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Tony Stark Announces First of Its Kind Speaking Clock! The Most Accurate in the World!

Wanda rolls her eyes at the headline. Any mention of Tony Stark makes her. If there ever was a definition of a big butter and egg man^A, it was him. A clock isn’t anything special, she has one in her rented room, the kids next to her, hawking newspapers, have pocket watches. Why would she need her clock to talk? It’s something Stark would create, useless and unnecessary. 

“You think that screwball^B actually did it?” The question is asked to the universe by a portly gentleman with a red nose and a snow white fedora. 

The universe, who in this moment is Carl, the newsie with his sleeves rolled up and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, shrugs, “I’d say either it changes the world or is a clambake^C, no in between.” 

“Probably right,” mutters the man with the fedora, his fingers crinkling the newspaper as he pulls it closer to read the story. “Says here there’ll be a broadcast to demonstrate it.”

Of course Stark will make a fuss about the simplest of things, insisting on demonstrations and public adoration. Wanda wants nothing to do with it, having already experienced the impact of Stark’s technologies and his war profiteering that led to the destruction of Novi Grad. 

And yet, she cannot escape him. Everywhere she goes people are whispering about this speaking clock, theorizing what makes it so unique and if it can possibly live up to what they’d heard about TIM over in London. All the chatter, from the boarding house to the soda fountain, all down the street and over the radio, slowly eats away at Wanda’s resolve, enough that she finds herself squished between shoulders inside the Gimbels at 33rd and 6th, jockeying for a position where she can both see and hear the display of televisions that has been roped off and barricaded in anticipation of today. 

The display comes to life, the three note opening chime of the news program sending the crowd into a hushed state. On the screen is Tony Stark, dressed in a well-fitted three piece pinstriped suit, lounging in a chair, his left arm bent along the back and right lazing in his lap. The way he sits creates an air of casualness that can only be bought with money and the knowledge that the economic depression has not touched him. Across from him, in a less expensive suit and sitting professionally, is the reporter. “So tell me Mr. Stark, what is so special about a clock?”

A random man in the crowd shouts, “You shred it, wheat^D!” as if the men on the television can hear them. Wanda finds it a bit embarrassing, even if she agrees with the sentiment. But she largely ignores the man, same as everyone else. 

With the smarmiest grin, Stark somehow manages to lean back even more casually, “Let me ask you a question instead. How many times have you forgotten what time it is for your friend out in San Francisco or Chicago?”

Playing along, the reporter responds, “Luckily we keep clocks in the news station set to all the time zones, so never at work.”

“Have you ever forgotten to change the clocks after Daylight Savings Time^E?” 

The reporter chuckles, as do several people in the crowd, “Quite a lot, sadly. Been hard to get used to.”

“That’s where my speaking clock comes in,” Stark winks at the camera and straight into the hearts of his viewers. “With just a ring on the ole horn^F, you can get an accurate time for anywhere in the world.”

“The world?”

Mischief tugging his lips up, Tony confirms, “The world. TIM can’t do that, Time Ladies and radios are local only^G, but Vision, Vision can do it all.”

“Vision, you say?”

“Want to meet him?”

Behind the two men, lights flicker to life, revealing a large room. Inside the room is a chair and within the chair is the most curious being. Even with the black and white image, she can tell his skin is darker, the gray on the screen more saturated than either Stark or the reporter. But that’s not the curious part, what is most curious is that, because he’s bald, everyone is able to see that there is metal embedded not only within his skull but his face as well. And in the middle of the forehead is some sort of diamond. He is fashionable, too, wearing a three piece suit that rivals even Stark’s. Wanda thinks whoever this Vision is looks better in it, far more refined. 

“Say hello, Vision.”

The man looks up, staring into the camera. In a polite and crisp accent, he greets them, “Good evening.” They all wait, expecting the time, because that’s what a speaking clock is supposed to do. “Please provide a location.”

Shrugging, the reporter throws out, “How about Los Angeles?”

Wanda expects the man to move or hit a button, do something to indicate how he is checking the time, especially since there are no clocks visible before him. Only he announces it without a hint of seeking it out, “It is currently 2:45 and fifteen seconds in the afternoon.”

The reporter looks off screen, no doubt checking with his team if this is correct. After a shallow nod, he turns to the camera, “Correct.” It’s a parlor trick, that is all, Wanda losing interest in the time telling itself, though she cannot tear her eyes away from the metal trimmed man sitting calmly in the back of the room. “How does it work?”

“Can’t reveal industry secrets. I’ve got a business to keep afloat.” Said by a man who likely literally swims in money each night and then throws it away afterwards. “I will, begrudgingly, admit it was a collaborative effort. Greatest minds in the world all together on this.” Wanda wonders why all the greatest minds in the world needed to make a clock. “I know, you must be thinking why a clock?”  Probably the only intelligent thing Stark has ever said. “Our world is expanding, every day we are more capable of interacting with and integrating with other countries. Now I know, right now, deep in the Dirty Thirties^H, that doesn’t feel worthwhile. But I truly believe Vision will begin to connect us to the broader world, remind us what innovation is all about.” It’s such a farce, all of it, Wanda rolling her eyes at the empty promises. 

The reporter sidesteps the grand importance Stark is attempting to shove down their throats, instead opting for practicality. “Let’s say someone wishes to use Vision, how would they do so?”

“All you have to do is dial 8-4-7. If you’re local, it’s only fifty cents.” It would be too much to hope that a millionaire would subsidize the cost of his own invention that is ostensibly meant for public use. “But, if you think about it, if you wanted to call L.A.’s clock, that’s fifteen bucks, but Vision can do it for fifty cents.” Except no one is calling across the country for the time. 

Fed up with the pretentious display, Wanda ducks under arms and bumps her way out of the crowd, wrapping her coat around her tightly as she returns to her room. 

Curiosity is a tricky beast. The man’s shiny metal, the diamond in his forehead, the silky voice permeates her dreams and fills her every thought. It’s how Wanda finds herself at two in the morning down at the phone bank on the first floor of the boarding house, slipping two quarters into the money box her landlord has set up to pay the monthly phone charges. She dials 847. It rings exactly three times and then clicks, the dulcet voice of Vision arriving through the phone, “Good evening. This is Vision speaking.”

Wanda feels the need to say, “Hello,” even though she has no doubt the man is on a script that he does not want interrupted.

The responding, “Hello,” is unexpected. “What location would you like the time for?” His question is slightly different than asked on the television.

“Um, Novi Grad, in Sokovia.” Though she isn’t sure Sokovia still stands as an individual entity, but she’s been too grief stricken to check.

Three seconds of awkward silence hangs heavy in the air and then Vision speaks, “It is 8:12 and 33 seconds in the morning in Novi Grad.”

“Thank you.”

“You are most welcome. Have a good evening.”

“Um, you too.” Wanda hangs up, her fingers remaining around the receiver. What she’d assumed, because everyone else assumed it as well and has been endlessly discussing it, is that Vision is no more than an automaton, like a puppet with a sound box and gears making it function. Not any different than the mechanical fortune tellers at the circus. It’s the only way they can fathom how he is awake at all hours and able to handle the calls. No one has yet figured out the time telling. Again, the assumption is that the news report was a trick, the reporter pre-planned to inquire about Los Angeles, and that in the actual functioning, Vision is in a room filled with or linked to all the possible clocks he’d need. Except Wanda predicted Novi Grad would not be included. It’s not a powerful city, Sokovia, what little of it even exists after the war and the expansion of the Soviets, is a weak and failing country. No one would anticipate having a clock for Novi Grad. 

Wanda decides to call again the next week. 

“Good evening. This is Vision speaking.” 

So far the script is the same, Wanda diverting from the last time, bypassing his next request just to see how he reacts, “How do you tell the time?”

There is no response for a bit, long enough she wonders if Vision hung up on her. “I do not know the exact mechanism. The information simply arises in my brain.”

Seems unlikely. “Are there clocks around you?”

“No. I am alone with a switchboard.”

Wanda twirls the cord of the phone around her finger, trying to plot her next words. Does she ask about gears? About wires that connect to another room? But then she thinks of the face from the television and imagines him sitting alone in a room with a switchboard twenty four hours a day. “Do you at least have a window?” 

“A small one, rather far away.” Wanda is about to comment on the inherent cruelty of this, when Vision cuts her off, stating in a monotone but polite voice, “Yes, the time in Chicago is currently 11:15 and 8 seconds p.m.” 

The call ends, Wanda sitting there in confusion. 

She calls again, the next night. The second the click comes through, indicating he has picked up the call, she blurts out, “Good evening, Vision.” 

His, “Good evening,” is a little hesitant, no doubt thrown off his routine. “What location would you like the time for this evening?”

Wanda opts to go straight to a list of questions she’d written down during the day, “Do you sleep?”

There is a pause, and then, to her delight, he says, without removing any of the droll politeness from his voice, “Ah, Miss Novi Grad I presume.”

“What makes you think that?” Wanda is genuinely curious since he must hear thousands of voices a day and, no doubt, hundreds of thousands since his service began. Though she wonders if perhaps he can trace where calls originate. She hasn’t asked if any of the other women who live here have called 847 as well. 

“Your accent is rather distinct and the same light on the switchboard is on as it was the prior two calls.”

This is intriguing and adds more evidence against the automaton beliefs that others cling to, not that she’s pushed back or offered her experiences to them. “You’re one to talk about distinct accents.”

She swears he chuckles, a breathy, tickled sound that is the absolute berries^I. “To answer your prior inquiry, no, I do not sleep.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.” There’s a buzzing sound and then he quickly states,”Please hold a moment.” The line turns to static, Wanda unsure if Vision is returning or not. A few minutes later, the static fades into a sincere, “My apologies, I am always on the clock and must answer other calls too.” And yet, he came back to her. The realization balls her up a bit^J, in a pleasant way, in a warm, sort of fuzzy way. “What other inquiries may I answer for you, Miss—”

“Wanda Maximoff.” 

Slowly, with purposeful consideration, he over enunciates her name, “Wan-da Max-i-moff.” It’s copacetic, and, surprisingly, mashes^K just a bit. That might just be her own loneliness there. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Or it’s that he’s a genuine sheik^L, from his soothing voice to striking appearance. “Oh, my sincerest apologies, please hold again.”

This time he’s gone for nearly ten minutes, Wanda having to mentally note that she’ll need to drop another fifty cents into the phone box to pay for the length of the call. When he comes back, apologizing again, she makes a decision that will absolve the creeping guilt that rises in his voice, “Out of curiosity, when is your slowest time for calls?”

“Um,” how improper that utterance sounds and yet it latches to her heart, sends it racing to get a hint of throwing him off enough to elicit such a response, “I would say between two thirty and four in the morning. Though I—”

That decides it then, “I’ll call back tomorrow at that time.”

The wait between her declaration and his response is agonizing, until he speaks, voice quiet yet elated, “I will eagerly anticipate it.”

Wanda’s cheeks flush, lips crawling up into a grin that he cannot see but she hopes he can hear, “Goodbye, Vision.”

“Farewell, Miss Maximoff.”

Call her weak or desperate or delusional, but before bed that night, Wanda allows her mind to wander wherever it pleases, like what his hands might feel like upon her skin. Whether he continues to tell the time while pressing his lips to her neck. If the metal of his head is hot or cold, either has the potential for pleasure. 

It’s the most alive she’s felt in years. 

“Are you lonely?” 

“In a literal sense or emotional?”

Wanda grins at the clarification, hugging her knees up to her chest as she responds, “Both?”

This late at night, there is almost no other sound, every other woman in the boarding house asleep, the streets slumbering as well, only the occasional rumble from a passing car disturbing her. The quiet lets her focus on the small breaths he takes while he considers her question. “I suppose the answer is yes, for both.” Wanda frowns, saddened even if she isn’t surprised. “Literally I am physically isolated in this room.” All she wants to do is travel through the phone and lay a hand on his arm. If only. “Emotionally, it is peculiar. I speak to people all day and night and yet, other than our brief moments of conversation, I feel invisible.”

Wanda intends to offer words of comfort and consolation, only the truth comes out instead, “Me too.” And immediately feels as if she is diminishing the uniqueness of his life, of the crushing solitude not even she truly understands. “I didn’t mean…”

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Maximoff, I need to put you on hold.”

Her heart plummets, past her stomach, deep into the ground, burying itself far enough in the dirt she may never find it again. The first connection she’s made since Pietro’s death and she fumbles it, becoming a heel^M that takes his pain and vulnerability and immediately inserts her own. 

Should she hang up? Crawl up the stairs and under her covers, curling up and crying like she did for years after her soul was torn in two? 

“Miss Maximoff,” she almost falls off the chair, shocked at his return and the sympathy ensconced within the syllables of her name, “why do you feel invisible?”

A part of her, the one that’s been trying to fade into the background of her own life, considers shrinking down until she can’t talk, but how could she do that to him? Especially when she is the one that set herself up for the question. “Because I want to be.”

“Why?”

“Everyone I’ve ever loved has died. My mother and father were killed during the Great War,” despite not even being involved, her father managing to avoid conscription, and yet the war found them anyway, razing their apartment during an aerial attack. “My twin brother died only a few years ago. He was trying to save a young boy from an attacker.” 

Vision’s voice is low and mournful, “I am so very sorry.” Tears stream down her face, dripping onto the cream nightdress she’s wearing, darkening the fabric. “Wanda, I…”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean for tonight to be so sad.”

“No, no please do not apologize at all. Forgive me for asking, I beg you.”

Somehow she laughs, a lightness stirring within her at how ridiculous it is that they’ve gotten themselves into a battle of apologies, one she suspects he’d win handily. “I forgive you.”

Relief swirls within the little sigh that practically breathes through the receiver and onto her cheek. “Excellent.”

“Vision!” A new voice erupts into the phone, tired and irate. “I keep getting complaints that the lines are busy.” 

“My apologies, Mr. Stark.” Wanda wilts into her chair, holding her breath on the off chance it’s possible for Stark to hear her. “I was distracted by a particularly difficult location request.”

There’s a sense of hand waving and pacing, an exasperated huff that’s loud enough to sound like it's in the same room as her. “Get back to it, my investors demand success.”

“Of course, Mr. Stark.” Wanda hopes to hear footsteps and a door closing, instead all she hears is Vision explaining, “The current time in Novi Grad is 10:02 and 12 seconds in the morning. Have a good evening.”

The call ends, leaving her more alone than ever.

Every clock now taunts her, ticking away with little judgmental tsks. There’s one in particular, within the sewing room of the factory, it’s enormous metal hands thumping with each second that eats away at her. She’s so distracted she accidentally sews her sleeve to a dress, forcing her to have to restart and be reprimanded, including a deduction in her day’s wages. 

By dinner, she has no appetite. Worry consuming her at what will happen when she calls tonight.

By three in the morning, her hand is shaking as she drops her quarters into the box and dials 847. 

Usually it rings three times, today it barely makes it one before she hears a surprisingly anxious, “Good evening, this is Vision speaking, are you calling about the time in Novi Grad?”

“I am.”

“Oh, wonderful.” All her fears fade away at the palpable alleviation in his voice. “I was concerned you may have been offended at my abrupt departure last night.”

She chuckles, feeling lighter than a feather twirling in the wind. “Of course I’m not offended. I’m the one that almost got you in trouble. If anything, I owe you an apology.”

 “Perhaps instead of an apology, would you mind telling me about your day?”

For the next three weeks that’s all they talk about, Wanda pushing herself to experience more of the city, try different foods, attend weepies^O, and live with more verve and vim than she had since before Pietro died. All of it is done for the sake of telling Vision at night, fielding his excited, unending questions which sometimes lead into requests, asking if she might consider visiting the Empire State Building and Central Park. Of course she does, broadening her walking paths, taking the trolleys as much as she can afford and, even once, venturing onto the newly built line of the Independent Subway System just to explain to him the terrifying sounds and shaking train cars and the darkness of the tunnels. When she mentions to Vision she is running low on money, and might have to call less, the next day an envelope is delivered with her name on it and over two months worth of cash inside. He pleads ignorance despite sounding more than pleased at her new fortune. 

Tonight she intends to read to him, having found a beaten up copy of The Maltese Falcon in the factory. But he guides them towards an unexpected topic, “I discovered today that there is an opening for a secretary position in Stark Tower.” Before she can ask why he’s bringing it up, he hesitantly lays out his intent. “I thought it could be of interest to you. The pay is competitive and it also comes with a room in Stark Tower.”

“The same Stark Tower you are in?”

“The same, yes.”

Wanda runs her fingers along the cord, strategizing how to respond. On the one hand, the possibility of sneaking into Vision’s phone room and seeing him, touching him, hearing his voice not through a phone is enticing beyond any words she knows. On the other, living under the same roof as Stark sounds like hell. “Is there no other way to see you?”

“Not that I have devised.” 

A topic that came up the night he asked if she would go to Central Park and track the birds she saw. When she asked him to get Stark to give him a break, it became tense, Vision explaining that no such commodity is provided to him. The anger arises again, the same as that night, Wanda’s teeth gritted as she asks, “How does Stark not realize you’re a real person? That you deserve a life outside of that room?”

“Because I am not a real person, Miss Maximoff.”

“Oh like horsefeathers^P you’re not!” Wanda practically rips the cord from the phone in her fury, having to release it or else she won’t be able to tell him the rest of her thoughts. “You’re as much a person as me, as Stark, as every single person who calls you asking for the time. You’re kind, you’re curious, you’re thoughtful, and funny, and I am so completely stuck on^Q you that you are all I think about every day. All day, Vis, every second, every hour. I cannot wait until I get to call you.” There’s a gulp of air, a sign he’s about to say something, but she shoulders on, unwilling to stop until it’s all out there. “You deserve a life like everyone else. You aren’t a machine, or a clock, or a…” the word escapes her, not that he can see her hand furiously waving to draw it out, “novelty. I’ve never met a soul as beautiful as yours.” 

Slowly, almost fearfully, he crawls out, “I appreciate your perspective.” She expects more, an outpouring like her own, except all she gets is a sorrowful, “I must put you on hold for a moment.”

“How about for the rest of the night.” She hangs up before he can respond.

Stark Tower looms above the city, constructed only recently to attempt to rival the grandeur of the Empire State Building. It’s ostentatious, conforming to the art deco of the other towering giants but contains some novel touches, like the jutting platform at the top where rumors claim Stark lounges like a king above his peasants. Wanda enters the lobby, dressed in her nicest clothes that are the closest she could get to the glad rags^R all the other women have on around her. According to the newspaper, the Colony Club^S, run by Stark’s long rumored paramour Pepper Potts, is hosting a fundraiser today at the tower, one that includes the chance to purchase tours. In her purse is all the money she has left of Vision’s charitable donation. It better be enough. 

Inside, the lobby is teeming with women in form fitting skirts that flare at the bottom and silken blouses with structural coats on top. The sheer number of hats is overwhelming, each intricate and yet delicate, feathers and beads accentuating the shapes of them. Wanda does her best to stand tall, to mingle quietly with the women until she can find where the tours are being sold off. 

It’s nearly fifty dollars. 

Wanda pulls the money out, counting it slowly, realizing there isn’t enough. The woman reaches out, touching Wanda’s hand. “I’ll cover it, bunny^T.” 

Any other time, Wanda would march out, incensed at the pity on the woman’s face, but she has a mission today. Affixing a pleasant, appreciative smile she accepts the charity, “Thank you. I so want to see the tower, especially the clock room.”

“Oh, well, that isn’t on the tour,” her heart drops at the comment, until the blonde-haired woman winks, “but I might be able to pull some strings and get us close.”

The tour doesn’t start for nearly an hour, mainly because the blonde-haired woman, who Wanda is becoming increasingly certain is Pepper Potts herself, is constantly approached and drawn into conversations. By the time it sets off, there are twelve women in the group. Wanda stays towards the back, only halfway listening to the chatter and gossip, the little tidbits being shared about the architect and the reason for certain flourishes. Around every corner she peers at the doors, hoping to see one clearly labeled in a way to let her know where Vision might be. 

“And down that hall,” the group stops, Pepper motioning toward a brightly lit, gilded hallway, “is where Vision, the famous speaking clock resides. Unfortunately,” with this word, Pepper finds Wanda’s face, “we are not permitted into the actual room as it would disrupt the process.”

Everyone else moves on, giggling and oohing and aahing at whatever else is next. Wanda slips away, down the gaudy hallway until she gets to the door at the end. There’s a golden clock inlaid on the door. No one would ever claim Stark is subtle. She tries the handle, but it is locked. Glancing around, ensuring no one else is nearby, she knocks at the door.

There is no answer. 

Keeping her voice low, she mutters,  “Come on, Vis.” To be safe, Wanda keeps checking behind her, worried someone, possibly even Stark, will turn the corner any second. She knocks again, a bit louder this time, adding in a quiet but forceful, “Vision, open the door.” 

The door finally creaks open and within the thin crack is a man with a crimson face, a golden diamond in his forehead, and the tell-tale plates of metal. “May I assist you?”

“You’re gorgeous.” Is what she says, because it’s her first thought, even if explaining who she is and why she is here would have been better, but she’s awestruck at his beauty, fascinated at the little grooves within his skin and how smooth his lips look. 

“Wanda?” Those smooth lips part, breaking open into a stunning smile that shoves his cheeks up, deepening the grooves at the corners of his eyes. “Why…how?”

It’s rude, probably, flagrant most definitely, and yet she’s absolutely spifflicated ^U by his beauty, lifting her arm to touch her palm to his cheek. His eyelids flutter shut as she traces the lines of his face, fascinated at how soft his skin is despite the metal, at how said metal is neither hot nor cold, but a perfect temperature to send a feeling of electric desire through her arm and into her heart. Wanda guides them into the room, shutting the door behind them. “Vision.”

“Wanda.” When his palm comes to her face, it might be the closest to heaven she’s been, his touch warm and comforting, gentle and yet eager. “You are here.”

The switchboard erupts with light, several pinging noises echoing around the room. Vision’s eyes shift from her to the board, torn between duty and desire. “You can answer.”

While he sits back down, speaking out the time for Istanbul and Nashville, Wanda walks the perimeter of the room, one that is only just a bit larger than her tiny shoebox at the boarding house. The one small window is truly tiny, more of a porthole than a window, providing a glimpse of sunlight on the towers being erected everywhere in sight.  It’s depressing to realize this is all he’s known and why he listens with such rapturous glee to every dull detail of her day. 

When she turns to walk the other side, she finds his brilliant cerulean eyes following her, lips quirked up into a disbelieving smirk. “How are you today, Vision?”

Vision’s smile broadens, “I am better than I’ve ever been.” His voice in real life is much more disarming, clear and chiming like a bell. “Yourself?”

“I’m aces^V.” 

More calls come in, Vision frowning as he quickly works his way through the demanding people. All Wanda can do is watch him, mesmerized by his posture and the curve of his fingers as he activates the different lines, the way his suit fits impeccably, drawing her eyes along his body, finally realizing just how tall he is, even though she was just standing next to him, and most pleasant, oddly, is the slight metallic whiff he emits, it’s so different, so clean, almost refreshing. She’s also impressed at how he manages not to get annoyed as he fields his endless calls, “Yes, the time in Milwaukee is the same as Chicago, they are in the same time zone.” Though he does furrow his brow and gesticulate out his aggravation, which she never would have known simply over the phone. “Minneapolis is also the same time, yes. No New York is an hour ahead. Yes, yes that is correct. Good day, madam.” 

“This is your life?”

Vision sighs and now she knows the sound comes with an adorable little shrug, “Every day, other than a blissful hour or two at night.” 

“So lonely.”

“Indeed.”

His eyes follow her intently, back and forth along the room, practically begging for her to come closer. If she’s already orchestrated a break-in, she might as well go for the prize. “We probably don’t have much time before they realize where I’m at, so what do you say, cash or check, Vis?”

“I do not follow.”

Wanda laughs, forgetting how holed away he is and how little of life he’s experienced. “You going to kiss me now or later?”

Based on the shock lifting his hairless brow, this is not what he expected, his fingers fidgeting with the cords protruding from the call board. “Now?”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

Wanda’s heart ramps up as Vision stands, coming to his full height, a nervous, boyish slant to his mouth as he cautiously approaches her. “Now.” Not wanting to risk someone barging in, Wanda goes for it, wrapping her arms around his waist and rising up onto her toes, pressing her mouth to his. For a moment he is rigid, as if afraid, but then his hands find her face and his lips move gently against hers, holding her fast to him, drinking in the experience. “I never was able to convey to you that I too am stuck on you.” He kisses her again, firmer this time, more confident in the action. “You are all I think about, day and night,” she grins with the next kiss, melting into his embrace, “every second of every minute of every hour of every day.”

Which is all she wants, all she needs, but words cannot keep this moment forever. “How do we do this? How can I have you?”

“There is the secretary position.”

“That’s utter bushwa^W and you know it.” She cinches her arms tighter around him, fingers gripping the bottom of his jacket. “Yes, we’d see each other more, up until Stark discovers I’m sneaking in here and then he’ll fire me because I’m interfering with his precious clock. You can’t live your life in this room, Vis.” 

Vision toys with a loose strand of hair near her ear, eyes downcast as he thinks. “Yes, you’re right.” 

“Obviously.” 

“Even so, we need a plan first.”

Plans never happen as intended, they fall apart, get torn to shreds. Wanda had planned her whole life out once, and it all crumbled before her eyes. “We run. Now.”

“We need just a touch more time to figure out the details.” Before she can fight back, grab him by the hand and yank him out of the building, he kisses her deeply, the grip of his hands along her waist filled with longing, bursting with the promise of what might come for them and it leaves her breathless. “Is that amenable?”

Wanda nods, accepting another kiss for good measure. “You get two weeks and then I’m kidnapping you.”

“Deal.”

Their nightly conversations take on a different tone, brimming with eagerness and excitement. “I believe I have discerned a way to not be discovered for at least two weeks.”

Wanda wraps her robe around her, grinning like a fool, “How?”

Off in his sad little room, Vision is no doubt fully animated while he explains, “By crafting an actual mechanical speaking clock.”

“Like the one in England? Tommy or something?”

“TIM,” the correction is light, jumping into a frenzied explanation of how he’ll craft five discs: one for the welcome, one for hours, one for minutes, one for seconds, and one that determines the location. “Obviously, it will not be perfect as I will have to choose the most popular locations people ask about and the first time someone asks for an unusual one,”

“Like Novi Grad.” 

She can feel his joy through the line, “Precisely, the first time someone asks for that, we run into problems because,” the explanation is overly technical and dense, far too opaque for her limited knowledge, freeing her mind to spin off into a dizzying dream world where she can feel his lips on hers all the time and see that dazzling smile. Two weeks might be too long, she needs him now. “Does that make sense?”

The dream was far too good because she missed the entirety of the explanation. Regardless, she trusts his reasoning, “It does.” 

“Wonderful. Oh, please hold.” Her whole life is on hold now, like a breath sucked in, deciding when or if it ever gets released. The anticipation is both suffocating and enlivening, all day, every day, her mind twirling with images of what their life will be. “All right,” Vision feels the same, or so she gathers from the way his mind races from item to item, voice buzzing with an elated impatience, “the main quandary I cannot fully parse out is how do I disguise myself. As you are aware, my appearance is not particularly normal.”

It is not, at all, and yet, “You are the single most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

Vision coughs, and she likes to imagine he’s blushing, fingers fidgeting with the buttons on his switchboard, “Thank you. Though if you were to locate a mirror right now, you would realize it is impossible because you exist.” 

Now her entire body flushes, desperation clawing at her to be back in his arms, “Are you sure we can’t go on the lam right now?”

“If I thought it possible, I would leave immediately.” If only. “I did have a rather interesting conversation the other day after you left that might be of utility to us.” It’s been three days since she was there and she has called him every night. It’s unusual for him not to have mentioned this. “Miss Potts came by, explaining to me that there had been a young woman from her tour interested in seeing my room and that she slipped away during the tour.” Wanda’s body freezes, waiting to see where this goes. “She inquired if you had perhaps made it into my room.” He better have lied, though she isn’t sure how capable or willing he is to do such things. “I informed her that no one had been in here with me.” 

Relief sinks her farther into the chair, “Good. I wouldn’t want you in trouble.”

“That is not the interesting part.”

“Oh?”

“She stayed with me for nearly an hour while I answered the phones, and we spoke about my life. It was the first time she had met me and she left by telling me that, and I roughly quote here, if anyone knew how truly alive I was, they would be horrified at my treatment.” 

It is true, without a doubt. Mostly anyone, anyway. Many people would be fine with his imprisonment, would encourage and fight to keep it that way because utility is more important than autonomy. But more people, she hopes, would reach the same conclusion as Pepper. “Do you think she’s going to talk to Stark about it?”

“Possibly.” Vision pauses, to take a call, she assumes, only he doesn’t ask her to hold or send the line into static. “Truthfully, Wanda,” his voice wavers, just a hair, and she holds the receiver closer to her ear, “without you, I do not know if I would have ever appreciated how alive I am.” Tears build up in the corners of her eyes, congregating until the dam finally breaks and she’s crying, yet again, in the lobby of her boarding house. “Are you crying, oh I am so terribly sorry.”

“No, I mean yes, I am, but don’t be sorry,” if only he could see the happiness on her face or feel the ramming of her heart within her chest. “There’s nothing to apologize for. You’re an absolute pip^X and I am grateful to have found you.”

Tony Stark Retires Vision the Speaking Clock, Citing Mechanical Failures.  Later this Week He Plans to Unveil a New Endeavor Known as Jocasta.

“Mechanical failures?” Vision waves the latest edition of The Westview Herald at her from the breakfast table. “Of all the excuses, it is that which he chooses?”

What neither of them anticipated was the stalwart advocacy of Pepper Potts. From the moment she realized Vision was actually autonomous, she took every action she could. Though Vision remains mum on some of the details, Wanda assumes Pepper was instrumental in constructing Vision’s disguise that let him slip out of Stark Tower as well as the private car that drove them, in the middle of the night, to a cozy, fully furnished house in New Jersey.

“Isn’t it technically true?” Because eventually someone must have asked for a city that Vision did not include on the pre-recorded discs he and Pepper installed prior to him leaving. It must have been that which finally pulled the veil from Tony’s eyes. 

Vision sends a little playful glare her way, opening the paper to read the article. “It says here that there were unanticipated flaws with the design of Vision, ones that made it a complete failure of technology and not suitable for public use. Which is, as you say, bushwa.”

“You’re fiery this morning.” Not that she is complaining, there is a definite allure to the flex of his muscles when he gets aggravated and passionately spiteful about something. Not as alluring as when he is enthralled by her or laughing at a little joy he’s discovered. There are so many little joys, most of them she’d forgotten until he came into her life.

Vision lowers the paper, frowning. “He is purposefully attacking me.” 

“Then stop reading it.”

A logical suggestion, the type he adores the most, preferring logic to emotions, despite being a deeply emotional being. “I am almost done. Plus I know the neighborhood watch will be all abuzz about this tonight, so it is best I be informed.”

Rolling her eyes, Wanda recognizes a need to change strategies. She loosens the tie of her robe. “Vis?”

His “Hmm?” rises up from behind the newspaper. 

Lowering her voice to add a husky, sultry air to it, she asks, “Do you know what time it is?”

“Yes, of course, it is 8:45 and 3 seconds in the morning.” 

Sometimes he is so dense, and she loves him for it, because it allows her to surprise him by lowering the newspaper, his eyes growing wide and hungry at the gape in her robe. “Want to try again?”

The newspaper is tossed aside, Vision standing and scooping her up, “Time for a little morning fun.”

“There we are.”