Chapter Text
Vision texts her at around six at night: hey, are we still on for tomorrow night?
Immediate grimace. She is a curled up body on a sofa, taking in its shape and softness and lack of motivation. The prospects are low. Wanda worms an arm from her blankets and claws at her phone until she’s able to catch it on her nails, tug it closer, and dial his number.
It rings only once.
“Woah,” he laughs, “Bad news?”
“Bad news,” she agrees, sounding very close to death, shuffling further into her cocoon. “I want to, really, I really want to—"
“Alright.”
“But. Ha. Y’see.”
“You know you don’t need to give me an excuse.”
“I’m on my period,” she says, defeated, “and it’s a bad one.”
“Ah.” She can hear the smile. “My gravest condolences.”
“Sorry,” Wanda turns her face into the cushions. “I can’t even move.”
“I appreciate the honesty.”
“I know, I know.”
“You didn’t have to call, I would have accepted a text just as warmly.”
“Because you’re an angel, yeah. I swear I meant to reschedule but I’ve been a mess today,” Wanda squirms, pained, “So sorry. I’m a little ball of hurt for the next few days.”
“Hm.” Wind against the receiver. He’s walking home from the library. “Not to shove my foot in the door here, but I’d love to come and coddle you. For what that’s worth.”
She closes her eyes, cool screen pressed to her cheek. She bites the smile she wears.
She really likes this guy. It’s only been two months but she really, really likes him. They’ve seen each other’s apartments. They’ve gone to each other’s favorite (and least favorite) restaurants in turn. Vision laughed so hard he snorted once. Wanda almost threw up in a taxi in front of him. It’s as close to normal as she thinks she’s capable of having. Flaws that are less than supernatural. It’s a good pace.
“I don’t look great,” she murmurs, a weak sort of disagreement.
“I’ll mess my hair up a bit and we’ll be even.”
“Yes, that’s definitely even.”
“Be there in fifteen.”
“Door’s unlocked.”
Wanda’s half asleep when she hears the hinges squeak. She can hardly lift her head to regard him as he saunters in with arms full of takeout, blond hair ruffled in all different directions, stupid half-smile on his face.
“You look cozy,” he murmurs, nudging empty mugs to the side so that he can unload his bounty on the coffee table. “Bad, you said?”
“Bad,” she brings her knees closer to her body. He makes an aw, baby face, which she appreciates. “Knives. Knives everywhere.”
“Yeesh.” Vision peers down into the paper bags he’s brought. They’re starting to turn to mulch from the steam and heat of the food inside. He sighs and then winces at himself, “Sorry to invite myself over like this. I didn’t even come up with a ruse, I just wanted to see you.”
“S’fine, no ruse necessary,” she brings her fingers up to her eyes to press away the sleepiness. “Will you grab my gloves?”
“Surely.”
She waits for the sound of his footsteps, the groan of her old floors, but there’s nothing. He just stands and stares at her, a grin creeping up on his face. Wanda peers out from her fingers and he smiles even wider.
“What?” she whines, dropping her arms.
“Sorry. Just, uh…” he shifts, eyes sparkling, “I… I don’t think I’ve seen them yet.”
She glances down at herself. “Seen what?”
“Your hands,” Vision says. He rests his fists on his hips. “Forgot that you had them, really, under those things.”
“Well, here ya go.” She holds them up, shows them off, spreads her fingers until the webs sting. He snickers. “Some thin gloves should be on my dresser. And some Tylenol. I’d love both.”
Vision shuffles over and kisses her shoulder through the blankets, intentional, careful, before marching down the hall, “Right away, madam.”
Ever since Wanda was a kid, she’s been told that she’s blessed. Blessed with such power that it’s unable to be contained. That’s what they call it. Blessed with power, blessed with a gift passed down through generations.
It’s a curse, really. It may have started beautifully, it may have began as a gift, but it’s not that now.
The Maximoff lineage is one of retrocognition on its stronger, female side. Every sister, mother, aunt, and grandmother has carried it. The ability to see a person’s past just by touching them.
A finger to the cheek, to the pulse point, a moment of focus—and, suddenly, you’d know things. Memories. Lies. Events you had missed or events you hadn’t bothered to attend, events that changed history and events that guaranteed it. You could tell if the husband was cheating on the wife, if the assassination was an inside job, if the bribes were taken, if the signature was forged.
It is a useful power, when controlled. It was a status symbol in the ancient-ancient times, a neat parlor trick in the modern. The use changes but the power remains.
Something went wrong with Wanda.
Her mother described the Hindsight as an electric circuit, something to open and close. A switch inside that alters a bulb, its brightness, its light. Wanda’s never closes. Wanda’s never dims. The Sight hovers under her skin at all times, no focus required, and it is unyielding. She did nothing to provoke it and yet it is provoked. Any person she touches is suddenly fully understood. Each touch supplies a memory. No matter what.
It’s a hell of a road block for dating.
Hold a hand, get an in-depth romantic history. An in-depth sexual history. Each name, hand, body, face that wasn’t hers. She meets the ex-partners of her dates before she meets her dates, naked bodies and hidden tattoos, it only takes a brush of skin.
It is often the bad things, too, in a cruel twist of fate. The lies first and then the memories. Sure, knowing if someone’s a cheater is important—but after the fact would be nice. How awful, to hold a guy’s hand and immediately recoil at the image of a glass of wine being thrown at his face.
Wanda gave up.
She was tired.
It was easier to rework a world view than it was to go out to dinner with a new face, a new person to disgust herself with. She decided that skin was dirty. She decided that gloves would be worn and sleeves would be tucked into them, she decided that normal humans were boring and mean. Her body was her body and it would remain over here, away from the names of ex-girlfriends and affairs and closed doors.
She gave up for about a decade.
She met Vision on a dating app.
Wanda’s opener was no-nonsense. It did no good to be subtle, she’d had plenty of experience with boundaries made and consequently crossed, and so she had a spiel typed out and ready to go—hello, I don’t like being touched, skin-to-skin is a no-no, I will be wearing gloves, if that’s a deal breaker, that’s fine, and on and on.
Vision had merely offered a list of local places he enjoyed. A library, a cafe, a restaurant, a park. These places are out of the way, he said, less people to worry about getting in your space.
It was a great night. They met at the park. He didn’t extend his hand for a shake, keeping them in his pockets as he stood and smiled and said, rather sweetly, hello, I’m Vision, thank you for meeting me in this empty courtyard, I promise I won’t murder you. She took his word for it. He didn’t murder her, so. He seemed trustworthy right from the get-go.
He gave her ample room. That was new. They walked side by side down the thin paths as the sun went down, exchanging frankly horrifying online dating stories, laughing in that polite way and then laughing in that genuine way as time wore on.
Wanda had stopped at one point, realizing how much room he was giving her. He walked a few more steps before realizing she was behind him. He smiled over his shoulder, cheeks and ears flushed, waiting for an explanation.
“You can come closer, you know,” she said quietly.
“Are you sure?” he asked, standing approximately five feet away.
“... Yeah,” she replied, smiling. “I’m not gonna bite you.”
He squinted, not moving a muscle, “... Are you sure?”
“Mhm,” she rocked on her heels, palms sweating in her wool gloves (she always opted for extra thick material for first dates, just to make sure), “I’m not contagious. I just… don’t touch people.”
“Mm. Well, in that case…” He took a comically large step with his comically long legs, settling right in front of her. She laughed and he beamed as he stepped to her side. “I know you’re not contagious, c’mon.”
“You’re acting like I’m contagious.”
“Eh, well.” He let her set the pace as they continued on their way. “I’m sure your germs are lovely and well worth catching.”
Wanda scoffed. “Awful.”
Vision clicked his teeth together. “Sorry about that.”
He talked about the library where he worked and she talked about her obsessive book collection that she never planned on reading. He asked about her shoes and she said they were handed down from her mother. They walked in loops until Wanda’s legs ached.
Not once did he ask about all of her rules. The interest was there, she saw it in his eyes, but it was nice to feel normal for a while. Nice to exist in her own bubble without worrying it’d be invaded. Nice to meet a nice guy and not worry that it’d be soured.
They figured it out, a rhythm. All those little details of dating that Wanda had never gotten to explore before things often got ruined. A normal rhythm for people who were content not to mention the layers between them.
The second date was dinner and a movie. Vision had simpered to himself as he’d pulled the armrest up to form a barrier between them, gasping as she shoved it down with her elbow. He asked if he could take a sip of her drink as the trailers played. It was an earnest question, unsure what was categorized as touch. She pretended to think about it. He offered to trade some of his candy for hers. She accepted.
It was nice. He’d ask before getting close, he’d tug his sleeve down before putting his arm around her, he’d hold her gloved hand and play with the very tips of her hair. A very cautious sort of fondness that she appreciated, that she wanted more of but couldn’t quite bring herself to chase.
“Goodnight, Wanda,” he’d say as he walked her to her door. She’d offer her hand and he’d kiss the red fabric over her palm.
“Goodnight, Vis,” she’d say. He’d drop his head and she’d kiss his hair.
He never asked what her deal was. Even as he’d glance down at her lips and she’d have to step away. Even as he’d ask if she’d want to stay the night and she’d have to decline. Even as his touches occurred only on sleeves, on clothed shoulders, on the plush of her hair, anywhere but where she’d feel it.
He never asked. And she wouldn’t have answered if he had.
“Thanks for dinner,” Wanda says, a caterpillar swaddled in quilts. Her cheek is pressed against his chest and his arm is heavy around her waist. The television plays an old, shitty romcom that’s made her cry three times in the past hour. His sweater is soaking wet. “And for coming over.”
“Oh, anytime,” he pats her hip. He glances down at her, clearly identifying the safest place for a kiss, before planting one right on her tangled hair. “Maybe you can do this for me when I’m on my period.”
“Ha,” she offers lamely. She sniffles. Her eyes are red from wiping them with these disposable gloves she bought for five dollars at the drugstore. “I’d be so good to you.”
“You’re always good to me.”
Vision settles further back into the couch. Wanda hums and closes her eyes. The screen fades and the credits roll. The next movie will be even worse than this one was, she knows it in her heart, and she wants to stay here forever but she’s steadily sinking into sleep.
“Hey,” he murmurs, poking her side. She doesn’t reply. “Wanda.”
“Mmfh.”
“You’re tired,” he says as if she doesn’t know. The couch squeaks as he shifts, studying her. “You’re all wrapped like a parcel, I bet I could carry you to bed if you wanted.”
“Noooo. Stay.” She tries to shuffle further but she just ends up in a heap on his lap. She rolls over onto her back, looking up at him, and she loves it when he looks at her like that. Like she’s the sweetest thing. “I’ll make some coffee. I can stay up.”
“You’re the one who’s been complaining all night that you’re in pain. Sleep may be good.”
He lifts his hand. He wants to brush her hair out of her face, wants to hold her cheek, wants to feel her skin with his thumb. He stops himself. Wanda pretends that she doesn’t see it.
“Fine,” she concedes. He grins and starts to put his plan into action. “Stay? I can make breakfast. You can sleep on the couch.”
He hums, “Darling, I like you very much, but I do not fit on this old thing. Nor do I wish to try.”
Wanda pouts as he gathers her and her blankets up into a concise package, walking her down the hall and toward her bed. She’s settled in the center and she swats his hands away before he can tuck her in.
“I’m a grown-up,” she informs him. She peels her gloves off and throws them onto the floor. Vision picks them up. “Hey. I can be a mess if I want.”
“Not while you’re hurting. Not on my watch.” Vision watches her pitiful attempt to free herself from her swaddle. “I’m gonna throw these away, and I’m going to clean up all the takeout rubble, and I’ll take my leave.”
“This is so upsetting.”
“Do you need me to grab you some water?”
“Vision.”
“Have you had any water today?”
“I am a grown-up.”
“One water it is.”
Wanda frowns as he wanders back out of the room, frowns at the rustling as he clears up their mess, frowns as he returns with a cool glass and a coaster because he’s an idiot.
“You could stay if you wanted,” she says, watching tiredly as he sets it over on the table. “I think I have an air mattress in the hall closet. It takes, like, an hour to blow up.”
Vision gives her a look. She gives up. He pats her arm through the blanket before heading toward the door.
“I’ll text when I get home,” he promises, “and I’ll call you after work tomorrow, see how you’re feeling.”
“I will be feeling bad,” she tells him.
His fingers are so pretty as he flicks the light switch off. He chuckles, “Oh, don’t spoil the surprise. Maybe there’ll be a miracle.”
She listens to his footsteps, hears him grab his phone from the coffee table and his shoes from beside the door, and the pit in her stomach forms long before he’s actually gone.
It’s hard to make the most of a good thing when she’s put a glass pane in front of it.
When Vision is here, when she can feel the weight of him through her clothes and through blankets, when she can feel the air shift when he breathes and moves, she feels amazing.
When he leaves, though, he takes the touch with him. Rather, the possibility of touch. She thrills at the opportunities for his fingers to brush across the side of her neck, across her wrists when her sleeves come untucked. It is unwishful thinking. She doesn’t want it to happen and yet she wants him to be here so that, if fate decides, it can happen.
Wanda lays in her bed, curled up in a ball, hurting and wanting a hand in her hair. A hand in her hair, on her stomach, trailing shapes across her legs. She doesn’t know what any of it feels like.
Everything she has ever had, every first date and every almost-kiss, is not tactile. She doesn’t know what anything feels like, too overwhelmed by the pictures they summoned to have savored the touch. All of her kisses were interrupted prematurely by an unexpected hand on hers and she’d jump away as if she was burned.
It would be easier if he were more demanding. Wanda wishes he could demand her to be normal. She’d at least try to listen. If he were standing over her, ripping her gloves off, bringing her palms to his hot face, she’d try her best not to see anything.
But Vision is patient. He’s good. He’s pretty. He gives her too much space, gives her the opportunity to step forward, step close, set boundaries.
“Owwww,” she cries, hugging her knees to her chest.
Her heart hurts. Her heart and her uterus. They both seek to kill her.
It’s not as fun to complain when Vision isn’t here to rub her back. She drinks her water and shoves her face into the pillow to pout herself to sleep.
Days pass.
She recovers.
He tests her resolve unknowingly.
Vision buys Wanda a pair of knit gloves with strawberries on the knuckles. She wears them even after he leaves, marveling at them, standing in front of the mirror with them, her first ever gifted pair.
They go to dinner. The waiter gets too close and Wanda freezes up. Vision asks for another glass of water to get him out of her space. She hides behind her menu.
They alternate date night locations, Vision’s place and then back to hers, chaste goodnights, intimacy through a shroud. His contentment frustrates her to no end. He’s supposed to be the one who loses his composure and asks for more.
Instead, it’s her that has to drag her impulsive thoughts back like rabid dogs. She wants to roll up her sleeves and shove her bare arm against his mouth. She wants to duck her head under his shirt and feel his stomach against her cheek.
Every day, the urges get worse. He reads a book or he drinks a glass of wine around her and Wanda gets lost in the details. Scruff on his cheek, soft hair down his arms, light blond sideburns, light eyelashes, hot and red face. Textures she can see. Textures she wants to have.
They keep watching movies with sex scenes. It’s the nail in the coffin. Vision laughs at the cinematography, cheek full of popcorn, and Wanda is deadly silent.
She hasn’t felt a person in a long time.
Skin is dirty. People are terrible.
Exceptions can be made.
She wants to lick his jaw. She wants to know his terrible parts. She wants them. She’ll forgive them. She doesn’t care.
Wanda sits alone in her apartment and stews. Mental pro and con lists. It’s not feasible to marry a man you’ve never touched. It’s not feasible to wear gloves through sickness and health and never explain why.
It’s barely been three months.
She watches a romcom and doesn’t laugh at any of the bad lines. She overheats in her sweatpants and strawberry gloves. Vision hasn’t been over in a while, nothing smells like him anymore. She thinks these are the symptoms of a crush gone chronic but she’s unsure what to do.
So, she texts him: hey, can we talk sometime soon? nothing major. just lmk.
He calls her immediately.
It rings only once.
“Hello?” she asks, perplexed.
“Hi—where are you?” he asks, he’s out of breath, and she can hear the city in the background. “I can come to you. Or we can meet at the park. Whichever you prefer.”
“... What?” She squints at the edge of her bed, “I didn’t mean now, you know. Like, next date night or whatever.”
“No, it’s alright, I’m free now. Park? I can run there. It’d only take five minutes.”
“Vision, what the hell is going on?”
“I’ve just…” He laughs quietly, panting, “I’ve got a really good streak going… er… avoiding getting broken up with over text. I can steal a bike and ride to your apartment, if you’ll meet me in the lobby, that would be fine. No hard feelings.”
Wanda rolls her eyes, “I’m not breaking up with you.”
“You can if you wait five minutes.”
“It’s not that. Really. It’s…” she tangles her fingers into her hair, “... I mean, it’s actually sort of the opposite.”
“... You’re proposing to me?”
“Vision.”
“Sorry. You’re not? I’d say yes.”
“It’s about the glove thing.”
“...”
“Like I said, it doesn’t have to be now. Just… sometime.”
She plays with the edge of the blanket as she waits for his response. She can hear his breathing, cars driving past, the roads must be wet, the tires are whooshing across them.
“Is… tonight okay? Right now? Is right now okay?”
Wanda swallows hard. “Y-yeah. I guess.”
“Do you need me to bring anything?”
“No. Just you.”
“Great. Great. Okay. Yes. Be there in a tick.”
She laughs weakly, “Don’t steal a bike.”
“I won’t. I’ll get a cab. Or something. Yes. Okay.”
It’s the first time she hears him like that. Stumbly on his feet, stumbly in his chest. She stands by the door and bites her nails as she waits for him. The benefit of gloves, she realizes, is that it helps with some bad habits. She slides them on just in time.
He knocks twice. She throws the door open and he stares at her with wide eyes.
“Wanda,” he says, visibly distressed, “Are you alright?”
“... Yes?” she says, “Why?”
“I dunno, I thought maybe something happened.” He looks over her. “Something bad. To inspire this conversation.”
She shakes her head. “No, I just got tired of it.”
Vision relaxes. “Wonderful.”
They take their places on the couch. They lean their backs against the arms and face each other. It feels like an intervention. It feels serious. She doesn’t want it to be serious, she just wants it to… be.
She hugs a pillow. Vision folds his legs. Always the active listener.
“I didn’t come up with a plan,” she admits.
Vision throws his arm over the back of the couch, making himself at home. “That’s fine. I’ve got time. I’m full of adrenaline. I can sit here all night.”
Wanda nods. She worries at her lip.
Where to start? Should she start with the oracles? The soothsayers? Should she start with her mother, her grandmother, her great-grandmother? Where does the beginning lie, with this? She knows everything in the past, she knows too much for her own good, she gets lost when it comes to beginnings.
“Hey,” he says, breaking her out of the panic. “It’s alright. You don’t have to tell me everything at once.” His focus drops to her hands and he hesitantly extends one of his, “I’m here.”
She huffs. “I’m. I’m being dramatic for no real reason.”
“There’s a real reason.” He lets his arm fall. “You’d not have that expression on your face if it wasn’t real.”
Wanda covers her face with her hands. The fuzz of the cotton tickles her nose. She thinks for a moment. She thinks about the gravity of the situation and she thinks about how inconsequential her breaking point was.
“I haven’t touched another person in ten years,” she says into her palms. She hides from his reaction but she feels the couch move. “And it’s… it’s not because I can’t. I can. Could. I have. Before. Um.”
Vision’s hand on her leg.
She blows out a breath, braving the light, looking at it. She stares at the place they connect. The rose-peach of his skin, the veins underneath and the blood and the bone, overtop the light grey of her leggings. The warmth of him that she can feel. The weight.
“When… I… touch people,” she says slowly, her lips curling, feeling a bit nauseous, “I’ve got this thing, this… um, this… God, this is impossible.”
“It’s alright,” he sounds comforting. “Need me to make some tea?”
“No, it’s fine, it’s.” She gets stuck. “It’s. You see, it’s. I’m.”
Vision squeezes her leg and she folds forward. She lifts her thigh into his palm and she breaks in half.
“When I touch people, I can feel their memories,” she spills the words like coins into the couch cushions.
She wrenches her eyes shut.
She waits for Vision to take his hand back.
He doesn’t.
She opens an eye and he’s sitting there, staring at her, looking just short of amused.
“... Okay,” he says slowly.
“I’m not joking,” she pleads.
“No, I don’t think you are,” Vision scans her with kind blue eyes. “Is it a metaphor?”
“No. Not a metaphor.” Wanda grabs his wrist like a guardrail. “I’m a Retrocognitive. That’s what it’s called. I’m. That’s what I’m called. Retrocognitive.”
Vision nods in that slow way that people who don’t understand do. “Alright.”
“I can see the past. People’s pasts, specifically. We’re usually supposed to be able to turn it off, but I can’t. And so, when I…” She grasps him tighter, staring at his arm pointedly, “... it overwhelms me. It’s like, suddenly, I have pieces to a person that I shouldn’t have. And it complicates things.”
He’s still nodding. “Okay.”
“Because, I mean, it’s… it’s an invasion of privacy and it’s always the bad stuff but it’s not like it’s my fault, you know, not like I asked for it.” This is rambling. She hasn’t rambled in a while. “It’s a cool thing to have, sure, but only when you can control it, which I definitely cannot. And, when we met, I didn’t want to run you off, I wanted to meet you normally, so I didn’t say much about it because - I mean - how do you explain something like this? So I didn’t.” Getting hard to breathe. “But I’m explaining now. Because I like you, Vis, I really do, I like you so much and I’d love to be held by you but I realize it’s hard to get close to a person who won’t let you touch her. So. This is… I’m… It’s not that I don’t touch you because I don’t want to, I wanna touch you, it’s merely a precaution. So that you can be you, and I can be me, and we don’t get all blurry. Okay?”
Wanda catches her breath.
He’s still nodding.
He isn’t running away and he isn't calling her crazy. But he’s also still nodding.
“Well,” he says, “I like you too. So, that’s good news.”
Wanda glares. The kind of glare that’s a weak smile in hiding.
“Is that all you have to say?” she asks.
“Oh, definitely not.” He shifts and she realizes how tightly she’s holding him. She lets go immediately but he doesn’t pull away. His hand rests on her shin, heavy and pink. “You’re really not pulling my leg, are you? This is truly what you’re saying to me.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Okay.” He scratches at his jaw idly. “Okay. And you realize… okay.”
Wanda presses her lips together. “Sorry.”
“You’re telling me that you… okay,” he sits up a little bit straighter. His eyes are very bright and it gives her a little bit of hope. “This is much more exciting than I thought.”
“... Exciting?”
“What’s it called? Retrocognitive?”
“Yes.”
“You touch a person and you see their memories.”
“Yes.”
“And you realize that, by telling me this… you make me want to try it.”
She nods miserably, “Yes.”
Vision grins. “Okay. Can I?”
“... Can you what?”
He holds his hand out, arm straight, fingers splayed. “Tell me my past.”
Wanda rolls her eyes, slumping back into the couch, “It isn’t a party trick, Vision, this is serious!”
“Yes, I’m aware, it’s very serious. Tell me my past, beautiful Retrocognitive woman.” He wiggles his fingers. She drops her head to her chest. “C’mon. Touch me. You said you want to.”
“It’s not just the good memories,” she murmurs.
He’s unfazed. “Okay?”
“It’s…” She lifts her head and squares her shoulders. “I get the bad things first.”
“Alright.”
“So, any of your bad things, I will suddenly have.”
“Alright.”
“So, you probably don’t want me touching you.”
“... We’re dating.” Vision squints. “You’re going to see all my bad parts sooner or later, right? Isn’t that the point?”
Wanda stares at him.
Vision smiles at her.
Something feels like it got lost in translation. But it hasn’t.
Her knuckles have strawberries on them. His socks have rainbows on them.
Wanda shuffles reluctantly across the couch to sit in front of him. She moves warily and he seems to be completely full of sunshine. Her life is crumbling and he’s living just fine. Wanda wants to taste him. Vision wants her to read him like a magazine.
She folds her legs. Their knees bump. Vision’s so joyful that it’s indecent.
“We can do this another time,” she warns as she pulls her gloves off, cuffing them together, setting them aside. He whistles at her. She pretends not to be overjoyed. “Really. I would be more than happy to put this off.”
“No way in hell.”
It’s hard to choreograph.
She hadn’t thought it through. She sent a text and now he’s here, humming with excitement over something she’s dreaded for so long. He’s staring at her hands while he extends his own, giving her space even as she actively takes a sledgehammer to her cardboard-thin rules.
Her first time making contact and it’s happening like this, cross-legged and quiet-voiced, like kids huddled together behind a school building doing something they’re not meant to. She isn’t sure what she expected. It’s not particularly fantastical, this part. In fact, it’s pretty humiliating.
“I’m…” Wanda is humiliated. “I’m going to take your hands.”
“Yes, you are.”
“And… when I do, I’m going to see things.”
“Yes, you are.”
“So…” she glances up through her eyelashes, “If you’ve ever cheated on anyone, I’ll know immediately.”
Vision tilts his head, arms outstretched, “Do you date people who cheat on people often enough to ask that?”
Wanda wrinkles her nose, “Nevermind. Okay.”
The stage is set. Wanda hovers her hands over his, feels the warmth without boundary, feels the electricity of memories preparing to jolt from place to place.
She takes a deep breath into her nose.
She interlocks their fingers.
His memories feel like a wind on her face, blowing her hair back.
A schoolyard. A household. A field. A street. No, two streets. The house he was born in, then the house he moved to. Cotton, linen, polyester. School uniform. Lavender. Oak. Yellow paint. Gravel road. Red bike. Plane tickets, hundreds of them, and a single one-way trip.
Wanda’s eyebrows furrow.
Brief stint in painting. Brief stint in theatre. Not good at either. Beach. City. Park. His mother’s name is Helen. His father’s name is Philip. One sister, one brother. Divided across continents. Library. Restaurant. Silk sheets.
She waits for the pain. She waits for the glass of wine. She waits for the list of names, for the kisses he shared, for the inevitable mirror image of him naked, for manicured fingers dragging up his bare chest.
No… no, they don’t appear.
These memories are… kind.
His apartment, in his eyes. At the start, when the furniture was gone. His job, his last job, the job before that. Quit and then fired. Rain puddles. Dress shoes thrown in rain puddles. Cardboard boxes that rot. Vinyls. Spray paint. Fumes. Overwhelming scent of paint.
“We’re holding hands,” Vision breathes, then laughs at the innocence of the statement. “We’re basically in bed together.”
She opens her eyes to look at him. The memories continue to flicker and nothing hurts.
“Vision,” she says slowly.
His smile idles, “... Yes?”
“I…?” She has to blink a few times. (Favorite album in 1999, 2005, 2011. Favorite color in 2001, 2015, 2016. How to tie a tie. How not to tie a tie. Vision’s fingers fumbling in a reflection.) “Have you… dated before me?”
Vision is visibly offended, “Yes. Of course I have.”
“And you…” She closes her eyes again, adjusts her grip on him. (Driving on the left, driving on the right. Birthday. Pet peeves. Mother’s birthday. Best friend in grade school. Stole a pin from a concert. Gave it to a girlfriend, but what was her name?) “You’ve… kissed… people…?”
“Yeah. Probably too many, if I’m honest.” Vision brushes his thumb down the side of her hand and she shudders. “This is nice, you know. I like this. I feel like I haven’t said that yet. Thank you for doing this. Good to be close to you, good that you trust me with this—"
“I’m not seeing your bad things,” she whispers.
“Oh?” He raises pale eyebrows, impressed and amused and not, to her surprise, relieved. A bad person would be relieved. He’s just worried. “I’m certain I have bad things.”
“I don’t understand,” she says to no one.
Bass guitar, not his. Nail polish, not his. A stuffed bear, a rolling office chair, a torn mattress, not his, not his, not his.
“I can just tell you who I’ve kissed, if you want,” he says thoughtfully, swinging their hands from side to side. “I remember them. Names and addresses and quality. I’d be more than happy to—"
“Your mom’s name is Helen and your dad’s name is Philip,” she closes her eyes tighter, “Sister Maddy and brother… God, is that really his name?”
“...” Vision stops swinging. She can feel the realization without seeing it. “Er. Yeah, that’s really his name.” Then, a weak laugh, “I mean, have you heard mine?”
“Why can’t I see anything?” she asks, newly frustrated. “I mean, I see a lot, but none of the… stuff I was… dreading.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” He holds her hands like precious stones. “Damn, Wanda, okay. You’re really in there, aren’t you?”
Wanda closes her eyes. She slides her touch up into his sleeves, filling her hands with his forearms. It feels good, he feels good, but she’s on a mission.
She actively seeks out the bad things.
The fucking. The cheating. The women. The kisses, dragging of lazy lips in the dark.
Instead, she finds… preferences.
Light. Day. Old sheets over new ones, the smell of sleep. Window open, cool air on sweating back. He curves and he arches and he pulls a body into his own. He tends to laugh. He tends to nip. He likes being ordered, likes being positioned, likes laying on his back and fucking upward.
She digs her nails into his arm. There is a burn in her stomach. Vision doesn’t know what she’s doing, she can sense his attention on her. She wants to close her legs.
Questions. He asks questions. Do you like that? Are you with me? Harder? Faster? Gentler? He is gentle. He can be not-so gentle. He is inconsistent intentionally. Dents on his wall behind the headboard, so deep that he can’t move his bed anywhere else. Large hands between thin thighs, not his own, no name and no face. He touches light and asks questions. Want it? Need it? He touches hard and touches deep.
Wanda’s face is red.
“Did you want me to tell you?” he asks gently, misreading her silence completely. “I wouldn’t mind. Long list but nothing ever really went anywhere.”
Thick finger, long finger, dipping in and sliding up to stroke. Receding, brought up between his lips, grinning and saying something awful. He laughs. Shirt off. Slow. He teases. He purrs. He asks. More? You want more? Darling? Sweetheart? Baby? Many terms and no true names.
“I mean, I don’t know why you’d want to know their names,” he continues when she doesn’t answer, “but who am I to judge? And clearly I’m not averse to talking about it, since you’ve got a superpower you weren’t going to tell me about.”
Wanda opens her eyes.
Vision is wearing rainbow socks. His sweater is soft on the backs of her hands, his skin is hot against her fingertips. His memories lap at the edge of her mind like a tide but, somehow, she can ignore it. It doesn’t go away but it doesn’t drown her. Not yet.
Vision is clothed beneath her touch and he is naked in her mind.
She leans forward and kisses him. Soft, brief, chaste. A peck. It surprises her too. Their lips meet for half of a second and she receives three new memories. They get swept by the water.
“That was sweet,” Vision says softly. It sounds like he’s making fun of her but she can see past that. He’s trying to be calm. She feels up and down his forearms. “You alright?”
She nods, slightly vacant. “I’m.”
“Have you found my bad things yet?” he asks, ducking his head to look between her eyes. “Is this a reaction to that? I can apologize. I’d love to apologize.”
Wanda shakes her head vehemently. His skin is soft and fuzzy. She reaches up into his sleeves until she physically can’t go any further, back down to his wrists.
For the first time, she had the choice to look further.
Moaning between his teeth. Closed mouth, quiet gasp, then open. Hips up, sheets sticking to his back.
For the first time, she can’t blame the Sight.
She wants to see. And she does.
“Hey,” he hesitantly closes his hands, large hands, long fingers, around her arms. They hold each other like shields. “Wanda. You in there?”
Do you like that? Are you with me? Are you in there?
Wanda feels like she may explode. She releases his arms and he follows suit, worried that something has gone wrong.
The world goes quiet.
Vision looks to her for what to do next. He waits for a cue to move away, to leave, to put five feet of space between them.
She reaches out for him. She takes a breath in between her teeth as she skims her fingers across his cheeks, the blade of his jaw against her palms. She gets more of him, she gets his secrets that he only shared with himself, and they’re all so beautiful.
He likes shopping. He likes sugar. He likes hot baths in company. Water slosh over the sides. Syrup down the chest. New pair of thin underwear. Do you like it? They’d look better on the floor.
“Hi, there,” he says, leaning into her touch. “Do I feel like you imagined?”
Fogged window. Broken heating. Cold night. Warm fuck. Keep going. That’s it. Yes.
“Better,” she replies, pushing him back and placing herself in the basket of his legs.
She kisses him. Brief, leaning back, scanning his face, returning for more.
Light. Day. Bedroom.
Dark. Night. Couch.
Naked. Laughing. Communicating.
Clothed. Silent. Breathing heavy.
His hands are hesitant as they rest on her hips, at first to keep her stable, then wrapping into the fabric. She touches the scratch-then-smooth of his face, down his neck, back to the soft hair there. She drags her fingers through it, messing it up, combing it. Soft. Soft and messy.
She kisses him firmly, so firm that she can feel his teeth behind his lips. He pets her waist, calm, steady, I’m not going anywhere, and she relaxes enough to tilt her head. He tilts his. He parts his lips and waits for a response.
Wanda is not good at this. She knows what Vision wants, she gets more and more of it in droves as she sits here, lips pressed, kissing but not sure how to. She’s never done it. Images are very different from actions. People hold hands before they kiss, and Wanda’s relationships always ended by the time they touched fingers.
Vision hums. He unfolds his legs and she falls against his chest.
Hands on shoulders. Hands in hair. Pull gently.
Wanda places her hands on his shoulders. Wanda places her hands in his hair. She pulls gently.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against her lips.
She feels the rumble of his voice with no barrier. He kisses her deeper. He sets a rhythm, thighs falling open, cornered against the arm of the couch. Wanda crawls further on top of him.
His bedroom, she’s never seen. One lamp to the right of the bed, his side. Two windows, two doors. Light blue walls. Light blue sheets. Tear them. He doesn’t mind.
Wanda’s touch roams. She can’t help it. From nothing to everything, it’s hard to limit herself. She kisses him deep, as deep as she’s capable, and feels down the sides of his throat, the heat of his ears, the resistance of his collarbone. Up and under his shirt. He groans against her mouth. She feels the creases of his stomach, the muscle over his ribs, groping, touching finally.
His hips are still. His body remains pinned as Wanda explores.
Her lips part. She thinks that’s right. It feels right. It feels good.
Rug on the floor. Fuck on the floor. Kiss the imprint on his back after an hour. Licking a stripe up his spine.
Wanda feels his tongue against her bottom lip.
She moans.
She opens her mouth to him. She grasps at his shirt. Soft material under her hands, her bare hands, soft man with soft lips, firm body, oh, God. She meets his tongue and grabs at his hands, stuffing them under her shirt, holding his face again, feeling very desperate for more.
Vision gropes. Rough palms against bare skin.
A painting on the wall of his bedroom. Reds and yellows. People stare at it as he mouths down the seams of their legs. Textured canvas. Textured tongue.
She makes pathetic sounds from high in the back of her throat and Vision’s kisses slow as if they’re controlled by a dial. Wanda’s do not.
His hands go limp and he leans back to see her.
“Wanda,” he says. He starts to pet her back but it isn’t in a sexy way. It’s very much in a there, there way. “Hey.”
She frowns. It feels like he’s overheating. Wanda may be overheating. “What?”
“...” His eyes flicker across her face. His lips are pink and slightly swollen. “Ah.”
“What?” she asks again, emboldened by her naked hands, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Vision is shining. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Wanda blinks. “Tell you what?”
“That you’re a virgin.”
Oh.
She wobbles her way back to sit on her heels, letting him sit up underneath her, letting him smirk as she sinks into herself. “I… didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” he says, patting her leg, “It’s alright, I’ll slow down a bit. Sorry about that. Got carried away.”
“I wanted you to,” she murmurs as he kisses her cheek. (Bus. Number 032. Favorite seat, favorite bar, favorite rail. Bag between his feet.)
“Mm. First kiss?” he asks. She blushes beet red. “Oh, darling.”
“Good first kiss,” she murmurs. He noses at her jaw and she hiccups. (Yellow scarf.) “How did you know?”
“Rare for someone to sound like that just after a few kisses,” he says as kindly as possible. “Just a hunch.”
It only fuels a fire. “Vision, I want more. Keep going.”
“Let’s go back,” Vision says instead, feeling up and down her arms over her sleeves, back to the boundary. Her heart is pounding and her legs are weak. She knows what his moans sound like. She wants them to be hers, now. “You were talking about seeing the past, right? Talk to me about that. How does it feel?”
“Vision,” she whines. She shifts on his lap, closer than she’s ever been to him.
He hums as she drapes her arms around his neck. Her wrist against his nape. (Hotel bed. Vacation alone. Sunburn that stopped under his navel.) “Listen, a lot of new things are happening for you at once. It’s exciting, I’m definitely excited, but the last thing I want is to rush you.”
“Rush me.” Desperate.
“I refuse.” Annoying.
“Why?” Pathetic sound. “I want. I want it. I have pictures, I need—"
“What you need is to take it slow,” he says. He takes one of her wrists from behind his head. (Sunscreen. Aloe.) Brings her fingers to his lips. (Cold pillow.) “I don’t know much about it, this power you’ve got, but it kept you from being close to people for a long time. A long time.”
“Mmmmn,” she slumps forward. “I’m overwhelmed.”
“Yes, surprise, sweetheart, going from nothing to everything is a lot,” he says. He’s right but she is impatient. She tastes him. Small kiss. (Strawberry. Sweet.) “This is an important thing. I don’t want you to regret it, that’s all. So, let’s take a breath, eh?”
Wanda hides her nose in his neck.
Hot skin. Melting a body like an ice cube in the dip of his collarbone, his hip, his mouth.
Her skin is throbbing. Her head, her fingertips. It all hurts. It hurts because she went too far, did too much, got lost in the lack of a bad thing. She aches. Her forehead is tacky with sweat, close to illness, and he holds her too chastely.
He is kind.
Wanda needs a bit more kindness.
“Vision,” she says helplessly, mind swarming and body burning, “Help me.”
“Need me to grab your gloves?” he asks, already reaching for them.
“N-no,” she grasps at his arm over his sleeve. Wanda closes her eyes when he looks to her for an answer. “I… I need… This is embarrassing.”
“I don’t think it’s embarrassing,” he says. He smiles, she hears it. “I’m hard to resist, I get it.”
“Vis.”
“Sorry.”
Wanda takes a breath. Vision watches her, ever so patient.
She clicks her teeth, frustrated, pained. A finger to Vision’s pulse point. She searches for preferences.
Body on a lap, his lap. Legs apart. Two puzzle pieces. Slot them together, make them fit, press and grind, make it known what they want. Ask. Beg.
She recreates. She shifts her hips, wanting to hide, wanting to kiss him again, knowing it’d probably kill her.
He seems to understand. The joke falls away.
“Please,” she whispers, “Vision, please touch me. Help.”
He narrows his eyes. His pulse is so loud that she can feel it. Her head is swimming with things about him, all of them pretty, all of them kind. She reaches for his face and he looks intently at hers. “Are you sure?”
She nods. He waits for words. “Yes.”
Vision straightens his posture. “Alright, I’ve got an idea.”
She wrinkles her nose as he nudges her hip, guides her to turn around and relax into his chest. She stares at the other end of the couch, confused as she’s essentially gathered into an odd hug. “This… feels like the opposite of what I wanted.”
“Hush,” he laughs, she feels it against her back, “Be patient. I’ve got a workaround.”
“A workaround?” Wanda practically gasps. She goes to sit up and whirl around and complain but his arm is around her stomach to keep her stationary. “Vision, for fuck’s sake, you don’t need to handle me like I’ll shatter."
“I’m not.” Vision hugs her to his chest with one arm while parting her legs with the other. Wanda watches herself get placed. “If it isn’t enough, you can tell me. But, based on your reaction to a kiss, I think this is the safest option.”
“This isn’t fair.”
“You’re so grouchy when you’re hot and bothered.” His nose bumps against the back of her neck. (Lukewarm tea. Tax form.) “Hm. Yes, I think this’ll work.”
She holds her breath as his arm around her loosens. His hand ducks underneath her shirt to take the waistband of her thin, stretchy leggings. He takes it in a fist and drags it upward to nestle at the apex of her thighs. Wanda hisses, parting her legs further, hips stuttering up against the fabric.
“Wrong way,” she tells him through gritted teeth.
“I know what I’m doing.” He rests his chin on her shoulder. “For someone who’s never done this before, you’re very bossy.”
She doesn’t understand what he’s doing.
His breath is under her ear. His hand slides down over her hip, down between her legs, cupping her over her pants.
She hiccups. She understands now.
“Vis,” she whispers.
“Alright?” he asks. He traces her through the fabric. Light grey grows dark in seconds. She floods. Wanda nods, holding onto his arm, watching with wide eyes. “See? I know what I’m doing.”
“You know what you’re doing,” she concedes through a whisper. She rests her head back against him. “Oh.”
Vision presses. The seam runs right between her legs and it makes her gasp as she feels the ridge of it. The cloth is soft and it grows warm with the heat of his hand, with the heat of her, grows wet and malleable and, suddenly, it doesn’t feel like it’s there at all.
A barrier to be touched through.
Wanda makes a little cry, turning her face away and toward the back of the couch.
Vision fucks her over her clothes. His cock pokes hot and hard against the small of her back. He gathers enough slick through the threads of her leggings, stroking her clit, small circles and then faster flicks.
Her left leg falls over the edge. She braces her foot on the floor so that she doesn’t fall over.
“That’s the way,” he praises, lips brushing her ear.
Sofa. Nails dragging down the back of his neck. Pink, stinging trails. Legs held open and fucked into. That’s the way. Wood floor. Closed window. Yellow bulb.
She holds his wrist. More of his skin. More of the feeling. Hot like a light left on.
Up against the wall, now. Hold onto his shoulders. Bare shoulders. Slick sweat. Scratch at the wall. Ruin the paint.
“Talk to me,” he says, middle finger dipping in and stretching the fabric ever so slightly, not pressing inside but implying it. That he could, that he wants, that he knows she wants. “Let me know if you need to stop.”
His hand is so wet that it makes a clicking sound as it passes over and over and over her center. She whimpers, tilting her head to see him. She knows she looks pitiful.
“Kiss,” she says, breathless, embarrassed, “My neck. Please.”
Vision purrs. It’s a horrible sound and she loves it. His tongue is hot under her ear and his lips are soft and firm.
Ten bruises sucked along the throat. Hands held and fingers interlocked. Rolling over. Higher ground. Spine rigid against the mattress. It creaks.
“V-Vision,” she leans into his mouth. (His arms lock when he’s close.) She moans.
“I know,” he murmurs. He nips. He lifts his hips against her back, lifts her up into his palm, into his three fingers. He hums and she cries. “Christ, Wanda. Look at you.”
She doesn’t want to. She kisses the corner of his mouth.
A voice. His. A body. His.
Wanda drowns in it. He smiles against her and she groans, sucks on his bottom lip, clamping her thighs around his hand, latched onto his wrist like a lifeline.
“You can move. Rock up, chase it. Feels good.” Vision’s voice is cool and calm. Wanda looks at him, half-lidded, and he makes an appreciative noise. “God, you’re beautiful. Go on. Almost there.”
She cranes her neck, cheek to his chest, feeling exhausted, feeling drained, feeling so much and so little, empty and full. Her head is full of Vision and her body is for nothing other than this building, smothering sensation in her stomach, in her throat, in her mouth, in her hands. It hurts.
Wanda rocks up. She chases it. She closes her eyes. He kisses her forehead and his lips are tight with a prideful smile as he strokes her with quick pace, friction and pressure, her legs locked and her feet braced.
Ten years since she’s touched another person.
Vision’s hand on her stomach. His thumb brushes up and down, slipping up under the hem of her shirt. Her belly tenses as she feels the slightest touch.
It sparks the memory of a climax. Not the sight or the sound or the touch, but the feeling of it. Breathless, choking, smiling, laughing, free.
Wanda shakes. Wanda finishes. Every muscle tensed and then relaxed. Her ears ring.
It feels so good that it doesn’t, so hot that it’s cold, and she tries her hardest to open her eyes. She gets about a quarter of the way there, head lulling upward to kiss his chin. (Tennis shoes. Torn jeans.) She winces and recedes, relaxing against the clothed parts of him, needing a moment away from the noise.
He laughs at the face she makes, likely sated and depleted, sliding his hand up and away from the scene of the crime. “Woah, there. Have I killed you?”
“Mmno,” she murmurs, snuggling in, legs open and leggings ruined. Vision loops his arms around her waist. They’ve never gotten to cuddle before, not without a pillow between them. “Mm.”
“You’re really something else, you know,” he says, and he’s so genuine that it aches. “I was prepared to never get to do that for you, but I’m glad I got to. Damn. You’re incredible. Thanks for that.”
Wanda hums lazily. “M’head hurts.”
A smirk. “Did I shatter you after all?”
“No.” She can’t seem to open her eyes. “Just.” A weak, bare hand lifted like proof. “There’s a lot of you in here, now. A lot of sensation. Overstimulated. Kinda stings.”
“... Oh. Shit, right, sorry! I’ll!” He grabs her gloves with a long arm, “Here, these—yes, these.”
Security in the form of thick wool. She flexes her fingers. Her limbs are full of television static that boils her from the inside out. Sex is hard.
“Sorry,” Wanda murmurs, looking up at him, feeling the mortification creep in under the rumble of everything else. He’s so hard against her back that she fears he might slice her open. She doesn’t have the energy to do much else but slump into him.
Vision shuffles to the side and picks her up like a bag of sand, “This is the best day of my life, I don’t know what you could possibly be apologizing for.”
He settles her cozy in the center of her bed. This is becoming a pattern. Wanda pretends to be upset. She pretends to be surprised. She pretends to be anything but what she is.
“A sweet man,” she says, eyes sparkling and body useless. “A sweet, sweet man. Tucking your little girlfriend in like this. A softie. A soft, sweet, charitable man.”
“Oh, shut up,” he drags the blankets up to her chin. “I’ll have you know, I’m proud to be a sweet man. I worked hard to get here.”
He pats her stomach over the blankets and she whimpers.
“Your favorite color in 2001 was cerulean.” Her eyes slip closed as he kisses her hair. “Not even just blue. Cerulean. Very specific.”
“Everyone said blue. I wanted to be different.” Vision rests his hands on his hips. “Snug as a bug?”
“Mmh.”
“Fantastic. Are you sleeping in your gloves or do you need me to put them on the dresser?” He sounds like a waiter.
“This is fine,” she says. She sighs. She gets the pit in her stomach, worse now than ever before, and he’s still in the room. “Will you stay?”
“I wasn’t just going to overwhelm you to the point of hurting and disappear into the night,” Vision assures her and she feels a little better. “Of course I’ll stay. I’ll curl up on the couch and bask in the wonderful memories, you can shout if you need any first aid.” He pauses and she peers out at him. He’s grinning. “Or, y’know. Any other services.”
“You’re gross.”
“Yeah, I know.” Vision nods, humble. His hand is still wet. “Alright, well. Goodnight, you spectacular thing.”
Wanda watches him turn and walk and it becomes clear that this won’t be enough. “Wait.”
He almost falls over himself, whirling around, eyes wide and hopeful, “Yeah?”
She snickers. Wanda uses the rest of her remaining effort to shuffle over, leaving the right side of the bed open. The right of the bed is his side. She knows this.
“You can stay here,” she croaks. “With me. You can.”
“... Really?” he asks, hesitant, excited. No step is taken, framed in the doorway. “We’ve done a lot tonight, you know, I don’t mind giving you some space.”
Wanda reaches out of the blankets, plucking a pillow from behind her, settling it in her side. Vision looks delighted.
“There.” She has decided. Far too tired to be argued with. Far too tired to be far away from him. “Space.”
It’s an alien sensation, the dip of her bed as someone crawls onto it. He stays over the blankets, turned on his side, looking like he’s won some sort of lottery. She wants to call him a dork. It would feel somewhat hypocritical. She only smiles tiredly.
He folds his hands under his cheek. Wanda grimaces but doesn’t say anything about it. The pillow blocks her view to his crotch and she’s so, so thankful. She can’t handle any more guilt tonight. She can’t handle anything but stillness.
“This is nice,” he says softly.
Wanda hums, eyelids heavy. “It is. You’re nice.”
“Aw, c’mon.” He pretends to be bashful. “You’re just saying that.”
“I have been saying a lot of things tonight, yes.”
“I’m glad you told me. About this.” Vision’s cheek is smushed a little and she wants to reach out and poke it. “Really. You didn’t have to. I’d have stayed anyway. Even if you asked me to wrap my whole body in plastic wrap before coming to see you, I’d have stayed.”
“That’s horrible,” she tells him, and he shakes the bed as he laughs. “I’d hope you would find literally anyone else, in that case. That’s horrible.”
He looks across her face and even that feels like a touch. “No, I don’t think there’s anyone else. Not for me. Especially not after today.”
She wakes up to find him hugging the pillow boundary like a teddy bear.