Wanda and vision have a movie night

gizkasparadise:

She’s walking through the compound in something of a daze, her mind fuzzy and mouth dry. Her hands grab a glass and automatically fill it with water from the tap, and she’s about halfway through drinking it when she realizes she is not the only one awake in the odd hours.

A room over, she sees Vision sitting in front of a television. The volume is low, near-muted, but he’s paying rapt attention. Wearing one of his strange sweaters and sitting with one leg crossed over the other–an executive hearing a proposal, or a man listening to a symphony.

“What are you doing?” She asks around a yawn, padding across the room in barefeet, her water in her hand.

He looks up, a strange lightening of the face occurring that she is beginning to interpret as a smile. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

She shakes her head, and without an invitation she moves to the other end of the couch. Wanda watches the screen, folding her legs under and bringing a knee up to her chin. 

“I have seen this one,” she mutters.

Vision tilts his head. “You sound surprised.”

Wanda shrugs. “Not much time for movies in Sokovia. Pietro hated watching them–he’d be bored halfway through. I think this one we actually finished.” Her brows furrow. “Why this film?”

He looks off-guard by the personal question, which she supposes is understandable. They’ve only known each other a handful of weeks, and in that time there’s been too much other to really get to know one another. “Research.” He shifts, a hand going to increase the volume. The motion looks rehearsed and awkward– a mimicry to look human as he controls the television with his mind. “I heard the name of the titular character in reference to me, and felt it prudent to investigate.”

Wanda frowns. She doesn’t like the implication–there is something ugly there, something prejudiced. “And do you like it?”

“Truthfully…” Vision’s voice trails off. “Truthfully, I find him frightening.”

Him. Not it. Wanda’s eyes dart to her fingers–the chipped polish, the rings. They look so ordinary. She thinks she understands him a little better–this mysterious synthentic person.

Wanda clears her throat. “At first, perhaps. But he is a protector.” She points at the screen. “For this woman, and her son.” She fiddles with the edge of her pajama shirt. “He loves them.”

“Love?”

“Yes.” She adjusts her body, coming to a decision and making herself more comfortable. “We’ll watch to the end. You’ll see.”

–

The Terminator’s arm sinks into the molten metal, a thumbs-up hovering as a final gesture. The Vision smiles, an earnest expression.

“You were right.” 

He looks over at her. She’s sleeping. 

With gentleness, he slides an arm under her knee and shoulders (she’s light, he determines, in need of more carbohydrates and proteins–his mind pilfers Sokovian recipes with an abundance of both for future reference) and brings her quietly to bed.