find out.”

Wanda can tell the second he connects the dangling threads of logic, holds her breath as he diligently ties the ends together, checks them for errors, and then cautiously reveals his work to her. “What did you send to receive this response?”

There are numerous options available to her: Natasha’s plan of telling Vision nothing (although she’s already broken her promise), the truth (either narrow or broad depending on how long Vision’s can spend with her), there is evasion of the topic via omissions and vagueness, or she could throw herself into his lap and distract him from the topic. The last one sounds the most pleasant albeit the least likely to end well for their relationship. The third can protect him from learning too much before she knows what is happening. But the second is the most ideal for building communication and fostering the foundational trust of their relationship. Wanda decides to combine strategies, “I told them I had found what they’ve been looking for.”

“Which is, what, precisely?”

Alone with him, Wanda allows her hands to glow, scarlet undulating with the moroseness of her mind as she pulls him deeper into the perilous web of her life. “The one thing he has that no one else does. The thing everyone thought wasn’t real, but now he’s bringing it to the Exhibition,” If she reveals more, and it is discovered she did so, there is no telling what Natasha will do to her, or even Vision, but, Wanda reasons, if Vision reaches the conclusion on his own then she can claim innocence to Nat and survive another day.

Vision seems to understand the subtext, his hand reflexively wrapping around his wrist, eyes a touch wild and acutely perturbed. “What is their plan?”

Finally she can be honest without hesitation.  “I have no idea.”

“Will you inform me when-“

Wanda takes his hands in her own, thumbs running beneath his sleeves to feel the metal cuffs at his wrist, her eyes ensnaring his, ensuring he will not miss the sincerity and promise in her answer, “Yes, Vision. I will tell you everything as soon as I know. You,” thankfully he doesn’t flinch when she moves her right hand to cup his cheek, “are the reason I’m here, the only person I want to protect.”

“Thank you.” The lack of hesitation in the turn of his face and the press of his lips to her palm enlivens her heart and strengthens her resolve in the rightness of following him. “I-“ he envelopes her hand with his own, face bare of any social graces or constraints, just a raw, pulsating anxiety that overwhelms her, “I am far more worried for you than myself.”

“I can handle it, Vizh.”

He refuses to let her brush it off, a shake of his head dispelling her bravado, “I am aware, and in awe, of your ingenuity and survival, but it was only a matter of time before someone would come for the arc reactor and,“ his eyes drop down as his shoulders rise into a half-hearted shrug, “I do not believe it worth your safety if the threat is too formidable.”

It’s a statement that needs to be refuted, one that dangerously teeters on the edge of self-sacrifice, but it is also one she can’t fully counter at the moment, unable to strongly disagree when she is not aware what, precisely, might be happening. "We can discuss that possibility if we need to." Wanda tucks the comment away, determining that for now she'd like to enjoy the limited time she has with him. “Behind you is the most breathtaking sunset I’ve ever seen.” The statement isn’t an exaggeration, the flocculent clouds dyed lilac with splashes of persimmon that give way to an almost blood red finish, all reflected in the waves of the Hudson lapping happily against the ship. Vision frowns at the jackknife in the conversation and turns in his chair, shoulders sagging as he stares out at the variegated sky, the rough waters of his mind easing to match the rhythm of the river. Wanda stands from her chair, steps up behind him, and wraps her arms around his shoulders, resting her head on his shoulder, rewarded with a gloved hand rising to grasp her own and the pressure of his head leaning against her. Wanda places a kiss to his temple, giddy at the feel of him melting into her embrace. Whatever is coming for them, in this moment she is certain, so long as she has his presence, nothing is insurmountable.

The ship docks around eleven in the evening, the only people leaving the vessel, however, are the house servants, including Vision (who left with a whispered apology and advice to follow Nat to the tower), all scurrying to prepare the homes of their employers. The rest of the staff remain on the ship, scrubbing every surface while keeping a distance from the still riotous party in the main room, the guests allowed to sober up before traversing the city streets. Wanda can hear Stark call for another round of smothering the parrotn, confirming it could be hours before anyone actually leaves. She sends a cloud of scarlet out, assessing the minds of most interest, and feels Nat and Clint in deep conversation. Now might be the only chance she gets.

Her fingers twitch as she sneaks off the ship, constantly adjusting her read on the people around her to sense any peril or pursuit. Before he left, Vision confirmed the dock they were at, one she knows well, having departed and arrived there numerous times, and so she allows her feet to carry her along the cobbled streets towards Castle Garden. If fortune is on her side there will be a concert, large crowds of enthusiastic and well dressed socialites an ideal cover, especially now that she can feel a mind following her, one that is, much like Castle Garden itself, an impenetrable stronghold.

The crescendo of cultured voices lifts her spirits, her hands waving to encourage a couple to close off the hole she left while encouraging a group of rowdy gentlemen to shove each other out of her way. Nat can pursue her, but Wanda refuses to make it easy, channeling the confidence she had at the height of her time with Pietro in Sokovia, when the world bowed at the majesty and terror of what they’d become. The last bundle of people step out of her way and Wanda pauses, studying the simple canvas tent, one she used to sit in everyday, reading palms and granting fortunes until he’d show up to tell her who to infiltrate next. She’d never intended to come back.

Wanda steadies the tremble of her hands, tempering the scarlet to settle just beneath her skin, and snaps her chin up, taking on an air of indignation that hopefully seems natural. Confidently she marches into the tent, “I received your message.”

“‘Bout time, little witch,” confusion rams into her, unfamiliar, beady , untoward eyes disorienting as they inspect her from head to toe, causing her muscles to tense, the flow of her powers pooling in her fingertips. “Been waitin’ ‘re three days for ya, gettin’ mighty lonely.” The noxious swagger of this man is instilled with the brazen assumption all men of power (real or not) have, one that whispers to them that their position in life allots them total freedom and control of others.

“I’m supposed to be meeting with Ultron.”

The man laughs, leaning back in the chair she used use while reading palms, placing his well shined boots on the rickety table. “You really think he’d just take ya back after disappearin’?”

It hadn’t crossed her mind to consider how her actions of the past half year would be viewed, how she fled, leaving only a note saying she had a lead and then she cut all contact, hid herself from the public, never registered her residence or dared go back to the city.  For weeks after getting off the first train, she didn’t sleep, convinced a man in a bowler hat with a slight limp would appear at her door if she shut her eyes. Clearly the intent of her absence was not as well obscured as she thought. “I can get him to Stark.”

“Yeah,” the aloofness makes her flinch, “So can we.” A sneer forms on his face and a salacious wink sends needles into her spine. “But damfino why, he told me to ‘ell ya that if ya can show us a better, more,” the man leans forward and she steps back, “intimate way to Stark, he’d consider lettin’ ya back in.” All she’s accomplished is confirmation of a plan, nothing more, and her disappointment and anger seep out of her fingers. “Woah, woah there my bricky lil’ chuckaboo.” Now the man’s ostentatiousness begins to fracture, his eyes frenzied as he takes in the scarlet engulfing her hands. “We planned for this, ya know, I don’t know the plan, just the message for you. So you can try it, won’t get ya anything.”

There’s no bristle of falsehood in his mind, so she abates the scarlet. “How am I supposed to prove my closeness to Stark?”

The threat gone, he sidles right back into an expert simper even Stark would be hard pressed to muster, “Oh, we got eyes on ya at all times - even know ya rode in on that afternoonifiedo boat.” The simper broadens into an annoyingly prideful beam, “We’ll let ya know when ya’ve proved it.”

Red crackles round her fingers as a final warning before she exits the tent, eyes immediately alighting on Natasha’s smug grin as she loops her arm through Wanda’s. “Hope you learned something useful.”

“I didn’t.” Wanda resigns herself to being escorted, Natasha leading her back through the crowds, her mind tired, defeated, and swelling with enmity.

 Victorian Language and Culture Decoder (with a new footnoting system!)

a: The New York Central Railroad merger was a big deal in the early 1850s as it connected all the railways going from New York City all the way to Buffalo.

b:Umble-cum-stumble: Understood?

cArk naden, plan?”: Arc found. Plan?

d: Plank roads were wooden roads laid in the mid-1800s that greatly helped the travel of wagons and carriages.

e: Lime Juicer: An early 1850s slang term for British, typically used when talking about men in the Navy. Apparently in the British navy they were known for putting lemon juice in their beer to fight diseases and promote health. By the late 1850s it became “limey”

f: Flapadoodle: a sexually incompetent man who is either too young to have sex or too old to attempt it anymore.

gPaddies: derogatory term for people from Ireland – one of the most mistreated immigrant groups during this time period.

h: Society maddest: people not born into society, who devote their whole lives, and often fortunes, to get into society.

i:Crushed: Spoony with love

J:Filly and foal: Young lovers that saunter away from the world.

k:Gooseberry-picker: A confidant who helps lovers meet in secret and/or get privacy.

L: Venture girls: Women, often of the middle class, sent to India to find a husband.

mSeneca Falls: The birthplace and meeting site of the Women's Rights Convention that turned into the suffragette movement. I think Pepper would be a loud voice in the suffragettes.

n: Smothering the parrot: drinking absinthe

oAfternoonified: Smart, in a fancy way

[anonthenullifier]

An Auspice of Scarlet - Ch. 7 Preview

As of today, it has been a year (and almost 200 pages) since the first chapter of this Victorian AU was posted for the Scarlet Vision Exchange 2017. Which baffles me, because it was supposed to be a short little thing until it took on a life of its own. 

Since the chapter isn’t quite done yet, I’d like to offer a brief preview of what’s to come in Chapter 7. Enjoy! 

Chapter 7 Preview -- The Morning After an Unconventional Bundling

Wanda wakes rested, energized, and thrumming with the afterglow of euphoria. A scan with her powers reveals it was not just a pleasant dream, the presence of Vision’s slightly groggy mind flaring brightly from the main room. She dresses quickly, hands occupied with roping her hair into a tight knot while a puff of scarlet opens the door, her lips traveling upwards at the sight of Vision standing in the middle of the room, one sleeve rolled up to the elbow, shirt unbuttoned down to the glint of vibranium on his sternum, and his hands and mind concentrated on unrolling and fastening his other sleeve around his wrist. It’s not clear if he’s seen her, his fingers working out the creases in the fabric with meticulous movements, two tugs of his shirt cuff and then a smoothing out with his palm. Wanda considers removing herself to her room due to an odd, somewhat thrilling feel of intimacy watching his morning routine, but she remains, eyes following the confident, hypnotic repetition of his actions on the other side of his body, the metal rods of his arm disappearing into the well-honed disguise of a butler. Yet Wanda can’t be fooled by the impeccably tailored armor, knows the personality, the intelligence, and the caring that hides beneath the facade no matter how high he buttons the shirt or how serious the pattern of his waistcoat.

“Good morning.” His salutation catches her off guard, mind furiously attempting to refocus from his shirt sleeves to his face, relieved when she finds delight not vexation in his smile.

“Morning.” The question of how he slept is forgotten as she watches him run the long, flat tie through his fingers. Her father never wore ties, maybe only three times in her life and she remembers the way her mother would grow fed up with how long it took him to preen himself. Vision does not falter the way her father would, no aggravation at the floppiness of the fabric or the complicated loops needed to complete the process. Instead he works through it methodically, popping his collar, draping the tie around the nape of his neck, lining up the fabric on his chest with gentle, fine-tuned guidance, folding it over his fingers―first the left side and then the right―pinching the two sides together and then sliding the last of the fabric through the back.  “That’s impressive.”

A pleased confidence flashes in his eyes, one that, if used too often, might permanently destabilize her knees, especially when paired with the assured movement of his fingers straightening out the tie, “Thank you, it is a point of pride.”

“Oh?

“Yes,” he turns towards her now, buttoning the last of his shirt and gingerly folding the collar down, ensemble almost complete minus his coat, gloves, and hat.  “During my recovery, the physician gave me numerous physical tasks to regain mobility, ranging from walking five steps without aid to tying a bow tie.” Wanda is drawn in by the steady gaze of his eyes. “It took me three hundred and twenty six tries to develop the necessary dexterity.” Once she’s close enough, she reaches out, experimentally placing her hands on his chest.  When he doesn’t move away, his mouth inching up a minuscule amount as he talks, she begins tracing up along the lines of his waistcoat. “Most days I am now successful on the first attempt.”

Her fingers continue their journey, stopping at his neck to pinch the tie in both hands, pretending to fix it despite the fact it already lays perfectly in place. “Very impressive.”

If there was any worry that the sun would chase away his affection it is defeated soundly when he bends, a coy “Thank you” tickling her lips. He pauses, silently seeking permission, and Wanda grants it, drawing him down the last half inch by his bow tie.

This kiss is longer than the night before, more confident and affectionate, her fingers curling tighter into the silk and erupting with scarlet when he places a hand firmly on her lower back.  Vision shifts, and if he dares to think he can end this kiss now, especially if he insists on leaving for weeks, then he truly is an imbecile. To make her intentions irrevocably clear, Wanda’s hands vacate the tie so she can wrap her arms around his neck, guiding him closer to her. He obliges, more so than any book of butlering would recommend or etiquette likely allows, the gentle poise of his body fading the deeper she kisses him and the tighter her arms get to eliminate any last iota of space between them. This action is rewarded with an electric feeling tingling along her spine as his hands come to grip her waist, holding her in place. 

“Miss Maximoff,” the way her name sounds in his euphonious accent and the smile glancing her mouth only increases the desire spreading from her chest to the tips of her toes, her lips begging for one more kiss, which Vision seems to heavily consider, voice quieting at her amative stare. “Regrettably I, I do nee-,” Wanda gently leads him back to her, his conviction to finish the sentence crumbling as his lips descend comfortably back to hers, fingers scrunching around her waist. If he never finishes the thought it means time will remain locked in this moment, a wholly desirable outcome.  Yet he won’t concede, pulling back just enough to pepper the rest of his sentence with apologetic tenderness, fingers still clutching her waist as if he doesn’t want to believe the words either, “I need to leave.” Vision tilts his head forward, lips moving strategically out of reach while his forehead comes to rest against hers, his voice uneven and breathy, “May I call on you, when I return?”

“Of course.” A contented smile meets her words, a gentleness signaling he is about to step away, but she is unwilling to lose this just yet. “You know Vizh,” she intends to draw out his name, entice him closer, but the last syllable is smothered by the curious squint of his eyes and the alluring, pursed smile on his lips. So she commits to the shortened moniker, arms descending slightly, her palms skimming along his shoulders as she angles into her next attempt to elongate their time together. “The weather looks quite dreadful today, it might not be in your best interest to leave.”

Vision twists his body, the movement turning her as well, to examine the undeniably cheerful sunshine streaming through the windows. His eyes travel along her face, his expression torn between apology and amusement, “Wanda, believe me, I desperately wish to stay.”

“Will Stark send someone if you don’t come back?”

The line of his mouth develops a grimness despite his eyes remaining jovial, “After an entire night away, he might come himself.”

Wanda gives an exaggerated grimace at the information, finally admitting defeat with a sighed “Fine,” and releasing him to step away.

Want to catch up before the next update? Read the rest on AO3 or on Tumblr