#and 2) truthfully he just makes me uncomfortable a not insignificant amount of the time

[anonthenullifier]

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 5 Preview

As an apology for how long it’s taking to finish this chapter, have a small preview. The rest will be up in 1-2 weeks. Hope you enjoy!

Wanda is four (mostly) gleaming candlesticks in when she hears a slamming door from upstairs followed by plodding, annoyed steps that eventually reveal an untidy Stark. The rate at which he descends the staircase, unhurried and calculated, certifies his displeasure, but what’s more telling is the coldness of his usually upbeat voice. “Wanda.”

The felt splashes into the mucky water, her other hand carefully placing the candlestick on the ground before she stands to face the man. “Tony,” she emphasizes both syllables, determined to challenge the power differential he’s trying to utilize against her, yet his face remains impassive, hands sliding into the safe haven of his front pockets.

“He’s awake.” The confirmation of the news awakens her heart, a rapid flutter ramming against her ribcage as she digests the realness of the words. “Just so we’re clear this is against my better judgment,” he frowns, eyes downturned to study the scuffed toes of his shoes, then releases an exasperated breath out and meets her eyes again, “but he wants to talk to you, alone.”

If the revelation this morning that Vision was awake and presumably okay was an elixir to her morbid thoughts, the realization of what this conversation will require of her draws her back into the squalor of remorse. But she cannot expect penance if she avoids admitting her wrongs.  “Okay.” Wanda wipes her damp hands on her skirt, fingers tingling with the nervous undulation of her powers as her emotions run rampant. “I’ll speak with him.”

She can feel Stark’s eyes follow her as she approaches the stairs, his thoughts swirling just out of reach of her powers, but she dares not connect with his mind when they are this close, all desire to enter the frenzied network of his past gone. “Wanda.” Her journey comes to a halt on the first stair, hand resting on the circular top of the rail. “I’m going to be in the hallway. If you do anything to him-”

The threat is unneeded, though she doesn’t fault him with distrusting her, she’d react exactly the same. “You will contact the sheriff.”

“No,” the single syllable is drawn out with a haughty chuckle, “No, you get the Black Widow if something happens.” Whatever this means is insignificant in the face of the seriousness of his voice, one heavy enough to nail a coffin shut. “Understand?”

“Perfectly.” The annoyance exuding from Stark falls away with each halting step in her ascent, but as his diminishes it is replaced by her own annoyance once she turns down the hallway, her heart pounding in an attempt to convince her to run, but she tightens her fists and continues to the room. The door is open, which means she doesn’t get a last chance to settle her nerves or force her expression into a carefully crafted mask of concern and confidence before their eyes meet. He is sitting up, not straight, a support system of a pillow leaning against a stack of books almost gives him a casual appearance, but the dark circles under his eyes, the uncharacteristically disheveled hair, and the loose, unironed nightgown betray his continued ailing. “You,” his polite voice startles her, her eyes dropping in embarrassment at staring at him for some, likely quite unsociable, amount of time, “may come in and have a seat.” “I-,” whatever she planned to say flees, leaving her to mutely nod, feet carrying her the same ten steps as the night before, though this time she moves the chair, places it several inches farther from the bed, fairly sure he would appreciate some physical distance between them. Wanda had assumed he would lead the conversation, foolishly believed his butler ways of waiting for her to speak would be discarded in circumstances when status and position no longer matter. Truthfully a butler should die from the sheer impropriety of being in bed, in a nightgown, in front of a young, unattached woman. Yet he simply stares at her, face impassive beyond a small, pained bunching just above his nose. Wanda attempts a smile, but knows it fails, instead studying her fingers as they lace together in uncertainty, and when he still does not speak, she glances to her left to study the room in daylight. “You know,” her voice begins its journey long before her mind catches up, left hand rising to point at a small cup and a quaint, wooden toothbrush*, “I have not seen one of those since moving here. I,” the strength of her vocal chords wanes as she continues, “spent three months trying to find one before giving up.” Vision’s eyes narrow as his head develops a small, curious tilt. “They do have truly barbaric views of dental hygiene**.” The dryness of the comment is comforting in its similarity to how he spoke with her prior to the séance, yet the absence of joviality is keenly felt. “I have a crate shipped in from London once a year. You are welcome to take some, if you like.” “Thank you.” The vast amount of things she’d like to say to him is immense, explanations and justifications, long histories of why she used his kindness in such a heinous way, careen through her mind, yet she can’t determine where to start. A simple apology seems far too empty, devoid of complexity and onus, and the last thing she wishes to do is harm him further with trivialities. Yet the idea of being truthful is petrifying, her heart caving in at the likelihood of his disbelief. “Miss Maximoff?” Her head snaps up, eyes meeting the eddy of disquiet in his gaze, and she can feel the air around them shift as he takes in a deep, steadying breath. “How-,” the word rushes out with his exhale and Vision breaks his stare, concentrating instead on the intertwining of his fingers atop the cream-colored blanket draped over his lap. The fact he is as unsettled as she is should lessen the fidgeting of her fingers or the shuffling of her boots along the wooden beams, but instead, it serves to increase her desire to leave, his presence, since she first met him at the river, has always been a source of comforting consistency devoid of anxiety, until now. “How did you know?” Wanda dips her head at the question, her rumination over the past three days often came back to this, accepted he was going to ask it, because so would she, if their positions were reversed. The response has been practiced, refined, demolished, re-created, practiced some more, and cemented. Yet in the moment, the brilliant blue of his irises boring into her soul, she finds her mind shifting back into old habits of sidestepping uncomfortable truths in order to escape unscathed. Her heart disagrees with her mouth, but she cannot stop the faux playfulness imbuing her voice as she responds, “I commune with spirits.” The droop of his eyes matches the downturn of his lips, accentuated by a soft, almost pained sigh prying itself free from his lungs, is a new expression for him, one, if she had to describe it, might be disappointment. His response confirms her supposition, an invisible, albeit monstrous, boulder of guilt settling on her chest. “Please,” it is the same please he used when they were standing in the rain: confused, imploring, and achingly desperate, “I need to know.” A sentiment she fully agrees with, but that does not make revealing the truth any easier nor does it alleviate the frustrating, and arguably startling, realization of how much she does not want him to think less of her, to doubt her. “You will not believe me.” “Why not?” Very few people, Wanda imagines, would readily accept the ability to read minds and move objects with a wave of a hand, but someone such as the butler - built of well-thought out, irrevocable logic - is most definitely in the section of the population that would never prescribe to such things. “You were not willing to believe in spirits.” His hands calm long enough to lift into confused gesticulation, a tiny undercurrent of annoyance developing in his intonations, “To be fair you were not convening with spirits. Please, tell me.” Despite his statement being true, the irritating reasoning only underlies her hesitation, “If you can’t even pretend to consider the existence of spirits then there is no way you will accept the truth.” “Wanda,” her resolve eradicates on the second syllable of her name, his conscious, deliberate breaking of her request a clear sign of the depth of his desperation. He could easily stop simply with her name and she would finally admit the truth, but he does not, instead continuing in an almost whisper, all irritation gone, replaced by a heavy, palpable sense of surrender. “Since you came to this manor, you have urged me, provoked me even, to cogitate on my own wants and independence, so I do not understand how you now suggest I am incapable of determining what I believe.” Wanda remains mute as his words wash over her, eyes locked with his own, and she knows she cannot run anymore, but more importantly, she doesn’t want to. Her chin dips as she collects her thoughts, spying the glint of metal in the opening at the top of his shirt, and her decision is finalized. Calmly she lifts her chin, once more meeting his eyes, channels all of her energy into maintaining a calm visage despite the scarlet prickling in her closed fists. “I,” her voice stumbles, seizes up at the confession. Vision doesn’t push her though, face softening into encouragement which only creates confusion in her mind as to why he is comforting her. “I can read minds.”