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anonthenullifier · 7 years

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An Auspice of Scarlet - Ch. 2

An AU Victorian Scarlet Vision story.

Chapter Title: In which company is sought and revelations are had

Chapter Summary: Wanda settles into life at the manor while attempting to form a connection with the elusive butler.

Word Count: 10k

A gift for: @atendrilofscarlet

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/28284888

I hope you enjoy!

The house is extravagant, though not ostentatious, just the right amount of excess intermixed with a surprising level of sparseness. Wanda’s room is, so far on her self-guided tour, the one oozing with the most unadulterated flamboyance. The stairway leading down to the main floor is grand, intricate carvings of imps and angels battling for dominance, but the details are subtle from a distance, overpowered by the white, black, and gold checkered floor. Unlike most of the wealthy homes she has seen, this one lacks the clutter of furniture, lacks the requirement to constantly scan the immediate vicinity to ensure no shins are banged on tables or feet trip over upturned rugs. Each room (from the parlor, to the front hall, the bedrooms, and the four different sitting rooms) contains the barest amount of furniture to allow the space to feel content but not overstuffed. What she’d like to do is ask why this is the case, but her day, so far, has been solitary, though not truly alone.

Vision (the name still feels funny in her mouth) and the other servants are clearly in the house as well, their presence ephemeral yet palpable, traces of their existence left to guide her yet she has not actually seen anyone yet. It is infuriating. Wanda unfolds the carefully labeled map that was left on the table in the dining room (a table she is fairly certain has to be at least three times longer than she is tall) and studies the handwriting, turning the map and reorienting herself to her location in the house. According to the schedule written in the bottom left corner, there is supposed to be tea and cucumber sandwiches available on the back veranda in a quarter of an hour. The hope is that if she arrives early then perhaps she will encounter him.

As Wanda moves through the wood-paneled hallway, she can’t help but think about the elusive man. Even though she has never had any desire for a butler, as she is perfectly capable of providing for herself and cannot fathom any reason someone else should have to deal with the tediousness of life in her honor, it does not mean she isn’t inordinately impressed by the forethought shown by Vision. When she woke this morning, she opened her door to find not only a neatly folded pile of clothes (a note attached in his perfectly legible writing - Miss Maximoff, it is my sincerest hope that you find a suitable outfit from these options until I am able to clean your clothing.) and a steaming copper pitcher with a protective towel wrapped around the handle and instructions on using the washbasin in the room (apparently it has a tendency to lean so she needed to check the footings before pouring). Once she had washed up and gotten dressed (even the clothes provided were expensive, the lack of itchiness to the fabric quite refreshing though the dress was quite unique in its construction), she opened the door to find a cup of perfectly drinkable tea atop a dainty, ivory doily. In the dining room there was breakfast waiting for her, and the map. In each room along her journey there were refreshments and suggested activities: books with marks for ideal poetry to match the room, a deck of cards with instructions on how to enjoy a single person game, a carefully constructed and itemized list of the artwork around the house, and a hearty turkey stew with a small yeast roll at lunchtime. Anything she could want was provided before she ever realized she needed it. Except company.

When she opens the stain-glass door to the veranda her mouth immediately curls into a proud grin, eyes drawn to the lanky form of the suit-clad butler. Wanda remains quiet, making sure to hold the handle down to close the door without an audible click, and cautiously approaches the small table set up on the whitewashed wooden deck. The man seems oblivious to her, bent over at the waist as his black-gloved hands shuffle the teapot and plate of sandwiches around on the table, clearly unsatisfied with the positioning of them. Eventually he allows a minuscule shrug of his shoulders before straightening out his spine, briefly pausing to stare beyond the rail of the veranda. Wanda almost allows her curiosity free rein of her body, almost allows her gaze to follow his, but she fights it, worried if she loses focus then he will disappear again. So instead she takes several hurried, albeit quiet, steps forward until she is close enough that she could reach out and tap his shoulder. “Vision?”

No one could describe his response as jumpy since there is no easily discernible flinch of his muscles or flailing of his arms, but his shoulders do stand just a bit taller, arms just a touch more rigid than before. Wanda grins wider at the victory. “Miss,” he turns around, slow and purposeful, every motion of his body from the rotation of his shoulders to the slight swing of his fingers tightly controlled, voice even yet pleasant as he turns the corners of his mouth up into a serviceable smile, “Maximoff. You are ahead of schedule.”

“I’m not too fond of a structured life.”

The smile flinches from serviceable to genuine before settling back to neutrality. “I see. My apologies for attempting to constrain your freedom of time.” He steps around her, hands gripping the back of the chair as he pulls it out with a slight bow, “Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Wanda sits, hands folding in her lap as she flashes an appreciative smile in his direction, one that he returns while pouring her a cup of tea. Once he has filled her cup he performs another servile bow before turning to leave. Given the solitude of her day, and her enkindled curiosity, the brevity of the interaction is not acceptable. “Would you like to join me?”

Vision hesitates, eyes torn between studying her face, likely attempting to ascertain the seriousness of the request, and the doorway leading back into the manor. The freshly polished tips of his shoes point towards the door, his heel lifting off the ground in preparation to leave, but then his shoulders dip slightly before he pivots on his other heel and joins her at the table, proffering a polite and logical acquiescence to her request. “Since you arrived ahead of your scheduled tea time, I too am slightly ahead of schedule.” His gloved hand rests on the table, fingers tapping a silent melody, the only movement he seems to allow his body. “Have the accommodations been suitable for your needs?”

“Yes, incredibly suitable.”

“Excellent.”

The silence is not nearly as comfortable as the night before, an anxiousness bubbling in the air between them as she cycles through all the possible topics of conversation. Despite thinking about talking to him all day, she finds her tongue deserting her and going dry with indecision. Wanda carefully takes a sip of tea, hoping to whet her verbal skills and grasp one of the many comments whirling through her mind. She determines to start with the most baffling observance of the day. “Where is everyone else? I haven’t seen anyone all day.”

“Oh,” the question seems to fluster him, fingers tapping more fervently before ceasing to move altogether, his other hand rising to emphasize his words. “There is no one else, at the moment.”

Wanda finds the information incomprehensible, the tasks far too numerous and done with such precision as to be inhuman for one man to accomplish half a day. “That is enough to make a stuffed bird laugh*.”

“I assure you that it is only you and I. Other than Mr. Barton’s intentions to visit for supper, no one else is expected for another couple of days.”

The claim is audacious. She has spent her entire day exploring the manor, and though it is a spacious and dizzying labyrinth of a structure, it is inconceivable for him to have always been three steps ahead. “How have I not seen you then?” Wanda leans closer to him, a conspiratorial finger leveled at his chest, “Can you walk through walls?”

This receives a breathy, perfectly executed laugh. “I never considered the possibility of such an ability. Sadly,” Wanda is mesmerized at the way his persona shifts, still distant, but moving from a cool, detached aloofness to one brimming with warmth and congeniality, “I have not acquired the capability to walk through walls, which is quite unfortunate as it would save me approximately…” he tilts his head in contemplation, eyes focusing on the wispy clouds lazily crawling along the cerulean sky. “I would say two hours each day if I did not have to traverse the hallways.“

“Well if you cannot walk through walls, what is your secret?” Wanda considers not including the next comment, but the notion that she may not be alone, that she has, perhaps, found a kindred spirit convinces her to toss out a waggish** (but utterly hopeful), “Can you read minds?”

He breathes in, lips turning up slightly at the playfulness in her voice, a response she intends to pull from him each time they talk as she finds it exhilarating. “That too would be an incredibly appealing prospect. No, a butler, according to Robert Roberts, is supposed to be unobtrusive and discreet, it is my job to anticipate not only your needs but also your actions and whereabouts so that I can provide for you while remaining out of sight.”

The explanation is disappointing in its commonness, but she brushes off her dismay, replacing it with a cutting smile and pointed look. “I will interpret that to mean you spend a lot of your time hiding behind corners and doors.”

Another laugh escapes his lungs, this one loose and unexpected, louder than his last one and far more authentic. “That is a fair interpretation, though the most parsimonious explanation would be my use service passages.” His hand leaves the table, dipping into his coat and removing his pocket watch. “I do apologize but I must check on the laundry.”

Wanda watches him stand, feels her heart tumble from her chest all the way to the pit of her stomach at the notion of losing his presence, a troubling realization that she determines to scrutinize later, and finds words racing out of her mouth without contemplating exactly what she might be willingly agreeing to do. “Can I help you?”

“You are a guest.”

The tone clearly conveys that this piece of information is enough to keep her in her seat, but Wanda has never been one to adhere to social rules, and so she stands, placing her hands resolutely on her hips as she levels a challenging gaze in his direction. The simple fact of her defiance to rules, however, does not mean she cannot use them to her advantage. “Would Mr. Roberts condone the notion of denying a guest’s request?”

Vision narrows his eyes, hands lifting in the air while he prepares to counter back, use logic and manners to insist she not join him. But then his hand stops moving, a smile threatening to break the serious line of his lips, and he glances down, bringing his hands together in a thoughtful clasp. He is almost successful at vanquishing the effects of her well-played manipulation, features solemn minus a twinkle of delight in his eyes. “My apologies for acting contrary to your wishes, Miss Maximoff. Though I do not require nor insist on aid, you are welcome to shadow me, if that is a sufficient compromise to your request.”

“It is.”

A slight bow of his head obscures his face long enough for him to reset to his emotionless baseline, his voice posh and steady as he says, “Then please, follow me.”

The journey is mostly silent as he leads her through several hallways, occasional comments are tossed over his shoulder informing her of the history of the woodwork or the means by which the artwork was acquired. Eventually they stop in front of a bookcase and he reaches out to select a pristinely kept edition of The Count of Monte Cristo. “Since you inquired as to my furtiveness…” the book only partially strays from the shelf, clicking back in place as a low groan shakes the surrounding books and the shelves open into a passageway.

“That’s dramatic.”

A slight, proud arc forms on his mouth as he nods in agreement. “It is perhaps the fourth least dramatic one.”

Wanda glances at him, assuming he is joking but the sincerity in his voice matches the earnestness of his face. “Fascinating.”

She follows close behind him, somewhat disappointed that the passageway is dim and undecorated, a stark contrast to the extravagance of its entrance. But this disappointed flees at the wonderment (and a negligible trace of trepidation) that overtakes her mind when they enter the back hall, the space filled with steam and the echo of metal churning relentlessly from an enormous contraption. “This,” Vision raises his voice slightly, compensating for the whine and whistle of the pistons. “Is,” he leaves her side to grip a long metal rod, expanding the width between his feet as he bends his knees, bracing himself to pull the metal tube towards him. Suddenly the commotion stops, the last of the rattling vibrations dissipating until the air is calm though oppressively wet. “Friday.”

“Friday?”

“Yes,” four long strides bring him to her side, a small hand towel grasped in his fingers that he uses to wipe down the leather palms of his gloves. “The first successful completion of a laundry cycle using the machine was completed on a Friday, hence the name.”

Wanda gives a distracted hmm, feet carrying her closer to the machine, eyes taking in the ten wide wheels laced with a tough fabric, the grated panels of the conveyer belt and how it dips into a vat of water over which hangs fist sized balls of metal attached to thick metal rods. “It is quite impressive,” the butler joins her, the facade of disinterest fading as he excitedly explains the process using words she cannot comprehend like hydraulics and reciprocating engine, but what she’s drawn to the most, and what, besides the stifling humidity in the room, is the likely culprit for the heat budding in her cheeks, is the passion in his hands as he mirrors the movement of the machine to better help her understand the workings.

Nothing quite measures up to Friday for the duration of her shadowing, moving from the machine to the kitchen to throw vegetables into a pot for supper, then on to the stables where they feed the horses and Wanda watches in fascination at the way the water pump is set up to ensure Vision does not sully his suit. The walk back to the manor from the stables is her favorite part, a peaceful stroll against the backdrop of rolling, green mountains, the man next to her quiet, yet conversational beyond what she assumes his holy book of butlering would allow. Yet his conversation depends on one small aggravation - she must always choose the topic. If she remains silent, so does he, but if she asks him a question or makes a trailing comment, then, and only then, will he respond. It is as he is finishing informing her on the intricacies of collecting eggs each morning without the (his voice becomes quite distant and laced with disdain) bricky*** beasts pecking apart the threads of his pants, that Wanda attempts to formulate the next topic, eager to keep him speaking. Her mind fixates on the gentle lilt of his accent, particularly in its purity as compared to butchered and harsher cadence she is more likely to hear in every tavern in every town since coming to this country. “Are you originally from England?”

The inquiry surprises him, blonde eyebrows raising as disbelief creates lines around his slightly agape mouth. “Yes, London, though technically-.” His lips remain parted, hands toying with the idea of lifting to add more information, but then he shuts his mouth, glances towards the mountains, and once he turns his attention towards her again she senses that he has realigned his train of thought to what might be a more acceptable follow-up, an assumption that stokes her curiosity and almost convinces her to reach for his mind. “I consider myself quite skilled at placing accents, and yet, I find myself uncertain as to your nation of origin beyond simply belonging to the Russian Empire.”

“You are correct, broadly.” She redirects her attention away from the intensity of his anticipatory gaze and stares at the rings adorning her fingers. Thoughts of her home country and the memories of a lost life are typically kept locked within her subconscious. It is easier that way. A deep breath ensures she only pulls out the barest, most necessary information to answer the question before shuttering the opening from further disturbances. “Sokovia. Novi Grad, specifically.” Her next question is fueled by the comfort of his presence and her distaste for his name. “So, was your name Vision on the ship list?”

The man almost stops walking, fingers curling into fists at his side and she worries that the question is a step too far given the paucity of their interactions. But whatever ire manifested is dissolved by a tiny smirk and a shake of his head. “It was not, though, quite unfortunately for,” he sends a deliberate, and what she might almost describe as mischievous, look in her direction, “curious minds, such records are currently not made public.”

“That is quite unfortunate,” her voice shifts from jocular to serious, recalling the protests recently about the sharing of ship lists, ”though perhaps for the best given the Nativists****.” Vision nods, a grim line forming on his lips, even out here, in such an isolated spot, clearly aware of the smatterings of rumors spreading about a planned increase in regulating immigration, which for some would simply be deportation.

“Indeed.”

Clint is waiting for her when they arrive back at the manor and as soon as Wanda greets him, Vision vanishes. His presence is still keenly felt but only as a wraith. This, Wanda determines, is more distracting than if the man stood in the corner waiting on them, because she cannot seem to concentrate on Clint’s questions and stories, her mind wandering continuously back to the butler as an unmistakable itch of curiosity to unravel the enigma of his being takes root in her mind.

The next day Wanda resolves to take action.

Upon waking she opens her door, unsurprised to find another pile of clothing (this one with her own sole surviving, freshly cleaned and mended outfit on top) and a steaming copper pitcher. For this step of her plan, Wanda plays along, scooping the clothes into her arm and carefully lifting the pitcher, balancing the bottom against her hip as she closes the door. A tendril of scarlet wraps around the pitcher, removing it from her hand and carrying it to the wash basin, while a second, smaller strand exits the door, feeling the hallway for any buzz of thoughts that might approach. Wanda unties her dressing gown, allowing it to fall to the floor along with the pile of dresses, smiling as she slips on her familiar, though somewhat itchy, patchwork skirt and blouse. Her hands work without thought, twisting her hair up into a loose, swooping knot, held together with pins. Moments later she can sense orderly thoughts, each marching in a line, ticking off the various tasks for the day, the current image at the front of the mind a tea cup and a doily. When the mind stops in front of her door, Wanda allows a wicked smile to part her lips as she yanks on the handle. “Good morning.”

Credit must be given to the fact he does not drop the tea cup or the doily, in fact, the only sign of his complete surprise is the painfully slow blink of his brilliant blue eyes and the longer than polite pause between her greeting and his, “Good morning, Miss Maximoff.” The tea cup is brought to rest between them, “Tea?”

“Thank you.” The porcelain cup passes into her hand, fingers curling around the welcome heat as she smiles innocently up at him. “Hypothetically, what would happen if you, through the quite voluntary and eagerly offered help of another person, managed to complete all of your chores earlier than scheduled?”

If the door opening unexpectedly shocked him, this question appears to decimate his understanding of the world, eyes darting away from her face as his feet shuffle in discomfort. It is endearing in the same way as watching a shy kitten approach a foreign ball of yarn, all she needs now is for him to pounce. Each syllable is elongated as he forms his thoughts. “Hypothetically,” he pauses, eyes sliding to the side before snapping back to her face, “if I allowed such an offer, despite the blatant disregard it would have for the comfort of my guest’s well-being, then I would be able to fill that time with whatever activity or task is deemed most appealing.”

Wanda beams up at him as she sips her tea, “Such as that peculiar game you pointed out on the lawn yesterday?” It had been on their way to feed the fish in the pond, iron hoops rising out of the ground in a haphazard fashion as one of the ugliest gardens Wanda had ever seen.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff, pale-maille*****certainly is always an appealing option.”

“Excellent.”

His, “excellent,” is not nearly as enthusiastic but he doesn’t verbalize his disdain at her request.

They start with the candlesticks, Vision reluctantly setting a bowl of sudsy water between them as he grips a piece of felt in his hands, which are adorned not with his typical leather gloves, but instead with thicker hydrophobic fabric. “Simply dip the felt in the water and clean in a clockwise pattern to expurgate the filth. Do not,” his voice drops an octave as he tilts the candlestick in his hand to show her a green fabric base, “get the baize wet, it will spoil the material and require mending.”

Wanda inspects the materials in front of them, “Understood.”

Once the candlesticks are done she watches him demonstrate the quick, small movements required to polish the mahogany serving trays, yet her eyes keep trailing away from the demonstration to instead linger on the angles of his face and the adorable squint of concentration when he works. After the trays they move on to the silverware, which Wanda finds increasingly bizarre, particularly when he instructs her to stab the forks repeatedly into wet sand, explaining, with a twinge of defensiveness in the face of her disbelief, “Mr. Roberts swears by this technique and it has never failed me.”

They clean the plates, the decanters, the tea pots, and the cruets; refill the lanterns (“You are quite fortunate I cleaned those several days ago, the process is quite unpleasant and one I would not subject you to regardless of your desire to help”); and polish the steel grates in each hallway. Vision completes his portion of each task much quicker than her, the precision, efficiency, and uniformity of his movements stupefying. At the moment his pile of brushed blankets is at least three times higher than hers and she finds her mind crafting an amusing image that she believes he’d enjoy as well. “Vision?”

His hand does not stop its circular motion as he cocks his head to indicate she has his attention, “Yes, Miss Maximoff?”

“Are you, by any chance, related to Friday?”

The assumption is that he will, with a fine-tuned deadpan, respond with a playfully logical explanation, as he has for all her other comments, but instead he drops the blanket to the ground, an almost imperceptible tremble to his hand as he picks the item back up. The brush hovers in the air, horsehair bristles hooking into the fibers just enough keep the blanket steady, and his face pales as he swallows. “Pardon me, Miss Maximoff.” The blanket is delicately placed on the pile, the brush next to it as he stands, eyes never quite returning to her face. “I somehow forgot I need to run to town. I shall be sure to expedite my errands so that we can maximize the three-quarters of an hour your aid has made available for me to teach you pale-maille.” With an unusual abruptness he is gone, leaving Wanda to stew in confusion, the strokes of the brush in her hand half-hearted and likely ineffective at removing the grime from the blankets.

With no tasks to complete and not another living soul around, Wanda wanders the hallways, fingers brushing the walls and toying with every sconce, frame, and book she touches in hopes of discovering more secrets of the manor, yet nothing happens. Slowly her feet bring her to the veranda, heart dropping at the absence of a teapot. Wanda sits, taking in the expanse of green grass that climbs slowly up into distant, tree blanketed mountains, mind churning through their last interaction, attempting to determine why he seemed so disconcerted by her question. When the click of footfalls sound behind her, Wanda stands, ready to apologize as she turns but freezes at the sight of a red-haired, well-dressed woman. “Who are you?”

The woman tilts her head, her lips following suit into a half-smile that gives the impression of a recently sharpened dagger. “I believe that is a question more suitable for me to ask. So who are you?”

Scarlet courses through Wanda’s veins at the threat in the woman’s voice, a readiness forming in her hands and feet to attack or flee, depending on whatever happens next. “I am Wanda Maximoff.”

The smile dulls, now matching what might be flashed to the only other stranger on the road for the day, a look that is congenial enough but does not offer an invitation for further contact. “Clint tells me you are a spiritualist.”

“Clint?”

“Yes, Barton.” It is not until the woman sits down that Wanda even processes how quickly she traveled across the veranda. Slowly Wanda shifts one chair over and sits as well, palms pressed firmly against her thighs to hide the shimmer of red pulsing in unison with the erratic drumming of her heart. “I’m Natasha Romanov.”

A hand is held aloft between them. Wanda eyes the black glove adorning the hand, noting it is expensive yet practical, a elegance in the way the fabric stretches along the fingers but there is also a surety in the seams that this is a hand to be grasped with precaution. Wanda tightens her fingers into a fist to dispel the last of the scarlet before unfurling her fingers and gripping the gloved hand long enough to say, “Pleasure.”

“Sorry for surprising you,” there is no apology in the tone, “but it is not often a spiritualist has an actual reputation for talking to the dead.”

Wanda calculates all the possible responses, an uneasiness pricking at the back of her neck, the same uneasiness she feels when a swim in the river is impending. “For such a reputation, you would think people would not respond so poorly.”

The rise and fall of Natasha’s shoulders is almost as dangerous as her smile, an indifference so palpable Wanda has to fight against allowing it to reduce her own opinion of herself. “It is not surprising, people rarely want what they say.” When Wanda met the Fox Sisters she knew instantly they were cons, yet there was still power in their presence, in their words and their falsehoods. The same power exudes from the woman next to her. “So, Wanda Maximoff, what is it that you want from staying here?”

“Simply a safe place while I decide where to go next.”

“Have you found that here?”

Wanda considers the question for only a moment before reaching a conclusion. “Yes, Vision has been more than accommodating.”

A meaningful, “Hmm,” vibrates in the woman’s throat, but her next thoughts are silenced by a thudding of feet and the tap of wood behind them. Their heads turn to take in the shifting gaze of the butler as he stands halfway on the deck holding a wooden mallet in each hand. “Hello, Vision.”

His gaze finally comes to a halt, eyes falling on the red-haired woman as he takes the final six steps to stand a respectable distance from the table. “Miss Romanov, I was not expecting you.”

“Have I ever shown up when expected?”

The pause is the perfect length to be polite as to show consideration of the question, but short enough to imply the answer was already known and that he is playing along with her wishes. “Not once, Miss Romanov.”

Wanda decides to alleviate the tension in the air, shaking the last of her nerves from her fingers as she indicates the mallets in his hands. “Are those for pale-maille?”

The man lifts the mallets up, inspecting them with an odd detachment as if he had forgotten they were in his hands. “Oh, yes, they are, Miss Maximoff.” The mallets lower down to his side, the movement seeming to draw his lips in a similar downward arc. “Unfortunately, I believe I need to prepare Miss Romanov her coffee,” Natasha opens her mouth to talk, but is quieted by a nod of Vision’s head, “with a splash of vodka.”

“Perfect.”

“My apologies, Miss Maximoff, I shall endeavor to allot more time tomorrow, if you wish.”

He does not wait for her response before he disappears through the stained-glass door, a subtle and incisive clearing of a throat requiring her attention. “Pale-maille?” Natasha touches the tips of her fingers conspiratorially to Wanda’s wrist. “With the butler?”

Immediately her voice becomes defensive, unappreciative of the scandal in the woman’s voice. “Yes, I helped him earlier today so he would have time to show me.”

The thing is, Wanda has, quite unfortunately, discovered that her words usually incite more scandal than they dispel, Natasha sitting up straighter with a keen smirk. “That man barely allows guests to lift their own cup.” An amused huff follows the sentence, hanging in the air as she stands from her seat. “Will you please pass my apologies on to Vision, I forgot I promised Clint my company.” Natasha does not wink but the expression on her face, once the memory of the day fades and distorts, will no doubt be recalled as a wink. “May you find your safe place here, Wanda.”

As evening falls, Wanda finds herself alone again, Vision far more removed and distant after the discovery of his improprietous decision to potentially socialize with a guest. She’s embarrassed at the anticipatory hope that tightens her chest each time she approaches a corner or door, but none are hiding the butler. There is, once she retires for the night, a cup of hot chocolate on the desk of her room, a billowing stream of steam confirms the recency of its delivery. Cautiously she curves her palms around the porcelain cup, breathing in the sweetness, her fingers flinching slightly at the heated ceramic against her skin. If this is still hot it means he is likely awake.

The schedule on the map from the day before stopped at bedtime, no indications given as to where or when she might be able to show up to intersect with his own schedule. Which means she has to resort to other methods. Hesitantly Wanda extends her index finger, eyes closing in concentration as a mist of scarlet releases into the air, sending out a beacon for other minds, the energy spreading and then rebounding back with information. A smile crawls along her lips when she locates the stir of thoughts. Cup still in hand, she allows her body to follow the murmur of his mind, engrossed by the neat and orderly nature of his thoughts, each one following at even intervals before disappearing into different sections of his mind. It is not until muggy air engulfs her body that she opens her eyes, finds that she is on a smaller, more enclosed balcony, not nearly as impressive as the veranda.

Vision is there, just as she suspected based on the mental link, though the details are difficult to parse out, the gaslamp on the table illuminates enough of the balcony for her to study the general appearance of him from a distance. It is evident he is not anticipating her company, his jacket and waistcoat gone, leaving him only in a slightly wrinkled shirt and black pants. He is reclined in a chair, feet resting on a wicker footstool and Wanda is enamored with how relaxed he appears, his hands working in methodical patterns to clean whatever is gripped between his fingers, a slight gleam from the gaslamp makes her think he is polishing metal of some kind. There is a war waging in her body, her heart yearning to call out his name, sit in the empty chair next to him, to bask in the honeyed tone of his voice, but her mind quickly points out all of the cues that he would not welcome company. A man of order, one who favors a pristine and ambivalent appearance, might not appreciate a surprise attack when he is at his least controlled, particularly after the embarrassment on the veranda.

Yet somehow, with his preternatural butler abilities, he senses her before she has a chance to back away. “Miss Maximoff, is something the matter?” The concern is evident in his voice, but more so in the quickness of the motion from sitting to standing, the casualness of his attire contrasting the seriousness pulling his lips into a frown.

Wanda shakes her head, though his frown remains, whether it is because he is unable to accept her answer or because it is clear now that she has simply decided to intrude upon his evening. “I,” at one point in her life, Wanda truly believed in honesty and forthrightness, but for the sake of survival she has become accustomed to providing legitimate, albeit false, reasons for her actions. What she should proclaim right now is that, since his presence rescinded for the day, she has only been able to think about his company, cannot explain why she wishes to delve into his thoughts, feel his soul, discover who this man is, but her instincts prohibit such a confession. “I could not sleep.”

The dull light of the gaslamp emphasizes the softening of his features, the frown retracting, replaced with an understanding nod. “It cannot be easy adjusting to a new accommodation, particularly given the circumstances.”

“No, it is not.”

A sympathetic tilt forms on his mouth, “If there is any assistance I can offer, please do not hesitate to inform me.”

This friendly but strained back and forth is exhausting, and Wanda can’t seem to temper her impatience and annoyance with the requirement, based on the recommendations of some other butler who happened to write a book, that she must initiate all conversations beyond offers of help. “Are you ever not a butler?”

“I-” shadows form on his face as he shifts his feet, brows furrowing and casting his features with a mask of indecision, “am not certain that is possible, given the nature of my employment.”

“So you are saying you are no longer a man? Only a butler?” Her mind instantly goes back to the veranda and the discussion of wants and how Wanda seemingly can never parse out the true wants of her clients. Perhaps she has misread this man as well, maybe his kindness is simply due to the code of the butler and nothing more. A possibility that renders her lungs unable to function at their full capacity. “You have no wants other than to serve?”

The oppressive silence coils her stomach into uncomfortable knots and Wanda turns to leave, deciding this is her last night in the manor, unwilling to deal with the dehumanization of servitude and the possibility that any gentleness from this man was simply part of his job. She’d rather wander the countryside for the next town then accept that notion. “Miss Maximoff?”

Her fingernails dig into the palm of her hand as she turns around with an exasperated, “What?”

He takes a step around the chair, body falling into the light of the lamp, revealing that the cuffs of his shirt are unexpectedly rolled up twice and that his hands are bare. It is the first part of his skin she has spied beyond his face and there is a humanizing quality to it, until he follows her gaze and hurriedly shoves his hands into his pockets. “I want,” uncertainty mars his forehead, bunching the skin in erratic patterns, and his eyes fall to the ground. Then he raises his head and a sheepish lift of his shoulders produces a funny, fluttering feeling in her heart, “I would very much fancy your company, if you are not opposed to such a tête-à-tête.”

The tightness unravels as her eyes revolve before she can stop them, almost as defiant as the grin that forms instantaneously on her face and the zealousness of her, “Not opposed.”

An uncharacteristically free smile dances across his face, though she wonders, briefly, if it is simply a trick of the lighting. He waves a hand at the other chair, remains standing as he waits for her to sit down, to twist and shimmy into the chair until she is comfortable, and then he returns to his prior position, but this time his feet don’t dare go too casual and thus remain on the ground. “Miss Maximoff-”

“You don’t need to formally address me every time you say something.”

The man nods, lips tight as he processes the information. “I understand, thank you. Did you enjoy your time with Natasha?”

The conversation from earlier replays in her mind, it was not terribly different from speaking with Vision in that both he and Natasha guard their words carefully. But where they do diverge is in the general demeanor and air, Vision polite and caring while it felt as if Natasha was interrogating her. “It was not unpleasant, though quite unusual.” One of the many thoughts that has remained with her since meeting the woman is a curiosity, perhaps more of an inkling to make a connection. “The dress from yesterday-”

“Yes, Miss-” he cuts himself off before he finishes her name, an impressive display of his attempt to remove the influence of being a butler for the sake of the moment, though she is still not certain if it is truly him or simply him following her order. “Yes?”

“Was that dress Natasha’s?”

A quick “Yes,” confirms her suspicions.

“Does she always keep a dagger in her bodice?” It was a surprising discovery when she first put on the dress, but, for some reason, it never seemed the correct time to inquire about the weapon.

Vision glances at her without moving his body, the lack of surprise on his face far more amusing, she finds, than if the comment had rattled him. “Yes,” his voice grows distant, eyes traveling to stare into the darkness over the railing, “the few times she has forgotten to remove all of her armaments from her clothing has caused severe malfunctions in Friday.”

The plurality of the admission does not go unnoticed and Wanda recalls the confusion, in addition to the confounding discovery of the dagger, at the five holsters she found in the dress along with several slits in the fabric to increase the ease of accessing the holsters and the numerous hidden pockets that presumably hold dangerous objects. “Why does she require an arsenal?”

“Miss Romanov is involved with,” his mouth shuts, lips clasped in a thin line as he contemplates the next words, “covert political operations between the Russian Empire and the United States.”

“Are you implying she’s a spy?”

A shrug and a nervous puff of air is answer enough, but he still verbalizes it as well, just to be clear. “That is the implication, though I cannot speak to the directionality of her allegiance nor do I believe it is in the favor of my livelihood to inquire.” Wanda releases an amused snort, the glimpse of pride in his eyes clear even in the dim lighting. Silence descends around them, but tonight, she vows, if he wishes to converse, then he must direct the flow of topics. Thankfully, it does not take long for a tentative, “Miss Maximoff?”

Both his habit of inquiring if he can make an inquiry and using her name are still strong, but Wanda decides to let this one escape a retort, instead angling to throw him off in another way. “You may call me Wanda, if you” the confidence she had going into the comment dissipates almost immediately, getting caught in the humid breeze that stirs the air around her. So she finishes her thought on a weakened, anxious, “like.”

“Wanda.” He tests her name slowly, holding out the Wan and overemphasizing the duh in the second syllable, but he does so with an awed, almost boyish exuberance. The second, “Wanda,” returns to the cadence and tone of his Miss Maximoff, “I have been reading many works concerning the spiritualist movement.” He pauses as if what he has just said is a question, but Wanda isn’t sure what he is expecting, and so she waits, eyes glancing away from him briefly to try to identify the location of a distant boom of thunder. The hesitant but rich inflection of his words draws her attention back to him. “I am aware of your proclivity for séances,” the and ending up in a river is left unspoken but hovers quite clearly in the air, “but was curious if you offer other readings in line with the spiritualist movement.”

“I occasionally do tarot readings, though,” the image of her wrecked quarters and the torn up and charred cards immediately flashes through her mind, “my tarot deck was ruined with the rest of my belongings.”

A flash of anger crosses his face, lips drooping into a scowl before lifting just enough to erase the brief ire. “Unacceptable.”

Wanda nods, agreeing with his assessment but aware nothing can be done at this point. “I used to also have a small table set up for palm reading outside of Castle Garden.” The location was ideal, particularly on days when there was a play or performance, the giddiness of rich socialites to learn of their impending love lives provided her with a lot of food and decent housing while she lived in the city, even if she does not particularly believe in the method. But, as with all good things, it ended abruptly and not in her favor the day she was visited by a man in a bowler hat. Wanda shakes the memory, narrowing her eyes as a dangerously appealing idea forms in her head. “Would you like your palm read? You were gracious enough to show me your trade today, I would enjoy the chance to repay the favor.”

Predictably the offer is met with resistance, his body seizing up just enough to be noticeable and his eyes bouncing to every object and item except her. “Oh, I do not think that is necessary.”

“Why? Are you scared?”

He hesitates and the fear is palpable, though it does not have its intended consequence of quelling her curiosity, instead stoking the fire of her interest. “No,” with a single word she knows he is a terrible liar because she does not even have to reach out and brush his mind to know the truth. “I personally view, with no offense meant to you or your livelihood, the spiritualist movement as pure balderdash.”

Typically, offense would be felt at such a statement, but the fact he was willing to say it directly to her is proof that she is interacting with Vision as a person and not a butler, and she determines to ensnare this side of him for a bit longer. “Have you ever had your palm read?”

“No.”

A deceptively innocent grin forms on her face, “Well how can you make such a claim if you have never determined the veracity of the technique?”

He freezes, lips parted slightly in contemplation while his eyes focus on a point just above her shoulder and she can almost imagine tiny gears clicking in his eyes as he attempts to counter her claim. “I suppose it is empirically impossible to support my claim without evidence.” The words come out slowly, a pause inserted at every third word.

Wanda smiles, lifting her arm so that her hand hovers between them, palm up, “I am glad you have seen reason, may I?”

The disconcerting gaze moves from just above her shoulder to her palm, his own hands delving deeper into his pockets as she stares at him. “It is quite late.”

“It will not take long.”

“You are a-”

Wanda glares at him, flexing her fingers in an attempt to encourage his compliance, “If you attempt to rationalize your refusal on the basis of me being a guest in this house then I will turn it right back on you and insist, as a guest, that you comply. But,” the glare softens as she offers him a smirk, “I would much prefer to avoid such awkwardness.”

Momentarily the fear leaves his face, replaced by a gleam of fascination that almost derails her plans. Thankfully, his voice breaks the spell, “My hands…”

It is undeniable, based on her experience so far with him, that his job requires a great deal of work with his hands, some of the liquids corrosive, and so she assumes he is going to attempt to argue that she should not have to touch such hands. “The only way that sentence can end with my agreement is if you inform me you are actually an avian beast with talons for hands. Because then,” she sends him another smile, “you would have no palm to read.” Vision remains silent, eyes boring into her own, creases of deep contemplation forming on his face and her heart drops at the fear on his face, concerned she is pushing him too far. “But if you truly do not want it, that is fine too.”

He holds her gaze for a small eternity before he sighs and a spike of exuberance bursts from her stomach as she watches him remove his hand from his pocket. Haltingly he moves it to her own hand and whispers an apologetic, “I am not sure you will be able to read it,” that does not make sense until she touches him, notices a subtle texture to his skin that she has not felt before. Wanda reaches out to turn the knob of the lamp, increasing the light, and hates herself for gasping when she takes in the deep, wrinkled red scarring of his skin. Immediately he pulls his hand back, but she lunges forward enough to grab it and gently guide it back to the area between them. Fingers lightly brushing along his skin, trying desperately to assure him that it does not bother her.

“What happened?”

His face becomes stoic, closed off, and the action constricts her heart, a deep, aching pain forming in her chest as he simply states, “An unfortunate event in my past.”

Nothing else is added nor is there any sign that he wishes to divulge more and so Wanda brings his hand closer to her face. “Please let me know if you are ever uncomfortable.”

“Of course.”

The order in which the major lines are assessed varies based on the reader, or so Wanda determined when she bounced from tent to tent back in Sokovia as she learned the art of palmistry. Typically, she begins with whatever the person is least interested in learning, understanding that you must keep them invested in order to receive the full payment. But, since he isn’t exactly a client, she determines to move from least interesting to her to most, hoping to ease him into the reading, make him feel more comfortable, since currently the muscles in his hand are taut and trembling. “You can relax your hand, it increases the accuracy of the reading.” A quirked eyebrow meets her words, his disbelief in the reading presenting an exhilarating challenge more so than an annoyance. His hand does relax slightly, and she brings her index finger to his palm, placing the tip of her nail between his thumb and index finger. Gently she traces the indents in his skin, searching for the head line and doing her best not to smile at the twitch in his fingers with each pass over his skin. “I am inspecting your head line.”

“What does that tell you?”

This time her smile breaks loose, eyebrows raising as she meets his gaze, “Patience, Vision.” Slowly she follows the line, noting how it does not curve even as it traverses almost his entire palm. “It is straight, which implies you approach life with logic and practicality, that you are meticulous.”

“How can I determine that is due to the line and not your observance of my meticulousness the past two days.”

Wanda glances up at him, expecting to find a seriousness in his brow at his defiance, but instead his features are relaxed, amused, and oddly intrigued. “I suppose you cannot know for sure.”

A triumphant arc forms on the right side of his mouth. “That is unfortunate.”

She ignores his boastfulness, angling her face down to hide her smirk. “Your line is also long, stretching from one side to the other which means you are a more methodical thinker, not terribly impulsive.” Her finger swipes across the line two more times, exerting a slight pressure as she examines the depth of the line. “You also have a good memory as your line is deep.”

“So far you are correct, but,” a slight shrug and another smile from the man spurs a warmth to grow in the pit of her stomach, “I am not convinced.”

“Would you be willing to save your judgment until the end?”

His other hand escapes his pocket long enough to wave her on, “Of course.”

Wanda is torn which line to assess next, an unusual trepidation associated with either one. Her finger hovers above his hand before dropping down just below his fingers. “The heart line,” her own heart is racing, much to her annoyance, as her finger brushes his hand, attempting to locate the beginning of the line, a smile forming on her face once she finds it, which is odd given her own qualms with this methodology. “Your heart line begins here,” her finger presses just under his index finger, “that implies you are quite selective in choosing your romantic partners, but that once you select a partner, it is a satisfying relationship.” Wanda’s eyes turn up, glancing at him to assess his response, which is a barely decipherable hmm and a tension in his face as he deliberately does not glance at her. Her finger follows the line, noting the way it branches, one part traveling down and the other curving up towards his ring finger. “It branches.”

“What does that mean?”

Finally, he looks at her but whatever is going through his mind is unreadable based on merely looking, her own mind itching to connect with his to determine his thoughts. Yet, for some reason, she feels as if now is not an acceptable time that, in fact, the thought of entering his mind again without asking would be an unspeakable act. “It means you are quite skilled at balancing your logic and emotions, you are not driven exclusively by emotions nor do you wear them on your sleeve.” The line is also deep, a fact she intends to tell him but instead internalizes it with a slight grin, understanding it means that once a romantic relationship begins it is deeply satisfying due to an intense commitment. “Lastly,” Wanda breathes out, the pad of her index finger not leaving his palm as she moves back to the area between his thumb and index finger, “the life line.”

Vision shuffles slightly, bending forward at his waist which brings his face closer to hers as he watches her search for the line. “Are you about to tell me when I die?”

A laugh falls from her lips, this question a common misconception, although some readers assert the length of the line is related to the length of the life, but she never interprets it that way. “No, I am not in the business of soothsaying. Now,” she grips his hand a bit tighter, rotating his wrist to allow her a better view of the line as she tries desperately to ignore how much closer he is to her now than he has been since they met. “It is quite shallow which means you have not moved through life easily.” She waits for a response, but is only provided with a nod and a release of air from his lungs. Gently she allows the tip of her nail to traverse the line, noting two places where the line stops and then starts again, one seems to be from the scarring the other, she is unable to tell. “There are two breaks, which implies unfortunate accidents or major changes.”

“I, so far, am only aware of one.” The words revert back to his utter, unemotional seriousness and it breaks her heart. “Perhaps we will have to determine if you are a soothsayer for the other.”

Wanda turns her full attention to his face, eyes locking with his blue irises. “Have I convinced you then?”

The serious from before falls away with a chuckle and a shake of his head, “Not at all, but I am willing to entertain the notion until it is utterly proven false. Given you predict something else in my future, I suppose I must wait to make my final determination until then."

“Thank you for your partial openness.”

“Of course.”

Wanda flashes him a grin before returning her attention to his palm, drawing her finger the rest of the way along the line, content and relieved at the fact it is long, so long in fact she can follow it from his palm to the base of his wrist, which is where she is met with a new texture, one that is cold and smooth, akin to the feel of the silverware they cleaned earlier in the day. “What is-” he immediately yanks his hand from her grip, nervously rolling the sleeve down to cover his wrist.

“It is nothing.”

The atmosphere around them grows denser as her eyes narrow, attempting to ascertain the new reason for his demeanor to shift, now not the calm yet confident man nor the intensely focused and unemotional butler, but his body taking on the airs of nervousness, feet unable to remain still as he shifts in his seat. Even his eyes cannot determine what to focus on. “Vision?” Wanda reaches out, grips his hand in hopes it induces a sense of calm.

“Wanda, I,” slowly he regains his typical poise, body stilling as he straightens his spine and tilts his chin up, a move she believes might be an attempt to convince himself more so than her that everything is fine. “I believe it is about to rain.” A flash of lightning illuminates the balcony. “It is also quite late.” An admission that breeds disdain deep within her, her desire is to remain with him, figure out what is wrong, but she also recognizes that whatever is bothering him might need time, and that she worries about pushing the issue.

“It is.”

Vision stands, fingers expertly buttoning the cuff of his shirt, ensuring it cannot ride up and reveal whatever he is hiding, and then he surprises her, reaching out his hand in assistance out of the chair. The offer is accepted, her fingers curling over the edge of his hand, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Would you like to be accompanied to your room?” Wanda is stunned at the connotation, as is Vision, who pauses, his eyes widening and mouth dropping open. “I meant would you like me to walk you back to your room?”

The corners of her mouth rise into a simper, heart beating quite quickly as she strives not to read too much into the fumbled offer. “I think I can manage on my own. Thank you, though.” Wanda gives his hand one more squeeze, allowing her fingers to linger on his skin as she pulls away. “This was nice, are you here every night?”

“It was,” a bashfulness overtakes his body, hands clasped nervously in front of him as his mouth attempts to decide if he provides a small smile or a broad one. “Yes, I am here each night and you are always welcome to join.”

Wanda’s grin grows wider at the offer. “Good night, Vision.”

She exits the balcony, eyes finally taking in her surroundings and notes this area is far less richly decorated, even the materials seem more common and she realizes this might actually be where Vision lives. A door to her right beckons her but she determines to inquire about it later, perhaps several nights in a row of meeting with the man instead of the butler will illuminate this aspect of the manor. Then she hears footsteps behind her and a, “Wanda."

Wanda turns to find Vision in the hallway, the row of lighting on the walls providing her with a more complete view of his casual attire, his shirt even scandalously undone three buttons down which reveals a similar pattern to his skin as his hands and her heart breaks all over again. She steps towards him with a, “Vision?”

“Wanda,” he cocks his head to the side in confusion at the tremble in her voice. “I meant to inform you earlier that Mr. Stark will be arriving tomorrow.”

Everything freezes around her, heart and lungs constricting as she struggles to breathe, managing only a stuttered, “St-stark?”

His head remains tilted, but now his eyes join his confusion. “Correct, Mr. Stark, the owner of the manor.”

There must be a multitude of individuals with the name Stark, and so Wanda attempts to clamp down her panic long enough to inquire, to make sure it is a different Stark. “Tony Stark?

Vision nods and her heart drops to her feet as her head swims, “Correct.”

Perhaps there are multiple Tony Starks. “Tony Stark, of Stark Industries?”

“Technically the eponymous Stark of Stark industries is the late Howard but yes, Mr. Stark owns and operates it now.”

The straightforward, logically playful response is not appreciated right now, her body developing a tremble as her eyes dart around her surroundings. Then she breathes in and locks her eyes on the blonde-haired man in front of her, releasing an accusatory, “You work for Tony Stark?”

The ire in her voice must not be clear, since he doesn’t seem to be responding to the horror of the question, doesn’t seem to understand why this is information that should be rattling his very existence as much as it is hers. “That is the most logical and parsimonious connection, yes.”

Wanda can feel the panic rising up from where her heart still lays at her feet, can hear the reverberations of explosions in her memory, the heat of the fire that destroyed her life. But much more prominent than even that, is the complete betrayal of the man in front of her. “Excuse me.”

A hurried, concerned, “Wanda?” barely registers as she turns to leave.

And Wanda runs.

Victorian language decoder: *Make a stuffed bird laugh = Ridiculous **Waggish = Playful ***Bricky = Fearless ****Nativists = A political movement at the time that was anti-immigration, demanding the United States cut off its borders to others *****Pale-maille = Croquet…but it wasn’t called croquet yet.

Next time expect some melodramatic encounters and a thickening of the plot.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

#scarlet vision #scarletvisionexchange2017 #sve2017 #vision #wanda maximoff #victorian AU #fanfiction #ao3 #aos

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