#basically had him brown and muted so he really blends or stands out compared to the rest of the team

[incorrect-jojolands-quotes]

Look at all five of them!

[hes-writer]

The Hate You Give

Hi hun! If you’re not too busy, could u write one where they’re are dating and she’s a latina? Like she feels insecure about her brown skin, slightly bigger chest and ass, her thick dominican accent bc the girls who were linked with him before were all white and blonde and like she tries to break up with him bc of all the hate and differences. Thanks honeyy!!💖💖 @champagnehaarry

disclaimer; I'm not latinx and I've done research as to not offend or stereotype this character to the best of my ability.

Summary: Y/N is latina and receives hate messages

Warnings: angst, fluff

——

Y/N was different. She knew that, well, she had an idea ever since she hit puberty way back when. Her chest had grown bigger than the rest of the girls and her bottom would get her catcalls when she walked down the street. She could handle it, she prided herself in being strong. She didn't mind her accent, not one bit. Sure, it was thick and her pronunciation on certain words had others asking for her to repeat what she just said maybe once or twice, but she tried to understand where they were coming from; ‘everyone has their differences,’ she thought. Her skin never really bothered her–in fact, she hadn't spared much thought about its pigment until now.

When she met Harry, all her insecurities washed away as if she was just a regular girl meeting the love of her life. The way she looked didn't matter to her because she could see in his eyes that he loved her—nobody could tell her any differently.

——-

Y/N was strong. So strong that even when the media caught the first sight of Harry and her hanging out together on their third date, she blew off the fact that one of the cameramen shouted at them, "Harry! Who's this beautiful brown lady with you?" One might say that it was a compliment, at least he called her beautiful, but she couldn't shake off the measures that person took to describe her. Couldn't have he just called her 'lady'? Y/N decides that she's making a bigger deal out of it than it actually meant.

The second time something remarkable happened—it was when Harry stopped their romantic walk to take pictures with his fans. Y/N didn't mind, she loved that Harry was so dedicated to the people that support him that he would basically give all that he can to them. He didn't have to, but he did and that made Y/N fall harder for him. One of the girls asked Y/N to take a picture, handed her their phone and posed with Harry. Y/N was surprised at the straightforward action and she knew that she could not mess this up. Not when the girl has probably been dreaming of this moment her entire life, Y/N will not be responsible for a blurry, half-assed picture. Instead, she asks the girl,

"Do you have any requests on how to take it? Portrait or landscape? Nothing below the waist or..?"

Harry admired her for being so caring, he only smiles at her for asking, being so patient that he feels giddy on the inside and he cannot wait to ask her to be his. The fan, however, furrows her brows and her face morphs into one of confusion.

"Can you repeat what you said?" Y/N repeats her statement but was only met with the same expression-–maybe with a hint of annoyance.

"I'm sorry, can you just take the picture? I don't want to be rude but your accent is so...thick, are you even from here,"

"Obviously not," the girl's friend answers for Y/N. The most obvious answer, if any. The girl beside Harry nudges her friend, eyes shifting from her and then hardening towards Harry as if warning her that she was being a bit rude.

Regardless, the friend eyes Y/N up and down with a glimmer in her eye that spoke hatred.

Y/N takes the picture anyway.

——-

As Harry and Y/N reach the door to her apartment, she couldn't help but think of the past events. It wasn't only that, it was a built up of temperament where she had been treated indifferently by people around Harry. Some fans commented under her selfie on Instagram ranging from "at least you have boobs and ass girl" to "how much fake tan does she use" —none, by the way, she was all natural. And Y/N can't help but feel a tad insecure.

Then came the news articles with the headlines, "Harry Styles Spotted With A Spicy Latina" or "Harry Snags A Girl From Down Under" which confuses her not only because they're an invasion of privacy but she wonders how her whole humanity can be diminished into such an objective headline—she had a name. Granted, she wasn't really worth knowing but regardless, it was better to be called by her name rather than a hotshot eye-catching headline.

She taps the link to one of the articles, scrolling through the lengthy piece of work, eyes squinting at the introduction where it states that Y/N was certainly a deviation away from Harry's usual hookups. Harry had taken it upon himself to make them some hot chocolate while she got changed in comfier clothes as a conclusion to their date night. She was supposed to choose the movie. Her eyes squint at the words "10 Proofs that Y/N Y/LN is a no match for Harry"

The first one on the list was Taylor Swift. Of course, how could Y/N forget about her. Skinny, blonde and pale skin, a stark contrast to her curvy figure, wavy hair and darker toned pigment. She feels a lurch in her stomach from the hit of realization.

Then came Camille Rowe—a model with similar attributes as Taylor. Completely the opposite of Y/N and she feels herself getting more sick at the knowledge being pounded into her. She didn't care about Harry's past because she only cared for who he is in the present. Seeing the women he went for before her puts a stake right through her self-esteem knowing that she would always be compared with one of them as long as she and Harry were together. Her confidence staggering each time she reads a negative comment about how her skin color made Harry stand out whereas it made her blend in the background-a sarcastic joke that wasn't very funny. Her breath hitching every time the topic of her accent came up; how fans who've met her in person make fun of her not having an understandable accent as if it was her fault that her pronunciation was too broad beyond their compare. And each time she sees a comparison of her and Harry with him and his exes, she shakes her head because she knows that literally nothing good ever comes out of that.

She knows she's strong. But why did this hurt her so much? The personal attacks being hurled at her made her feel so inferior to others and even to Harry! It was like the media was never gonna get used to the fact that she's a person of colour—continuously writing papers about their 'interracial' relationship as if it was such a huge deal when really, it was not even their business to pry or scavenge for.

"Hey love, have you chosen a movi– hey, hey what's wrong?" Harry walks through the doors of her bedroom, feet kicking the door slightly open while his hands carried two steaming mugs of foaming hot chocolate. Upon seeing her tears and slouched stance, he sets the cups down on the bedside table before sitting with her at the foot of the bed.

Y/N stares at him as he does so before wiping her eyes with the heel of her hands. "Nothing, it's nothing just.."

"You can tell me anything, you know that. Now tell me what's wrong, lovie" He wraps an arm around her figure as an action of comfort, but Y/N only sees it as a burden in her chest.

"I think we should break up, H" She looks at her sock-clad feet. Not being able to look at him in the eyes, it's her weakness.

"What? Y/N, did I do something?" Harry tilts her chin up towards his face, eyes frantically searching her red ones for a justifiable reason for her decision.

"I'm not good enough for you," Harry gasps at her confession, genuinely surprised that his girlfriend could even fathom to say those words, let alone think of them.

He denies every claim about her theory but his voice was muted by her mind repeatedly playing the things she had read a few minutes ago. Memories of her being demeaned echoing through her head.

"You're the best person I've ever been with. It doesn't matter what other people sa—"

"Yes it does, Harry! It definitely matters when I'm being constantly picked on and compared to your ex-girlfriends. Every day I read something about how I must've 'tricked' you into being with me because of how I look," Y/N cuts Harry's rant off, not caring if it hurts him because she was so so hurt. The pain had embedded itself in her, working its way up to her roots; who she was and where she came from.

"I'm not just another girl that Harry Styles dated. I'm the brown girl, the one who has the 'biggest ass' out of all of them and especially the darkest because you... you've only dated people like Taylor before and I can't live my life being put down because of how I look,"

Harry stares at her with emotion. Of course, the media was gonna pinpoint what his 'type' was. He didn't know it was hurting his love.

"Y/N, they're all bull. Whoever's writing this shit, they're only in it for the money," he begins, forcing her body to face him completely. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met. They're my exes for a reason and even if I did date them, I'm with you now because I love you for who you are,"

"But it's true, isn't it? They're all so small and I'm big. They're half the size of me for god's sakes!"

"It's not true. And you know why? You're mesmerizing in your own way. I love the way your body curves, the way you look doesn't matter to me as much because you're a beautiful, genuine person inside and out," He nods along to his words. "But your body is amazing, Y/N. And you should learn to love your skin because it shows you who you are."

Y/N bored at Harry's eyes, seeing nothing but genuine kindness behind it. Her mouth gapes open having not heard such compliments from anyone as authentic as the words Harry was speaking to her.

"Harry..."

"No, Y/N. I won't sit here and listen to you put yourself down. You deserve to know how unbelievably gorgeous you are. The tabloids, the hate—they're not true and people like them need some education before they go off dragging other people who don't look like them down."

"You're right, H. I'm sorry,"

"You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about,"

She wipes tears from her eyes, this time they're from happiness.

——

@ynm1505

[anonthenullifier]

This Wasn’t What I Had in Mind

Title: This Wasn’t What I Had in Mind

Gift for: Carlye (@scarletphantom1704)

Rating: T

Word count: 4.4k

Summary: During a rendezvous with Vision, a seemingly innocent excursion forces Wanda to remember all she has lost.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15996662

Prompt: I would love to receive a piece of fanart/or a fanfic of Vision comforting Wanda after a flashback, triggered by an ordinary object, and a panic attack in public. (MCU)

To Carlye: This was a fun but challenging prompt. I hope the story meets what you were wanting with the prompt :)

To Anya (@atendrilofscarlet), my beta, you are amazing! Thank you for reading so many versions of this in such a short time period and answering all my questions :D.

To everyone else, I hope you enjoy this too!

Made for the Scarlet Vision Exchange 2018!

It is freezing.  Wanda suspects the only reason the steam hovering in front of her face isn’t crystallizing is because of how rapidly she is sucking in the frigid air and then pushing it back out. It’s so cold her wool-gloved hands are buried deep in her coat pockets instead of seizing the opportunity of the moment and holding Vision’s hand. In lieu of intertwined fingers, their bodies are huddled, shoulders and hips practically glued together as they stare forward.

“Did you know,” he glances down at her, movements minimized to retain heat, “until today the coldest day in Sopot’s history was -2.5 degrees Celsius?”

She’s fairly certain the winters at the compound were comparable to now, possibly worse, yet the rush of air coming from the sea seems to banish all potential warmth, leaving just a gray, lifeless wraith of an afternoon. “Don’t tempt me with such balmy facts, Vizh.” What she assumes is a breathy laugh, though could easily be a shudder at the bite in the air, mingles with the crashing of waves against the embankment of ice along the shoreline. “You know, this really wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“I did offer an alternative of staying in the hotel next to the radiator.”

Wanda cracks a smile at the specificity of the statement, his mind so vast and yet during their clandestine meetups it collapses to only reach out as far as what they are doing in the present, disregarding any subtext of a time further than now. “We’ll go back soon.”

A nod and a bump of his shoulder confirms his desire to do just that, “I believe that is for the best,” his voice shifts to being overly concerned, a tone that has been increasingly common for the past several weeks, “I do not believe it is in your best interest to develop pneumonia again.”

Wanda shrugs. In her opinion, the downsides of being sick were far outweighed by other factors. “Got you to stay with me for longer.”

“Yes,” a tiny smile sparks a small, welcomed ember in her chest, “though it also almost led to my discovery.”

“You act like Nat hasn’t pieced us together yet.” Sneaking around is never what either of them wanted as a basis of their relationship, which is why it was almost a godsend when Nat confronted her months ago. Anger mixed with disbelief and betrayal, but in the end was a hope, a guarded, questionable hope, one that allowed for an understanding to be reached that so long as Wanda was safe and checked in when required, she could be happy. Despite this, Vision still insists on never crossing paths with the other rogue Avengers. Likely worried that the pressure of lying about seeing four people would be too much. Giving vague and unhelpful answers to Ross about his time “searching” for her has already taken its toll on his demeanor, she’d never ask him to add to that responsibility. Wanda veers their thoughts from that particular topic, determined to make the most of their rendezvous. “When I started pestering Steve about a beach getaway, this wasn’t really what I meant.”

Vision glances down at her, then to the desolate stretches of sand, before finally settling his gaze on the angry, icy sea. “Though not ideal, tactically this is smarter. During the summer there are upwards of 2 million people in this city-“

“I know, Vision.” It’s been a hard set rule of Steve’s that they avoid peak tourism seasons when determining the locations each time they move around. Arguably large crowds could provide more cover, a greater chance to blend in, but it also means more eyes and cameras that might happen to upload one of their faces to Twitter or Instagram. That doesn’t mean Steve had to send her here in November--even September or early October would have less tourists and have the added bonus of potentially being warm enough for a proper beach vacation. “I just had it all planned out and it didn’t involve freezing our asses off.”

“Well,” he removes his hand from the safety of his pocket and wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to nestle in the blissfully warm crook of his arm, “If it were warmer, what did you envision us doing?”

The images of such a dream flash through her mind, all nondescript as to the beach itself, given she had no idea where Steve would send her, but there are commonalities in all beach resort areas. “We would have woken up early,” a disbelieving wrinkle mars his forehead and she nudges him with her shoulder, “earlier than usual, at least. Maybe we’d grab breakfast and buy some snacks and then head to the beach to claim our spot before all the tourists descend.”

“So far we have been successful with your plan.”

Wanda regrets that they are outside because it means she can’t watch his irises spin in delight at the dryness of his sass, so she’ll have to settle for the slight, prideful smirk on his pale face. “Well if you want to continue with the plan, then slap on a speedo and dive right in.” The incredulous silence stretches out for several seconds. She can practically hear the gears in his eyes swishing while he figures out a response, his distaste of immodest clothing in public (for himself, personally. He believes everyone else can decide for themselves what is and is not comfortable to wear in public) is a topic they have discussed at length when she tried to get him to wear shorts over the summer. Wanda happily fills the continued silence, pushing the idea just a touch more by offering him the argument she had already crafted for his inevitable hesitation in the swimwear. “It’s what all the locals wear, you wouldn’t want to stand out.”

“I-” another long pause precedes the cautious, diplomatic cadence of his diverting words, “well it is really, um, an incredibly unfortunate happenstance for us to be here when it is so cold then.” Vision doesn’t allow room for her to comment further or persist in ribbing him on the matter. “What else, did you have in mind?”

“Well, after we had swam and enjoyed the sun,” the latter not even attempting to peek through the clouds for emphasis, instead remaining hidden in its own winter gloom, “we would walk the pier until we got to the end of it where there’s just the sea in front of us and the sun on the waves.”

“Sounds lovely.”

Wanda smiles at the warmth in his voice. “We’d watch the water, talk some more, I’d definitely kiss you-”

“That part of the plan can certainly still happen.”

“And then,” Wanda pulls her hand from its safehaven in her coat so she can wrap her arm around his waist, relishing the tightening of his grip in return, “we’d grab ice cream and go back to the hotel for some alone time before you have to leave.”

She can sense the wistfulness of his mind soaking in the imaginary sun and it almost makes the air around them feel a few degrees warmer. “Perhaps we can salvage some of it.”

“Oh?”

An enthusiastic, mesmerizing grin matches the brightness of his eyes as Vision looks down at her, “I believe there was an ice cream stand open not too far from here and,” he steps away from her and places his leather-gloved hands on her upper arms, “if I can manage to figure out the radiator, we can adjust the temperature in the room to allow for us to pretend it is summer.”

Wanda’s cheeks ache, possibly from the icy wind assaulting her face, but a more probable explanation right now would be the broadness of her smile, “Sounds perfect.”

The ice cream stand is harder to find than Vision’s plan suggested, their search leading them in a meandering labyrinth of cobbled streets and alleys as they investigate every building that has the same pink and brown ice cream cone sculpture. Eventually, after what feels like twenty stops, they come across a lone ice cream vendor.

Wanda’s image of this moment is different from reality, her memory filled with hot summer days and smiling faces handing her ice cream that’s started to ooze down the ridges of the cone, whereas the man shivering behind the glass case is mutely unimpressed by Vision’s very friendly, “ Dzień dobry*.”

A harsh, “What do you want?” is the reply. Wanda laces her fingers through Vision’s, noting the tension in his muscles and preparing for the talk they’ll have later, at how, because of his accent, among other things, he can never pass himself off as a native speaker wherever they are at. She thinks it’s kind of cute, his belief that he could ever mask his proper English accent to fit in, but she also sympathizes given her own experiences of trying (and failing) to not be an “other” in public after moving to New York.

To help with his attempts to blend in, Vision has started eating with her, treating his choices in food like he does everything else -- with a laser focus and a desire to be equitable to all options. What this invariably means is that he is about to ask about every single flavor, combo, sauce, and cone. Given Wanda already knows what she wants (it’s what she gets every time), she responds before Vision gets a chance to read any flavors, “Stracciatella.” A heaping cone is passed over the counter, her tongue happily running through the creamy, chocolate speckled heaven while her eyes turn to take in the tiny, ill-insulated building as Vision mulls over his choices.

It’s a basic ice cream store. The requisite signs about toppings and pictures of beaming beach goers in speedos (something she’ll kindly direct Vision’s attention to while they eat) lining the walls. There’s a section of the far wall with postcards and fading pictures with autographs. One catches her eye, a recollection of those faces surfacing though she can’t quite place it until she notices a melody in the air. The music is different from the usual happy, bubblegum pop of these places. The song playing from a speaker behind the glass case curves her lips up, the fast paced, punk sound unmistakable. This was one of Pietro’s favorites and she hasn’t heard it in a long time. Wanda makes a mental note to have Vision listen to Hladno Pivo later, even if he’ll dislike it, most likely critiquing the harshness of the vocals and the clashing of the instruments. “And what is this one?” Vision’s voice draws her attention back to the counter where he’s pointing at another flavor and the man, knuckles white around the ice cream scoop, is doing his best to not be annoyed at all the questions.

“ Kasztan, it’s uh,” the man waves the scoop as he searches for the word, then he snaps the fingers of his other hand, turning to Wanda, a congenial almost hopeful uptick in his voice as he switches languages, “kesten, ja?”

A tingling in her chest blooms at the question. “It’s um,” Wanda nods her head, trying to close out the song so she can focus on translating the word. “It’s,” the tingle grows into a claw, wrapping its digits around her ribs as bursts of fiery light erupt from her mind. She turns towards Vision, hoping his curious and bright eyes will do what they always do best: calm her. “It’s um chest-,” yet the words fumble out as her breath begins to fail her, the talons of remembrance puncturing her lungs,”-nut”.

Vision’s Interesting fades away, the movements of the ice cream vendor slowing as he spoons out a cone, but Wanda finds she isn’t really there anymore. Instead she is ten again, lungs spasming into coughing fits as she sucks in the fresh air. Pietro is at her side, hand clutching her own, pulling her each time he coughs to get the last of the dust from his body. You would think, after a bombing and numerous rescue missions, that someone would be helping two children in the street, and yet there are terrifying screams coming from the stretchers being carried out of the building that garner all of the attention from the medics and the bystanders. “Dođi,” Pietro tugs her hand but her feet stay firmly planted to the ground, eyes refusing to leave the hole in the building where their home used to be. “Dođi, Wanda, otišli su.**”

Eventually she budges, head hanging low as they wander the city, no one noticing them until a woman stops them several streets over. Pietro handles the conversation, Wanda’s mind far too lost to comprehend what is being said, something about if they need help or if they are hungry. Whatever is said leads to an ice cream cone shoved in her hand, her fingers begrudgingly scrunching around the paper wrapper. Why she has ice cream is a mystery, it’s not a hot day, it’s not a happy day, it’s not even a filling food after days trapped under a bed. A hand waves in front of her eyes, focusing her energy on the beaming, filthy face of Pietro, a beige hued mound of ice cream hovering at her mouth, “To je kesten***”

A frantically quiet, “Wanda?” dissolves Pietro’s smiling face.

Vision waves a hand through the air, brow etched with concern until she nods, swallowing down the rising bile at the memory, refusing to give in to it now, “Yeah?”

“Would you like to eat outside?” It’s not what he actually wants to ask her, not what is coursing through his mind or painted all over his disguised face, but to maintain their cover, it’s the best he has.

“Um,” Wanda stares at the beige ice cream cone in his hand, attempts to nod, but gets distracted by the room closing in, inch by inch, a subtle, unnerving minimizing of the space around her. A numbness spreads through her hands, one that is different than the flow of her powers, and it follows the rapid increase in her heart rate. Deep breaths should work, at least Vision always made her do it in the early days of their friendship. A steady inhale, hold for three seconds, and then an exhale. Repeat as many times as needed. Eyes, she can hear his voice in the distance, as if through a wall, need to be trained on one item. So Wanda looks straight ahead, only to see the damned cone and the trickle of ice cream oozing over the paper wrapper.

Pietro always ate his ice cream fast enough to not let it melt, no matter if they were ten, fifteen, twenty, he always ate it joyfully and quickly. And it was always the same flavor, he refused to eat any ice cream that wasn’t chestnut, they even learned which parlors carried the flavor, on which days, and who they could convince to give them either a free cone or a discounted one. He should be holding that cone right now.

The trickle of despair dripping into her soul suddenly turns into a downpour and she can feel the bullets ripping through his body, her knees ache at the cuts from when she fell--lost, confused, and angry. Years had passed, literal years without Pietro, and she had coped, survived, learned how to move on, yet she needs him back. Desperately wants that constant, to feel his mind, hold his hand. Wanda’s body starts to shake. She closes her eyes, clamping out the image of the cone, breathing in deeply again and again, though it becomes more difficult, the absence of Pietro too much, her soul torn asunder day after day after day without him. She no longer even has the Avengers, doesn’t have the compound, can’t count on Vision to always float through her wall, or get the shit beat out of her at training to distract her. The world hates her, half her former teammates hate her, she’s a wanted fugitive with no prospect of salvation. Much like when she was ten, clutching Pietro’s hand, eating ice cream. Only he’s not here anymore.

Her chest burns, breaths shallow and labored as the world seems to dissolve, the past mixing with the present, taunting her with a blank and empty future, and she can’t determine if she’s ten, if she’s falling with Sokovia, if she’s sleeping in a shelter with Pietro’s arms around her, if she’s back at the compound listening to the soothing lull of an English accent, or if she’s in Poland on a freezing day eating ice cream with her undercover boyfriend.

Only Pietro ever fully understood her when she spoke of separating from reality like this, of getting lost in the sea of memory, where each wave crashing down brings only more confusion. Wanda is falling now, a weightlessness overtaking her, and she closes her eyes as she feels her home plummet from beneath her, heart shattered and body empty, accepting her fate to join Pietro, wherever he went.

There is a feeling of movement, not of free falling, but hovering, her eyes cracking open long enough to see the world morphing around her: walls dropping away, the wind picking up around her head, stirring her hair, her legs swinging freely. There is motion and there is sound, words muffled and muddled so that she isn’t sure if people are screaming for help in the hell of flames, demanding why they are being asked to leave their homes, taunting her on the streets, calling her a criminal and a witch, or even just asking if she is okay. Her senses function like a kaleidoscope, shifting and rotating so that each combination of stimuli produces bursts of distorted experience that masks what exactly is happening or where she is. Wanda closes her eyes tighter, time slipping through her grasp, her fingers grabbing at the strands of her life, instead scrunching into the fabric of whomever is holding her-- maybe it’s Pietro, guiding her to wherever he’s been; maybe it’s Vision saving her from falling with Ultron’s carcass; maybe it’s the guards securing her after another flare up of her newly gifted powers; maybe it could even be her mother, cradling her after a night terror.

There is a chiming and then the world stops moving.

“Wanda?” A voice reaches out to her, calm though fraying at the edges. “Wanda.” Lavender fills her nose and a sweltering heat cocoons her. “Wanda, it is all right.” The ground under her sinks and creaks. Wanda flexes her fingers, digging her nails into a stiff fabric and a fluffy foundation. “Wanda, I made you tea.”  

She opens her eyes a sliver, just enough to confirm she is on a bed, noting a blurry patch of crimson not too far away. A sound attempts to come from her mouth, but her throat is parched, unwilling to function more than a croaked, “Vizh?”

A hand runs through her hair, each stroke diminishing the thoughts, bringing her back to the present. “I am here, Wanda.” It’s enough to vanquish most of the confusion, solidifying which reality she is currently in, yet still her body sinks under the weight of Pietro’s continued absence. “Do you want to discuss it?”

They established a routine in the early months of being Avengers, back when she was still figuring out who he was and what she was after everything, back before she could kiss him whenever she wanted, before she could slip into his mind at any given time, before he held her in a way that wasn’t just for comfort. It’s been a long time since they’ve used it, but clearly he remembers. Step 1: Neutralize the chance of public detection, Step 2: Utilize the calming principles of lavender and chamomile tea. Step 3: Offer to talk. “I-” Wanda tries to sit up but he lightly presses her down, crawling into the bed next to her so that their eyes are level. The gears are back, whirling in a frenzy that clashes with his overall calm demeanor. There’s so much to say, so much of it has already been said, countless times and honestly, she has no desire to talk about all of it again, can’t help but feel embarrassed at still having panic attacks like this. “Kesten was Pietro’s favorite flavor.”

“I see.” All of his empathy and apologies (ones for not being able to stop it sooner, for not being able to save Pietro, for not being able to take this pain away, for them being forced to moonlight as a couple) are wrapped into the two syllables along with a firm, nonjudgmental understanding that she doesn’t want to talk. “Would you like to try muscle relaxation?”

Wanda wants to know who all saw her attack, witnessed her crumbling facade, whether it attracted too much attention, if someone caught a picture and uploaded it somewhere. But he’s already moved them to Step 4: Regain control. Wanda decides to play along knowing there should be plenty of time to interrogate him as to what danger she placed them in. “That sounds nice.”

Unlike all the other times he did this at the compound, Vision wraps his arm around her, placing a chaste, loving kiss to her forehead before starting the process. “We will start with your hands.”

The first time he had her do this, she felt ridiculous, challenged him on it and refused for a time. Eventually he convinced her which soon transformed into her hoping he’d recommend this technique, as it allowed her more time with him and a chance to purposely place all of her attention on his voice. “Ready.”

“Focus on your fingers,” she wiggles them, brushing his stomach in the process, “I am glad you found them.” The smile is easily detected in his tone, but fades quickly as he instructs her. “Now focus on each hand individually, first squeeze your fingers into a fist, noting the tension," Wanda nestles into his chest, following his instructions, bending the fingers of her right hand into a shaking fist.  "Good, now ease your fingers open until there is no tension left.”

Her mind and powers calm as she begins to loosen the control of her grief, her fingers relaxing and dropping down one-by-one in relief. “Right hand good to go.”

A hand brushes through her hair, “Good job. Now your left hand.” She repeats the process, clenching and then unclenching her fingers, exhaling happily once both hands are resting against Vision’s body. The next step is her arms, so she starts to flex her right arm but pauses when Vision hugs her closer, drawing her forehead tenderly to his lips again. Such contact was never included in their routine, yet he seems indifferent to the change, segueing calmingly to the next part, “Well done, Wanda. Now-”

She stares into his eyes, awed at the twists and turns of life that brought this man to her and how he can so easily transition her from an all encompassing loss to the feeling of butterflies in her stomach.  “You’re changing the protocol.”

“I, um,” Vision frowns, not an upset or angry gesture, but a contemplative and shy move as he runs his fingers along her back, “thought such a gesture might aid in your relaxation. Perhaps a rewards based system of motivation.”

The timidness that fueled each touch and word in the early days of their not-quite-friendship-but-not-quite-lovers relationship has fallen away over the last year, giving way to this new, still cautious, but more confident side of Vision. Wanda grins, “I think it sounds helpful. Want to keep going?”

The half-arc of his lips is radiant, “Yes, now your arms.” He scoots away from her, leaving enough room for her to follow his instructions, “tighten your right bicep, drawing your forearm up.”

“Welcome to the gun show, Vizh.” It’s a joke he didn’t comprehend the first five times she used it, but now he simply smiles, head shaking as he watches her flex her muscles before releasing her arm to lay back down along her side. Then she repeats the action, and the joke, on the other side before Vision moves back, their chests touching as he lays another kiss on her forehead. “Next?”

They move through her body, his even commands guiding her to raise her shoulders up to touch her ears and then lower them into a peaceful state. He kisses her forehead with another “Good job.” Wanda sucks in a deep breath, creating tension in her lungs, only this time it’s under her control and Vision’s supervision, not a sense of gasping but a sense of order, her breath releasing against his face, causing him to blink rapidly before bestowing her reward. Her stomach collapses in and then expands out in time with his voice, only she pushes it farther than she's supposed to, bumping him with her body which leads to a quiet laugh as he kisses her again. “Lastly, Wanda," Vision holds her close, their foreheads touching as he talks, "squeeze your left thigh and curl your toes, then release.” Wanda sighs as she finishes the exercise, body sinking into the mattress, not because of grief anymore, but a sense serenity and contentment.  

Several minutes pass in silence, only the slight buzz from the radiator and the even rhythm of Vision’s breathing filling the air around her with a pleasing warmth. Having allowed her time to bask in her relaxation, Vision tiptoes into his next comment, “I am sorry.”

“For what?”

He shifts slightly, the springs complaining until he settles, lips pursed and eyes twisting in anxiety, “That the day did not match your expectations.”

None of her beachy daydreams included this moment, this is undoubtedly true, yet Wanda finds herself content to be wrapped in his arms, cuddled close on a freezing day. “It’s not your fault, Vizh. The day wasn’t horrible.”

“Not horrible is a poor benchmark for a day when we get so few together.”

Wanda grins at him, freeing her left arm from his embrace enough to draw her hand down his face, watch as his eyes flutter shut at the touch. For all that she has lost, all that she will lose in the future, she’s overjoyed that amongst all of that she has found him. “Well, there’s still time for you to fix the radiator and slap on a speedo.” He kisses her, stifling her laugh and distracting her from the world and all its cruelties for just a bit longer.

*Dzień dobry:  Good afternoon ** Dođi. Dođi, Wanda, otišli su: Come on. Come on Wanda, they’re gone. *** To je kesten: it’s chestnut!