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There is no telling how the topic comes up, but it comes up with whiskey.
Perhaps it is because they ran out of the fancy glasses and one of them has to bite the bullet and drink out of a bowl. Wanda volunteers. Her rings clink against the ceramic as she takes it into her hands, smiling victoriously, and shuffling off toward the main room.
Perhaps it is that, once everyone settles in their respective places on sofas and chairs, Sam cannot keep his eyes off of the bowl of whiskey that Wanda cradles in her lap. She’s proud of it, everyone knows, but it’s -
“ - the principle of the thing,” Sam holds up a hand, fingers touching, a philosophical gesture. “We protect the world, a few of us can fly, and we are still stuck on dish duty.”
“No one’s above the law,” Steve reminds him as he swirls his drink almost disinterestedly, likely missing the days when he could feel its effects. “The smaller enforcement positions are just as important to maintain the status quo.”
Sam folds forward with a groan. “Not this again.”
“I like it,” Wanda interrupts before they begin to feud over duty again. She mimics the Captain, swirling a bowl with two hands, looking very much like a witch indeed. Just the wrong kind. The kind with cauldrons. Clink, clink, clink of her jewelry. “Reminds me of home. Sokovian mugs are large enough to sleep inside.”
“Your tolerance is admirable,” Natasha says from the furthest couch, arm hooked over the side, fingers holding onto the rim of her glass. She is graceful but tactical. “They filled it to the brim.”
“This is nothing,” she assures the group, punctuating the sip taken with a smirking mouth.
There is a collective murmur of we’ll see about that. It is exclusively in male voices. The women share a look. They silently continue to drink. They silently plan to win.
The concept of dish duty is not dropped. The idle discussion of grandeur is effectively intercepted by both Sam and Scott, the pinky-linked bros of the we’ve worked in the service industry and all we got was this lousy t-shirt club.
“I mean, you’d be surprised at the amount of labor you’re put through in an ice cream parlor,” Scott raises his eyebrows, bringing up the same anecdotes that everyone has heard a thousand times, always prepared to complain about that one time, “Not a reusable dish or cup in sight - and yet. Hours! Hours, I spent!”
Thor sinks into his seat, grumbling about Asgardian mead as he peers into his glass of weak Earth liquor. Bruce, having already finished his whiskey, stares at Mjolnir with blurred determination.
Scott rambles and Clint chuckles and Steve stands strong on his stance that justice requires sacrifice by its definition. Wanda finishes a bowlful and rests it in her lap, watching with bright eyes. She thought she was signing onto a league of intelligent and powerful beings, not a group of whining children. It is quite fun to watch.
“That’s a good question, though,” Clint offers at some point, clearly trying to rein things in to a universal point, “Chores are normal, right, and what’s a little normalcy to a world of insanity?”
Bruce smiles, wobbly. “You could put that on a throw pillow.”
“What I’m trying to say,” he continues, faux-stern, “is… well. What do you all think you’d do, without this? If things were normal?”
“If things were normal,” Steve repeats. The implication is clear. He continues anyway, “A room full of, essentially, genetically and physically altered superhumans. And that’s your question.”
“Exactly,” Clint points at him, “Take out the altering. The super bit. What would you be, if nothing ever happened?”
“I’d… be in the second World War.”
“And what would you be doing?”
“... Fighting in the second World War.”
Bruce makes a face, “Weren’t you too small to - “
“I think...” Natasha clears her throat, “... he means to ask about a career choice. What we’d go into.” A glance spared to the sober super soldier. “Barring the war.”
“Hm.” Steve doesn’t seem particularly pleased about this game, crossing his arms, eyebrows drawn. He taps his fingers against his sleeve. “I would have been useful in a warehouse, I think.”
So begins the circle.
“I would have liked to dance.” Natasha sets her drink down. Her throat is dry. “With no conditions.”
Next.
“Bus driver, hands down,” Scott shrugs. “Or dentist.” He seems to pick up on the odd looks he receives. “What? My name begs for a D.D.S. Are you kidding me? Scott Lang, D.D.S.? C’mon.”
Next.
“I refuse to separate myself from my power.” Thor’s face is grim as he twirls the strapping of Mjolnir around his fingers. Everyone stares. He sighs. “... But I do like mortal libraries.”
Next.
“I miss doing what I’m meant to do,” Bruce rests his head back. Drunk and tired. “I’d do that. And I’d be more careful.”
Next.
“I’d be a performer,” Clint says thoughtfully. “Something cool. Something to make my kids laugh.”
Next.
“Pilot,” Sam says shortly. He looks up through his eyelashes. “Don’t get me wrong. Fun to fly and be the plane or bird or whatever but… I miss the…” he mimes the yoke, the joystick-like control wheel of a cockpit, with almost a concerning level of passion, “... you know?”
Wanda looks down into her lap. She runs her thumb along the brim of an empty bowl and thinks very hard.
Before she can answer, though:
“What about you, buddy?” Clint asks, looking just over Scott’s shoulder. “You’ve been awful quiet.”
Everyone turns, the gentle sound of a movement in unison to peer toward the dim back wall of the vast room. Wanda looks to the right, squinting.
It seems they have company.
Vision is leaning there, just out of the range of light, his hands hanging at his sides. He blinks twice, scanning the room, noticing the attention he’s receiving and clearly surprised by it. His sweater is pressed and his socks are dark and he stands so unlike any robot Wanda’s ever seen in television. He does not demand or command a space. It seems he rather wanted to hide from them.
“I apologize,” he says softly, voice echoing in the room all the same. He pushes himself to stand upright. “I… thought I was being discreet.”
“It’s quite alright,” Steve offers with a nod, “You’re always welcome.”
“I was only listening,” Vision assures them. “Merely walked by and heard a discussion about… aspiration.” He bows his head slightly, tiny smile on his lips, “Your humble hopes, if I may say so, are far braver than your pursuits.”
There’s a collective boo.
“Oh, he’s got jokes,” Sam mutters.
“Feel free to chime in with an aspiration,” Clint smiles. He’s seldom so quick to moderate discussion. They seldom have discussions.
Vision tilts his head, still standing idly in a shadow, “I do believe I was meant to be someone else’s aspiration, sir. And that aspiration seems to have fallen through.”
“Normalcy,” Natasha’s voice is warm and crackly. “Remember?”
“Ah.” Another smile. Almost shy. Wanda turns to see him better, as if the smallest shift might turn the lights on and she’ll see the almost-shyness better. “Well.”
Everyone in that room creates their plan for what they expect the synthezoid to say. He doesn’t speak often but he often has something profound to offer. From humanity to toast, he has inspirational one-liners.
He looks toward the ceiling, musing to himself. They lean close to listen as he takes a small breath.
“I’d like to be a husband,” Vision decides.
The silence wears heavy. Surprise and, likely, some level of judgment.
“... Okay,” Clint says. “That’s certainly something.”
There’s a collective murmur. Gravity has changed with the smallest declaration.
Wanda smiles toward the dark figure, astonished by their lack of support. “I like it. It’s charming.”
“Yes, charming,” Steve echoes, clearly shaken. “It’s definitely… charming… um.”
“I think I’d like to be that too,” Wanda decides. Everyone turns to see her. Vision included. His shoulders relax. “I’d be a wife, if I were normal.”
Vision nods once. He slips his hands into his pockets and wanders out of the room. The conversation reroutes as if he were never even there.
He finds her later.
The night wears on. It’s long after the men who are capable of inebriation are far past their point of references. (Steve helps them all to bed. Natasha and Wanda nudge each other’s sides, a silent celebration.) Long after the lights were all turned out and chairs were tucked in and a sink was full of dishes that someone, believe it or not, will have to clean at some point.
Wanda hears the gentle knocks at her door and she knows precisely who it will be.
“Hi,” she says as she opens the door, tall red man with hands folded in front of him standing there in the frame of the jamb.
“Hello,” he says. Almost shy. Almost. It is undercut by their mutual knowledge of what he is capable of. What she is capable of. “I don’t mean to intrude.”
“You don’t?” She opens the door wider and he steps inside. He doesn’t look stricken but there is a noticeable hesitance. “Joking.”
“Yes. Jokes.” He settles and the door clicks closed and he turns to face her in the light of a bedroom that Wanda will never plan to decorate. “Wanda, I wanted to… thank you.”
She smiles. Involuntarily. She tilts up her chin as if to give him a better look. “What for?”
“Indulging me, I suppose.” He lifts an arm to gesture to a conversation that ended a long time ago. “I’m certain you had alternate plans for your speaking turn. Their response was what I expected, you didn’t need to offer a buffer to the moment. Your kindness is appreciated but it wasn’t necessary.”
“You took my turn,” she says, fake-defensive, “How do you know I hadn’t already made my decision?”
Vision hums. He is much warmer than any robot she’s seen on television. “I suppose I don’t.”
“Right.” She pokes his chest. His sweater is soft. He glances down, curious. “What do you know of husbands anyway?”
He lifts a hand to the back of his neck. Wanda wonders which of the men he learned the action from. It’s just foreign enough of a motion to be noticeably imitated.
“I know that they are often male-presenting.”
Wanda smiles. “And?”
“They often have families.”
“And?”
“They take care of their families.”
“And?”
“I’m afraid that’s the extent of my understanding,” he looks between her eyes, “Would you be willing to teach me?”
Wanda doesn’t know what to do with this moment. “Is that a proposal?”
“... I don’t believe so.” Vision frowns. “Unless the answer is yes.”
“I think we’d better meet each other first, don’t you?” she laughs gently, patting his chest. His confused face is funny. His concerned face is funny. “I don’t understand. The one thing you chose to be and it’s something you don’t fully understand.”
“It’s something positive, is it not?” He lingers at that spot on the floor, watching Wanda’s back as she moves away and toward her bed, “One cannot weaponize a husband.”
“I’m certain one could try.” She takes the crumpled comforter in her hands, tugging it out to lay flat. She looks over her shoulder, “Why did you say it? Really?”
“I think I’d be good at it,” he lifts his chin slightly. “Loving someone.”
Wanda pivots to face him. Her smile idles.
Vision nods once. “I’ve overstayed my welcome. My apologies.”
“No, no, I…” She shakes her head, raising her hand to stop him, “We were talking about things we can’t be, out there.”
“Yes, I know.”
She narrows her eyes, “You act as though you would need to be normal to love someone.”
“Do I not?” His hands slip into his pockets. Learned action. “You agreed. We share an aspiration. Certainly you think the same - ”
“What did you come here for?” she asks slowly. She glances around at her room, her room, a room for sleeping and a room to be alone. “To thank me, yes, and then what?”
“I… expected some sort of dismissal,” he admits almost-shyly. “But you welcomed me in, and now I’m… I’m… well, I’m not entirely sure what to do.”
Wanda exhales. She looks around. She eyes her bookshelves. She eyes the bed.
She meets his eyes, “Do you know how to play Parcheesi?”
Vision lights up.
Vision closes his book. He looks toward the window. The sun is going down in Paris and he hasn’t a clue where his wife has gone.
“Wanda?” he calls, fighting his way out of the remarkably plush armchair and tossing the book aside. It is one of a hundred books in this villa, the only one translated into English. “Darling?”
“Kitchen!”
He takes quick yet leisurely steps to find her, wrapped in a complimentary robe, iron-curled hair feathering out to the sides. He grins as he always does when he sees her, phasing through the island to take his place behind her.
“I was coming back,” she leans back into his chest as he interlocks his fingers over her stomach, “It got so cold all of a sudden, I needed tea.”
“I could have made it.”
“You were reading.”
“Good husbands make their good wives tea.”
“Good wives know not to interrupt their good husbands when they’ve got their concentration faces on.”
Vision laughs, craning his neck to press a kiss to her cheek. “My concentration face, you say?”
“Yes, you get so serious when you’re enjoying a story.” Wanda turns in the circle of his arms. She wrinkles her nose. “Baby, do you think we’re being wasteful?”
“Steep change in subject,” Vision mutters. Her hands are tea-warmed as she frames his face, leaning up to reach him but not offering a kiss. “Whatever could that mean, wasteful?”
“We’re spending an anniversary in Paris and we’re not even going outside.”
“... I see.”
She pets his cheek as she thinks. “I know we’ve been before.”
“For every anniversary,” Vision adds.
“And we’ve seen everything.”
“And done everything.”
“But it still feels like I’m just… lazing around in the most romantic city in the world.” Wanda sighs. Her breath is so sweet that Vision can’t help but lean forward to kiss her. She squeaks and holds onto him, a spoon clattering as he presses her into the counter. “Vis, I mean it - “
“Lazing around in the most romantic city in the world is inherently romantic, don’t you find?” He smiles against her mouth and she melts into him. “If you’re truly worried, we can pull on our shoes and explore. But you wouldn’t have put on this robe if you were.”
Wanda runs her hands up and down her sides, whispering, “It’s so soooft. ”
“I know.” He pecks her hair. “I think you deserve some normality every once in a while, my love.”
“But we’re not normal, are we?”
“Well, normality isn’t as exciting to normal people.” Vision steps around her to prepare the tea that she’s likely already forgotten. He lifts the spoon for the sugar that had been so dramatically discarded. “Wastefulness is subjective when it comes to things like this. Money is one thing. Time? Comfort? Love? I don’t think we’re wasting that.”
Wanda hugs his waist, cheek to his back. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“We don’t have to go anywhere.” He grabs for things with ease. Hot water. Cream and sugar.
“But I feel guilty.”
“Clearly I’ve not given you enough attention,” Vision chuckles, patting her arm. “Drink your tea and then I’ll give you a suitable distraction. How does that sound?”
She hums. “You always say that as if your distractions are exciting.”
“They - !” He turns, aghast, “Wanda, my distractions are very exciting.”
“Your distractions are board games.”
Vision frowns, pressing the mug into her hands, “You love board games.”
“Yes, I loved them when we weren’t able to do other things.” She takes a sip, raising her eyebrows. “Husband.”
“Wife.”
“It’s our anniversary.”
“Mm.”
“In Paris.”
Vision stares at her. He glances over to the heart-shaped window that lies over their bed. His lips part.
“... I see.”
The distraction lasts for most of the night. They are very efficient in the art of distraction.
After they succumb to the fact that any further distraction would certainly kill one of them, Wanda reaches a tired arm up to draw a smiley face in the steam of the window. Vision grimaces, somehow finding it crude, and tugs her to lay on top of his chest.
“It’s time,” Wanda says, head resting just under his collarbone, staring him in the eyes. He blinks the haziness away. “I have to ask you now, I hope you’re ready to answer.”
“Are you proposing to me again?” Vision smiles, so silly and all hers. He traces lines up and down her back. “I think I’ve been properly persuaded, this time.”
“I could propose to you a million times and know the answer - but no.” She kisses his chin. “It’s the question you always avoid answering. But I’ve got you cornered, now.”
Vision lifts his head up from the pillow. “Which question?”
“Why did you come to my room all those years ago?”
He groans, dropping back, “Wanda…”
“Tell me!” She takes his head in her hands, making him look at her, “I know everything about that night except for the part that comes right before you knocking on my door. So why did you?”
“It’s… it’s nothing, really - “
"You loved me, didn't you?"
Vision sputters, "Well, that's - "
“You wanted to kiss me, didn’t you?”
“No, not necessarily - “
“So you did!” Wanda cheers, kissing his nose, “I knew it. No boy comes around after midnight just to play Parcheesi - “
“I just - !” He laughs as she peppers his face with gentle pecks. “I wanted to be a husband and you called me charming and I thought perhaps, mutual inclusivity and such - “
“You barely knew me!”
“Yes, but I knew enough to come around to play Parcheesi, didn’t I?” The Stone glows, embarrassed. “I dunno, darling. You were kind. Beautiful. You didn’t see my aspiration to be trivial. For someone so new to humanity, I believe that was enough for me to develop somewhat of a… er, crush.”
Wanda beams, “I married a dork, did I?”
“Yes, you did. And what does that make you?” he challenges.
“It makes me lucky,” she replies coolly. “You ended up being very good at loving someone.”
She reaches up to draw another face in the steam. He rolls her onto her back, laughing like an embarrassed and insane man. Laughing like a good husband in love.