Chapter Text
Vision is endlessly confused by the concept of divorce.
He knows the legality. Definition. An agreement based on factual understanding that a pairing no longer functions at its optimal capacity. Paperwork with written names, placed on different lines with much space in between.
This is a metaphor, he thinks. Separate lines for separate houses. Or, perhaps, a preparation for the silence that occurs in the blank area.
Divorces are mutual. He understands this. That is the term, mutual.
He is also of the understanding that, when a woman says that an android is not quite capable of the emotion that she requires, it is not that android’s place to disagree. It is his place to merely perform mutuality.
That is the term. Mutual.
The confusion begins there, though, after the paperwork. He signed legibly and he shook the legal lady’s hand and he said goodbye to his wife-not-wife. He drove to the new home, his separate line, on his new street, his separate page. And he was content to sit in his reclining chair and stare at his wall and perform contentment to an empty house.
The pairing has ended, he thought.
Should the responsibility not have ended with it?
His wife-not-wife stands at his doorstep with her nice dress and a pink duffle bag on her shoulder. He opens the door and stares for a long time, hand braced on the wall, trying to recall words and facial expressions. It has been many years since he’s engaged in conversation. It has been many years since he has wanted to.
There is something grabbing onto his legs.
Vision looks down.
That is a child.
Wanda steps forward. Vision steps back like a pulley.
She welcomes herself inside. He suddenly feels like a guest. It is the first time anyone else has entered his home and somehow his first houseguest is himself. They gather in the main room, making fresh footprints, making fresh noise. He and his favorite human and this… four-legged… pink-puffy-jacketed… creature.
“Mama,” it says. It drops to its knees on his carpet. Its eyes are wide and brown. “House grass.”
“I need you to watch her,” says Wanda, slinging the bag over to rest on her hip. She pats it with a hand and her bracelets jangle. “Just for tonight. Alright?”
Vision stares at her face. He likes her face. Fits in his hand.
“Great,” she replies to a reply she hadn’t gotten. She pushes past him, stepping over her kin, making her way to the couch, the table there. He is no good at decorating but he knows the basics. “Is it good house grass, baby?”
Vision opens his mouth to reply.
“House grass,” says the child reverently, burying its tiny fingers into the plush.
Ah. He is not Baby anymore. He closes his lips.
“This is not my child,” he says, looking at it warily as it rolls its little body around on the floor.
“She ate this morning, she just needs lunch and dinner.” The woman doesn’t seem to be listening. That, or the matter isn’t up for discussion. “She isn’t picky. If she’s picky, tell her to watch cartoons.”
“What is it?” He sounds blank to even his own ears. “Where did it come from?”
“Her bedtime’s at seven. Should be easy. She’s a good girl.” Wanda clunks the heavy bag down. “I'll be back tomorrow.” She points at him like she did when she was his. “Got it?”
Vision stares at the child. “Do I have a choice?”
The door shuts and he is left with a decision he did not make.
The next few minutes are strange. A silent house, a silent man, the gentle thuds of a little girl as she flops her limbs around, enjoying the texture. Vision isn’t quite sure if there’s anything he could say. He doesn’t dream but, if he did, this would be that.
He attempts cordiality. “Hello.”
The girl braces her hands and flips herself feet-over-head, landing on her back. A response? An act of disobedience? Is he something to obey? Do emotionless things exercise authority?
Vision opens and closes his hands. “I don’t know what you are.”
“Lila,” she replies. A name, he assumes. He wanted a species. She takes a labored breath, preparation, and smushes her forehead to the floor, mumbling. “I be good for Bis.”
He nods. He watches for a moment longer.
Wanda’s voice is fresh in his head, giving him hurried instructions, lunch and dinner, bedtime and little else. There is much time that will pass between now and when she returns.
He doesn’t have food. For lunch or for dinner. He doesn’t have much of anything.
He informs his not-wife with haste.
“You have made a grave mistake,” he says, a whisper into the phone, hiding half of his body behind the partition of the hallway. Hiding from the child as if he anticipates harm. Anticipation is an emotion. “I have no food. I have no use for it. I have very little of anything.”
“So, order something.”
“Order?” He is hiding from a child. He was created indestructibly, created to rule the world and later protect it, and this is where fate has led him. “Order what, precisely? What fuel does she require?”
“Ask her.”
He returns his attention to the other room.
The child has taken her jacket off and curled up on it on the floor. Her knees to her chest and her arms tucked in tight. Certainly she can’t be one-hundred percent human. He heard Wanda had married again but he hadn’t asked questions about the genre of man. He’s never heard of a dog mutant, couldn’t have been that, but she seems to be at least partly animalistic.
There are words coming out of the girl’s mouth but they don’t seem to be English and they don’t seem to be for him to hear. Speaking to empty space. To herself.
Overwhelm is an emotion.
“...”
“It’s easy. She’ll want breakfast food for lunch. And for dinner. She’s, uh… going through a phase.”
“...”
“Two waffles with butter and syrup, two eggs, vegan bacon.”
He’s lost. His phone beeps with a message. He looks down at it as if it’s a loaded weapon.
“There. That’s where I usually order from. And… Sorry, I’m…” Rustling. Walking in the city. He misses walking in the city with her. “Delivery takes a while so it’ll be cold when it gets to your house, but she likes it that way.”
“... Wanda.”
“I have to go.” A bell chimes. “Don’t overthink.”
“I cannot overthink.”
“Oh, sure you can. Bye.”
Vision overthinks.
He sits in his recliner and watches not-his-child explore the same square foot of carpet. She lays out, she crawls around, she stumbles, she digs at the floor, she puts her mouth to it, she chews on it, she makes nonsense noises.
“A-buh-buh-buh-buh,” she murmurs into the carpet. Her laugh sounds like a car alarm, whistle and siren. Chirp, chirp, squeak. She pushes her cheek to the wet spot she’s created. “Good house. Sof’ grass.”
He squints. He adjusts his hands where they rest on his knees.
No one has been in his house, really.
Which is to say, no one has complimented it.
“You think so?” He casts a glance around the space. “It’s rather dull.” He clenches his jaw. “Compared to your home.” Don’t say it. “That was once mine.” Damn.
The creature squeaks again. She claps her hands and misses the mark several times.
“Oh.” Vision tilts his head. “Thank you. I hardly think it deserves your applause.”
She stops. He freezes. The room goes still. She sits back on her ankles and stares at him, mouth open, eyes wide, fingers gripping the air with relative success.
Has he done something wrong or something right?
“What is it, child?”
Whatever had caught her attention in his face or voice or words, she loses it quickly. Short attention, short human. Back to the ground with a thud, dark hair sprawled every which way, kicking her legs up into the air.
She is a concerning thing.
It’s somewhat of a nature documentary, this display. Life is such a fragile and fickle thing. Vision watches silently, acclimating to this circumstance, until his phone vibrates, reminding him of an unopened message from Not-Wife.
“Right, yes,” he says to no one. “Breakfast.”
There is a child in his lap within moments. Perhaps she is gifted with super speed. A few tries are required to ascend. Sharp knees as she climbs up, light weight as she settles, leaning back into his chest and pointing at the screen, repeating her mother’s order in far fewer syllables.
For all intents and purposes, he is a stranger. And yet, as if under a trance triggered by a single word, she finds her way here. Either portraying familiarity or completely convinced of it.
What is he meant to do with this?
He stares at the tangled mop of hair on her head, arms frozen in a circular hoop that frames a child he hadn’t been aware of until today. Words fail him. Emotions would likely only complicate things, he is thankful for their supposed absence, but words. He’d like to have those.
“Waffle, egg,” she says, resting her head back to see him, confused by his lack of movement.
Vision stares.
“What are you?” he whispers.
“Lila,” she replies, reaching up and grabbing his nose.
“And your father?” he asks, pinching her wrist to remove her. It takes a moment. “Is he human?” Her hand latches onto his chin. “Are you human?”
“No,” she says simply. “I’m three.”
Vision nods solemnly.
Two waffles with butter and syrup, two eggs, vegan bacon.
He stands by the sink as the girl, at least half-human, climbs into one of the kitchen chairs. He watches her eat with great fascination. He watches from a great distance.
This is the result of Wanda’s DNA, logically, but he doesn’t see much of it in practice. Different eyes and hair, even despite the same deep complexion. Little grubby hands plunging into syrup, then smashing palms into waffles, flattening them, butter squishing between her fingers.
“You’re meant to eat that,” he reminds her, arms stiff at his sides.
“Play first,” she explains, scientific, lifting her hands so fast that thin strings of sugar are attached to her fingertips. “Can play if I clean my p’ate.”
It seems there are rules to the household. There were no rules when he left. Was he so orderly, so organized, if his absence creates a need for governance?
Fine, he’ll learn the rules. So far he knows that children may play with their food if they clean their plate afterward. And, apparently, women can drop their children off at their ex-husband’s residence with little in the way of warning. Or preparation. Or any attempt at being considerate.
Bitterness is an emotion.
An eternity passes. There’s a puddle on the table and in her lap, a fountain down the sides of her pants that then surrounds the legs of the chair, deep amber syrup. Truly interesting. When he’d opened the container and fled across the room, he hadn’t seen that much liquid inside. Is that the girl’s power, creation of sap?
No, no. That can’t be it.
“What is your father’s name?” he asks, eyes narrowed. “What is his ability?”
An entire waffle is stuffed into her mouth. She chews precariously. By the time she’s done, she’s forgotten his question. Or, alternatively, she finds it uninteresting.
“Wash hands,” she lifts her arms and closes her eyes. “Change clothes.”
“Ah, yes.” He steps to the side. “The sink is here, your clothes are in the bag your mother brought.”
She does nothing. Her arms shake from the force of their own weight and her chin wobbles as she struggles to keep still in this specific and likely significant position.
“... Child?”
“Wash hands, change clothes,” she repeats.
Vision is rethinking his hypothesis. That was a very Wanda thing to say. Repeated and stressed syllables, no doubt it was studied. The familiarity does nothing to dissuade the not-feelings he’s having. It feels as though he’s on a raft in the middle of an ocean. An ocean of responsibility. Or expectation. Or syrup.
“I’m unsure what I’m meant to do.” He steps forward, then back, then forward again. “How many words do you know? Can I have more of them?”
She won’t budge. She’s beginning to shake something awful, like she may combust any moment.
He hooks his hands under her arms and lifts her up. Panic response, maybe. He lifted humans out of rubble in this fashion. It’s hard to know what to do after the rescue.
She relaxes, sneakers dangling above the floor. That means he’s done something right. He can do nothing but keep her still, air-borne, feeling something close to fear, recalling that her request was four words long but not quite grasping what those words were supposed to mean.
There’s a steady drip and drizzle across the tile as he hesitantly carries her at arms’ length to the sink. She thaws, taking initiative as if she recognizes this part, grabbing at the handles, grabbing at the soap, increasingly aggressive.
She scrubs at her hands and kicks her feet as she says her alphabet. More or less. At least seven T’s there at the end.
Once finished, she makes a strained noise, pushing at the faucet with her fingers until the water disappears. “Towel, Bis.”
This language. He’s learning it. Child. Woman. Woman-child.
He shuffles to the side. She snatches a rag from the rack and wraps her fists in it. It’s not an efficient method, her hands are wet even as she drops it to the floor, but he’s unsure of rules. He’s unsure of many things.
Responsibility is one thing. This seems to be a life that Wanda’s placed in his hands. Literally. A life that weighs approximately twenty-five pounds. A restless, sticky, bossy little life.
“Down, now,” she instructs.
Little lives seem fragile on the outside but there appears to be a fire in this one’s belly. He lowers her very cautiously but it seems the effort was wasted as she instantly begins to sprint away, tripping over too-big shoes, tugging at her shirt, fleeing from an invisible emergency.
He follows after the shock wears off. Only a blink. He is no stranger to shock—this specific genre, though, does vex him.
He sees the pile of clothes by the couch first, then a pair of flailing legs poking out of the large pink bag as if she’s been swallowed alive by it. A muffled voice inside chants clothes, clothes, clothes.
The doorway is a safe place. He remains there, alert, as he asks, “Do you need assistance?”
A naked child falls with a thud, a sock clutched in her right hand and a blanket in the left. He looks up at the ceiling on reflex.
“Found banket,” she says, rolling over onto her stomach, pushing at the ground with her toes and going nowhere. She gets knotted in the fabric within seconds.
“Yes.” Vision hadn’t noticed how smooth his ceilings were. “What is your home rule on privacy?”
There’s a long pause.
“Lila need help.”
He kneels at her side. He’s unsure what help means. He waits for guidance. A small, tan hand peeks out from the wrap of the blankets. She feels around until she takes hold of his thumb, pulling herself free.
Super strength is an option.
She doesn’t release him immediately. Vision stares at the place they intersect, her hand still damp, her nails rounded and little. The room must be cold, though, as she burrows her way back in within seconds.
Inventory. One complete set of pink fleece spotted pajamas. Two pairs of socks. Two shirts and two pairs of pants, one soft and one elastic-denim. A clear plastic bag for a toothbrush and toothpaste. A couple of red hairbands. A number of stains on the bottom of the bag that he identifies as crayon wax, miscellaneous fruit juice, and permanent markers.
It seems excessive, so many outfits and moving parts for one night spent away from home.
He looks over his shoulder.
Lila is rubbing the corner of the blanket to her cheek. Her skin is growing blue, the fuzz of the fabric clinging to the syrup that’s left.
Vision attempts communication, “I am unsure how I’m meant to help you.”
“Clothes.”
“Yes, the subject is understood.” He rubs the nylon of the bag’s handles between his fingers. “But you have many options. I request specificity.”
She makes a distressed noise and buries her face into the blanket.
“My apologies.” He clears his throat, studying the various different swatches of fabric that he’s folded and laid neatly across the couch cushions. He plucks one at random, unsure how it could possibly be so complicated. “Here we are.”
The child lifts her head to peek. She looks at the spotted fleece he holds and immediately begins to chirp, falling over, covering her face with her hands, laughing at his silly mistake.
“Bis!” she gasps, humored, in stitches while the joke lies out of sight, “Them for sleeping.”
“Ah.” Vision lowers them. He clicks his teeth together. Yes, right, pajamas. She’s definitely more than half-human, if her wardrobe has any indication. Materialistic things. “I see.”
It takes him a few tries, a few combinations, but he seems to get a hang of it. She has a high understanding of fashion, zig-zag shirt with straight-stripe pants, two different color schemes, like two little girls joined at the middle.
“Good job,” she says to someone, smoothing the fabric down like an expensive dress. “Cartoons now.”
“Are you certain?” He checks his watch. Wanda hadn’t given him a specific timeframe for cartoons. There was a prerequisite for pickiness. Does fashion count? “I hear they can have adverse effects on the mind, in excess.”
“A-buh-buh-buh-buh.”
He glances down. She’s eating the floor again.
“That’s not very sanitary.” He hesitantly crosses his legs into a basket, eyebrows drawn together. She isn’t listening to him. Just like her mother. “Are you teething?” She babbles a bit more. “That can’t be right. You seem to have your teeth already.”
The child gnaws on the carpet until her eyelids grow heavy and her jaw stops moving.
For a fleeting second of weakness, he thinks she’s died.
“Child?”
She doesn’t respond.
He taps her shoulder. Her arm flops to the side.
A hand under her nose. She’s still breathing.
“Alright,” he nods to no one. Sounding haunted. Sounding lost. "Yes. Yes, alright.”
Vision is warming up to this, he thinks. He is up to the task. He is warm enough to take initiative.
He remembers Wanda to be quite tidy. She couldn’t stand disarray. The choice to have a child is a disorienting one. He will distract himself accordingly.
The bag is repacked and set aside. The kitchen is desyrupped. Her jacket is hung on the coat rack by the front door. The television channel with peaceful animations is located. He sits and perches in his chair, watching the program until she wakes up again.
He notes the time as she stirs. Two hours and fifteen minutes.
Her head is heavy as she lifts it from the floor, hair matted to her cheek and neck, blinking bleary eyes as she scans the space.
“M’ma?” she asks.
“No. Good afternoon,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “I would appreciate a warning in the future, should you decide to fall unconscious. So that we can plan accordingly.”
The girl nods. She rubs her eyes with her knuckles, “Where Mama?”
“I’ve no idea.” He looks to the door. “Her communication skills have been lacking as of late.”
“Don’t unnerstan.”
“I don’t know where she is,” he clarifies.
“Oh.” A slow nod. She teeters her way upward, hands braced to the ground and a stumbling step, and then she notices the flickering light. “Oh!” She falls to her knees again, scooting forward until her nose touches the TV stand, “Cartoon.”
The second try is much smoother than the first.
He finds similarities, somehow, in this… little thing.
The both of them sit on their respective levels, hands in their laps, staring blankly across rooms, gaining nothing from the time they waste. Even as his eyes stray to the screen, he finds that the morals of the shows are quite important. It is good to share. It is good to be kind. It is good to be tidy.
The sun sets and a little head pivots, wide eyes, and two separate minds seem to agree on two separate words at once. Waffle. Egg.
He lifts his phone. The child bows her head.
Proficiency. Vision enjoys being proficient. He enjoys knowing what to do. It has been a while since he has been able to do.
Breakfast for dinner. Wash hands, change clothes. Pajamas, now, for sleeping. He receives applause upon choosing the right attire on the first try. It is his job to help with the buttons, her motor skills so clearly unrefined, and she grabs onto his nose as she waits. It seems her frustration occurs when he doesn’t tell her to stop.
“I don’t breathe,” he tells her, straightening her collar, sitting back on his heels. She grips tighter. “Whatever your goal is, I don’t think you’ll achieve it.”
“Breeve,” she agrees before releasing, fingers splayed across his face like a mask. He phases through. She squeals and does it again and again, gentle woosh noises, “Funny face, Bis!”
He does not smile. “Thank you.”
She feels across his cheek and pats, not-so-gently. “Good and sof’ and funny face.”
Just as the night has begun, just as momentum inspires excitement in an empty chest, it is seven o’clock. Bedtime. It’s clear that the child requires ample rest for ample function but he expects that learning how to count to fifty via animated bears won’t be as beneficial without the child in the room.
Disappointment is an emotion.
She doesn’t walk very well when tired. The gait is reminiscent of inebriation. He offers a hand. She refuses it and promptly falls into the side of his leg.
“Oh, no,” she murmurs. True remorse.
“Not to worry. I’m unharmed.”
She kisses his pant leg anyway, a mouth-print left behind. “Sorry, Bis.”
“You’re forgiven.” He nudges his door open with his knuckles. “You may sleep here.”
There’s a coo from below him, insistent steps, insistent hands grasping at the comforter to pull herself up. She falls again. She is very persistent. He wonders if she has Wanda’s last name.
He steps inside. The safety of a doorway is widening in scope. “I will be in the main room if you require any assistance or amenities.”
“Need brush my teeth,” she says, jumping up and bouncing off the mattress, thudding on the floor for the hundredth time.
“Ah, yes.” He lifts her up and sets her down in the center of the bed. She’s very small. She could easily get lost in the square of the bedding. “I will fetch your bag.”
By the time he returns, the girl has fallen asleep in a little ball, eyes squeezed shut and fingers having gone limp mid-stroke of the blankets. Not much can be done about that.
Wanda arrives at exactly ten o’clock the next morning. Vision has reorganized the pink bag numerous times during the night. He has memorized the cartoon songs attributed to color, numbers, textures and sounds. They’re spectacularly catchy. That is the point, he supposes.
Two knocks on the front door. Part of him wishes not to open the door. The other part is too partial to the woman not to see her again.
“Hey,” she says as he emerges. She seems content. She's wearing her non-fancy clothes, her soft sweatpants. Vision stares at them. She smiles and gestures to his sweater, “You’re surprisingly unscathed. I was going to warn you about the mess, but. Then I decided against it. Ha.”
This is the part where he replies. He is meant to be jovial, now. A laugh, perhaps. A normal exercise in conversation. A normal exchange between former lovers. But love is an emotion. So perhaps they were something different.
He shifts on his feet. He adjusts his fingers on the door frame. He misses her sweatpants. He misses her bed. He misses his house.
“What…” he begins, jilted, strained, his mouth feeling dry, it has always been dry, “... is its father’s name?”
Wanda rolls her eyes. She pushes him to the side so that she can enter, “Is she not awake yet? She’s usually bouncing off the walls at this point.”
“What is her ability?” he asks.
“Oh, thanks for keeping her bag together.” She ignores him. She crosses to lift it. “She usually sorta… tears it apart.”
Vision clicks his teeth together. “Everybody do their share.”
She perks up. Recognizes the song. He likes the look on her face. He likes her positive expressions, he likes to remember the loving ones.
There’s a thud in the other room.
“Ah, there she is.” Wanda pivots, staring at the hallway, thankful for a reprieve. “In here, Li-Li!”
The little one is heard sprinting, he can hear her gasping breaths, running a marathon. As she rounds the corner, it becomes clear that she quite enjoyed his bedding as she’s dragged it all with her, over her head like a shawl and down the hall like a gown.
“Mama!” she cries. Wanda winces and laughs as a body is launched at her legs at full speed. “Mamamamamama.”
“Hi, my baby.” She bends, plants a kiss on the bedhead. “Good sleepover with Vis?”
“Bis,” she gasps as if she’d forgotten. He receives a blow to the knees. She hugs his legs, ties them together. “Bisbis, morning.”
“Yes.” Hesitant pat to the same head. He doesn’t look at Wanda. “Hello... little thing.”
Wanda is staring at him. He taps the girl’s shoulder until she releases, keeping his eyes down, hearing the alphabet with seven T’s in the back of his mind, unsure how to stop it.
Perhaps it will leave when they leave.
“Well, it’s time to go,” Wanda ruffles the child’s hair, lugging the bag to the door, lugging her kin as well.
And yet that’s not what he wants either.
“I can get breakfast,” he hears in his own voice. He follows them. They’re stepping outside. No, come back. “I remember the order. The creature can press the buttons.”
“Breakfas,” says the creature. She tugs on her mother’s hand.
“We’ll stop on the way.” Wanda turns around, smiling at Vision. “Thank you again. Really. Sorry for the short notice.”
She isn’t sorry but she is polite.
“It was no issue,” he says, tabling the complaints for now.
“It’s just hard,” she huffs, smiling, hand up to her face, tucking hair behind her ear. Vision gets distracted. By the hair and the hand, by the tone of her voice. She’s very tired. She falls asleep easier when Vision plays with her hair. “I mean, scheduling is hard enough with the girl, but for dates? Impossible.”
“Dates,” he repeats.
“Yeah, dates,” she adjusts the bag on her shoulder, newly awkward. “You know.”
Whatever warmth Vision had felt melts quite easily, collects at his feet, sinks into the house grass.
It is clear that this is not meant to matter. This conversation, this exchange. She presents it casually and he is expected to receive it casually.
He is having trouble receiving it casually.
“Quite,” he steps back, placing distance between them. “Yes, of course.”
So the other husband is gone, the child-bearing husband. Okay. This he can grapple with. She moves on and forward and she is far braver and freer than he is and he is proud and happy and those are emotions.
But she dropped this child at Vision’s house while she moved forward. That is the part that sticks in his chest like liquid sugar. Left a child with the no-feelings-no-good android for a night, no payment and no warning, because she is searching for a better-feelings-better-person.
Yes, surely, if an android has no emotion, he is available for service. He will always be available and he will always be alone.
“Bye, Bis,” says the little voice.
Vision blinks. He interlocks his hands behind his back. He nods to the child. Business. Transaction. His head is filled with animated bears.
“Goodbye.”
A fragile smile. She holds her arms up and closes her eyes. Wanda lifts her, propped onto a hip and sighs, smiling at Vision as if to say classic child, as if he could possibly know. They’re walking down the pale concrete walkway toward a deep blue car. And then they are gone.
The house feels more empty now than it did before.
He lifts the sheets from the floor. He makes his bed. He sits in his recliner and stares at the wall. As he always has done.
No. Doesn’t feel quite right.
He is only able to sit in silence for a number of weeks. That's the threshold. After years spent doing this one action, mere hours spent with a three-year-old erases the entirety of his progress. The weeks pass and, as Wanda would say, he breaks.
She misses the first call and so he tries again.
“... Vision?”
“Hello,” he’s pacing the kitchen, “My apologies. Is this an unideal time?”
“No, just, uh. No. What’s up?”
“I was thinking. Contemplating.” He stops at the sink and stares out the window. Into the backyard. “Certainly, as you are… searching for a new romantic partner with what appears to be grand success, there will be more occasions that require separate custody of the child.”
“Her name’s Lila.”
“Yes, I understand.” He taps his fingers on the counter. “The purpose of this call is to offer separate custody.”
“Okay. Don’t call it that.”
“What am I meant to call it?”
“A babysitter.”
“...” He looks down into the basin. “Separate custody sounds less humiliating.”
“It’s also inaccurate.”
“At any rate, this has been my offer of assistance.” Vision pinches the bridge of his nose and it reminds him of Lila. “Your search for a new mate has been very fruitful—”
“Vision.”
"And I am offering to—”
“I know what you’re offering. And, I mean, yeah, that’ll be very helpful.” She’s laughing at him. “I have a date this Friday, actually. Same deal, overnight and then I’ll swing by around ten.”
“Fantastic,” he says.
“What?”
“Tolerable,” he corrects.
It’s raining. The little one is wearing her rain boots. She has a smaller bag, now, one that fits on her own back. Wanda’s silhouette is blurry through the water that rushes down the windshield. She doesn’t like getting her hair wet.
“Hello,” he says. "This is a new coat."
"Rain," she answers quickly, so fast that she knocks the breath out of herself. "Blue."
"I can see that."
“Mama say thanks,” Lila tilts her chin up, a little puddle of water settled at the top of her bag.
He hums. “And what do you say?”
“...” She wrinkles her nose. “Pease?”
Vision makes a noise. That was not meant to happen. He moves to the side and bids her entry, a wave to the blue car before closing the door.
“Like rain,” she’s muttering, pulling at her shoes, fingers slipping down the rubber, catching on the seams. “Like rain, like rain, like rain.”
He crosses his arms and watches Wanda’s car pull out of the driveway. He glances down at the child and feels relief. “I would recommend keeping your boots on, in that case.”
She stops. She looks up at him. “Wha?”
“If you like the rain,” he starts to walk toward the back door, committed to being the best separate-custodian he can be, “then you will have the rain.”
Lila rolls around in the grass for a great number of hours. She talks to the soil and the sky and to her own feet. She plucks individual blades and holds them to her eyes, places them strategically in her hair, tucks some into her pockets. Wanda taught him how to remove grass stains from denim, linen, and cotton. The knees of her pants grow greener and greener with each tumble. Her laugh grows louder and louder.
He feels better about this. Capable.
“Big outside grass,” she finally opens the conversation, her cheek covered in pink lines, plant-textured.
“Thank you,” he stands and inspects the siding of the house, safe beneath the awning. He doesn’t come out here often. It could use a washing. The rain doesn’t reach it. It will only take a number of hours.
“Dada don’t have a big outside grass.”
She pushes herself up to sit. She takes two handfuls of the stuff, holding it up over her head, dropping it like confetti, laughing at the sight. Her humor is questionable. It is a maze he doesn't know how to navigate.
“I recall the yard,” he says, swiping his finger across the vinyl, rubbing the dust between his fingers. “It was quite vast.”
“Not at Dada house,” she murmurs as if grieving.
Ah, yes. His old home is vacant once again. He is bitter and he is pleased.
“Your father’s house,” he echoes, brushing his hand down his sweater.
Lila studies the dirt, most certainly contemplating eating it. “Uh-huh.”
“Does he have circuits?” he asks. His interest in the house is now completely performative. He leans close to scan a smudge that doesn’t exist. “Was he too ineffectual for your mother as well?”
She wipes her face with her palm. Rain and green down her cheek. “He’s Dada.”
It isn’t an answer but it makes sense. “Yes, of course.”
A long silence. The drizzle does nothing to fill it. The lines of the house are being steadily burned into his sight.
“Bisbis.” A summons.
He pretends to wipe a pretend smudge away, unhurried, before meeting her eyes. “Yes?”
She pats the earth next to her. Much gentler than she’d pat a face or an arm. She’s partial to grass. She's careful with it. After ripping it to shreds, of course.
“Bis, come,” she says, gentle at first and then again, more demanding. He has super speed. She likely doesn’t know, but that doesn’t stop her from being irritated. “Come, come, grass sit.”
He doesn’t move.
She gives him a trademark Wanda look. Or, at the least, a child’s approximation. Human children struggle with accurate facial expressions.
Endeared. That is an emotion as well.
He takes his place in his yard next to a child he doesn’t understand. He faces forward, toward the back end of his own house, staring blankly at it. He quite likes this house from this angle. He’s never thought to sit down here and look at it. He’s never thought to be a child. He hadn't expected it to be so accessible. Simply a matter of perception. Easier, when so close to the ground.
The rain patters on the top of her jacket hood.
She is very good at blurring her eyes. Very talented indeed.
Zoning out as her mother calls it. Vision would zone out often while married. He found it to be a helpful tool. At dinner with strangers, during fundraisers, during arguments.
This little child will grow big one day. An adult. And she will be spectacular at marriage. And he will be proud.
There is a hand on his arm. Curling into his sleeve.
“Cold,” she says.
Vision looks down. “What?”
“Like warm rain.” She pushes herself up onto her knees, taking his sweater collar and pulling on it with all her might. She may be strong but he is quite heavy. “Inside now.”
An android sits on the floor of his small guest bathroom, watching a tiny thing splash around in the tub. She demanded warm. She had demanded baff. Vision rests his head back against the cabinets and listens to her say warm and baff and thanks and good and Bis.
The house is most houselike when the child is here. She utilizes the space, she runs everywhere inside it, she puts her mouth on much of it. He is unsure what to do about that. It’s well understood that kidnapping is frowned upon in many if not most human communities. At any rate, it is nice to have some semblance of friendship.
Of course, surely, how much of a friend could it be in this circumstance? This circumstance that troubles him so deeply? Vision sits in the rain and misses being married. Vision babysits because he misses his wife and because he thinks this child is quite neat, she says things that surprise him and immediately trips over her feet and he hears someone laugh and it’s probably himself.
Children are fascinating things.
He would have liked to have had one.
Married pairs typically have their first ones within the first half of their first decade. Vision remembers researching. He remembers calculating. He remembers the second year slipping into the third, slipping into the fourth. He watched the time go and then their time stopped.
He’s unsure how humans treat children that aren’t theirs. Vision knows very little about little things. He knows very little about paternity. Paternity requires emotional capability. Apparently.
There’s a splash.
A tan arm is extended over the edge of the basin, a palmful of bubbles offered like a gift.
“Oh, no, thank you,” he shakes his head, folding his legs, “Those are for you.”
Lila’s bottom lip sticks out and immediately begins to wobble.
“... What’s this?” he asks, genuine. “What’s this you’re doing?”
“Mmmmmm,” she hums, wavering. She holds out her hand, stretching, cheek pressed to the tub, urgent, “Mmmmmm.”
“I have no need for those.”
Her eyes get wider and darker somehow. They pool with feeling. “Mm-mmh.”
“You… enjoy them,” he says. Concern is an emotion. She looks like she might crumble into pieces. “Proceed in your enjoyment.”
“Bis,” she says, staggering up onto her knees, draping herself across the barrier, hair slick down her head, the tips of her fingers reaching his nose. Her eyebrows furrow and then, at once, she begins to cry, “Bis!”
“Oh. Oh. Very good, I see.” He accepts the offering, scoops the grouping up tentatively, staring at it. What a curiously temporary thing. And yet it feels priceless. “Er.”
She is staring at him, anticipatory, shivering from the cold air. So much determination. So much expectation. Her tears have stopped as if on a tap and he's beginning to suspect that she has weaponized them.
“... Thank you,” he attempts as he holds the bubbles up. He studies for a reaction. Yes, that seemed right. “Ah. Thank you, child, how… thoughtful.”
Lila smiles. She falls back into the tub, water sloshing over the sides, and begins to speak again. Short-term memory.
“Bubba,” she says. She pushes the cup (for rinsing, according to Wanda) under the water, lets it go, lets it bob up to crash through the surface. “Bubba for Bis.”
He holds them until they’ve all dried into a sort of powder.
Lila’s fingers are pruned as she grasps at the back of his neck once she’s finished and the water’s gone cold. She wears a blue towel like a cape, running to his room, running to the bag he’s already placed on the nightstand, dragging out her new pajamas. Half because she wants help, half because she wants to show him.
“Red,” he says gently, complimentary. He kneels, then, feeling practiced in the art of pajama buttoning. “Like your mother’s spark.”
She tilts her chin up to the sky. Pride. He makes it down to the fourth button before she’s grabbing his nose again, holding tight, bouncing up and down, saying, “Red like Bis.”
He’s too restless to sit in his chair and stare at the wall until sunrise. He brings a bucket and rag to the back porch, cleans the siding in the dim yellow light that filters out from the kitchen window. He stands and washes until the vinyl’s polished like new, until he can see his reflection in it as the sun begins to climb its way into view.