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stevie-steven-stevington · 5 years

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all that we are (chapter 2)

chapter 2!! thank you so much for all the support for chapter 1, you guys are so wonderful and i love you all. this chapter’s kinda filler-y, but it be like that sometimes lol

Category: Gen Rating: T Warnings: none Words 4.1k

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When Tony snaps, Peter is touching him. Distributed between two people, one with enhanced DNA, the power of the Infinity Stones does not kill either of them. What it does do, however, is forge a soul bond between Tony and Peter that they can’t seem to get rid of.

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“So what you’re telling us,” Tony says, “is that our souls are connected? That we’re basically fairytale soulmates? Except instead of a fairytale, it’s probably a horror movie. It’s always a horror movie.”

Peter thinks he’s dissociating.

Or dreaming. Or both.

Either way, he’s lost. None of this feels like real life. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life - soul bonds and resurrection and five years gone just like that - and yet, here they are.

His fingers feel numb. So do his toes.

Strange nods, and he looks just as prepared for a fight as he did on Titan. Peter wonders absently if this is just what he always looks like. “Yes, exactly. And, well, if I’m correct, you are also now...empaths, of sorts, to each other.”

Tony is staring at Strange with this vaguely horrified look on his face. Peter thinks he should probably feel the same, but his head is still stuck...somewhere. Behind. He’s following, but at a distance.

He wishes everyone would slow down, just a little. Just enough to let him catch up.

There’s so many parts of this that aren’t clicking. He feels like he’s trying to put together a puzzle, but he’s missing all of the edge pieces.

Okay. One thing at a time. If he takes this one thing at a time, maybe it’ll start to make sense.

“What -” A wizard, a trained assassin, and his mentor all turn to look at him. Peter swallows hard, mouth dry, and says, “What the fuck is an ‘empath’.”

It comes out flat, not even like a question.

“An empath, Peter,” Strange says, hands clasped in front of him, “is someone who can feel other people’s emotions. Usually, they can sense anyone’s emotions, but it appears the Infinity Stones have connected the two of you in a way that allows you to feel only each other’s emotions.” Oh. Is that why Peter feels so disconnected from himself?

Hm. It would make sense. Or, well, it wouldn’t, because absolutely none of this makes sense, but. But.

Distantly, Peter registers a hand resting on his wrist. Distantly, he notes that this hand is connected to Tony.

Distantly, he is aware that he should be more aware.

Jesus. He’d kill for a cheeseburger right now.

“Okay.” Peter nods once, then just...keeps nodding. His gaze has settled on a spot on the wall, and he can’t seem to pull it away. “Okay, that’s - that’s fine. It’s fine, right? You’ll fix it, no big deal -”

“Peter, kid, breathe.”

Peter sucks in a deep breath, fingernails digging into his palms. Breathes out, low and slow, through his mouth. Feels no more present than he did ten seconds ago, but at least he’s stopped fucking talking.

Maybe he’ll just stop talking for a while. He’s kind of ready to stop existing for a while.

Actually, no. Been there, done that. Would not recommend, seeing as this is what he came back to.

This is a lot.

He wonders if he’s so overwhelmed because he’s feeling both his own emotions and Tony’s. Probably, he thinks.

Slow down. He needs everything to slow down.

"Pete. Kid, you with me?"

Yes. No. Maybe?

"Not -" Peter's hands clench and unclench on repeat. A broken record. "Uh, not really? I don't - I'm not -"

Not. Not not not. He doesn't know what he's not. The word is starting to lose meaning.

There are only three things he knows for certain right now.

One: Tony is sitting at his side. He is here, because he's meant to be here, because he's always here. And now, Peter supposes, because he has to be here.

Two: Peter is not (not not not), in any sense of the word, okay.

Three: It has been five years, and he has no idea what to do with that.

Maybe the last one should be two things. Whatever.

Two calloused fingers hook under Peter's chin - he doesn't resist as his head is turned to face Tony, doesn't think he'd have it in him to even try. Tony's eyes skirt across his face almost automatically before locking with Peter's, and oh. Right.

Tony's expression is carefully calm, save for how tight of a line his mouth is pressed into. If Peter didn’t know any better, he’d take it at face-value. But he does know better, so the anxiety that’s settled behind Tony’s eyes doesn’t go unnoticed.

Tony is way too good at hiding his emotions to actually let people, even people like Peter, see what’s behind the mask. But while he’s well-practiced at hiding his own emotions, he clearly doesn’t know what to do with Peter’s.

Cloudy with a chance of shared anxiety attacks, Peter thinks to himself, then snorts out loud.

Tony’s brow furrows, the little spot between his eyes crinkling. His fingers tighten around Peter’s wrist. “Peter, buddy. We’ve got to figure this shit out, so I’m gonna need you here with me, alright?”

Right, yes. Things to do, problems to fix, shit to figure out. The usual.

How does he usually bring himself back from this? The dissociation thing isn’t exactly common for him, per se, but...it’s also not uncommon. He has a method for this. A routine. He’s dragged himself out of the dark plenty of times before, he knows how it goes.

He sucks in a deep breath, closing his eyes and pulling his arm out of Tony’s grip. Presses his fingertips together in front of him and tries his best to focus on nothing but the five points where his fingertips meet.

Counts to seven, exhales slowly. Rinses and repeats.

He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, still, but they all stay silent. Peter’s grateful for it. He’s used to doing this by himself.

My name is Peter Parker. I am sixteen years old. I live in Queens, New York with my aunt May. I’m Spider-Man. I’m an Avenger - sort of, at least. Tony Stark is my mentor. Ned Leeds is my best friend. I am alive and safe. Peter opens his eyes and the world is clearer around the edges.

“I’m here,” he says hoarsely, running his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t give his hand back to Tony. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he knows that Tony’s not touchy like he is, can only handle so much at a time. Because he knows that, by now, it’s definitely bordering on too much.

He knows, even though he shouldn’t. Even though it’s not his to know.

Fuck.

It hadn’t hurt. When whatever happened with Tony...happened. He’d felt it, yes - woken up to heavy limbs, a sweat-stained forehead, and a feeling akin to the aftermath of an asthma attack he might have gotten before the bite - but it hadn’t been painful. Just...feverish.

Peter wraps his arms around himself, pulls his knees up to his chest. “Sorry. Sorry, I, uh -”

“What did we say about stupid apologies, Pete?” “Sorry,” Peter says automatically.

Tony snorts, knocks his knee against Peter’s - just half a second of contact before he pulls away again, sobering quickly. “So we can feel each other’s emotions, great. Understood. But what’s with the whole passing out thing? You got an explanation for that, too?”

“Yes,” Strange says. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Not surprised. Spill it, doc.”

Peter almost doesn’t want to know. After all, his life is already a shitshow. He really doesn’t need any more bad news on top of it all.

Supposedly, though, knowledge is power. (They also say ignorance is bliss. Up until now, Peter had thought that was bullshit.)

Strange sighs, and damn, it must be really bad if Strange is this hesitant to tell them. Peter hasn’t known him for long, but seeing as one of the first things he did after they met was look Tony in the eyes and tell him he wouldn’t hesitate to let both of them die, he’s pretty sure Strange isn’t actually all that sympathetic.

He’s proven right when Strange says, bluntly and with absolutely no semblance of warmth, “Your bond has tethered you to each other in a way unlike any other, which means being apart makes you...weak. Gives you symptoms akin to a severe cold, as it seems. Your souls no longer understand that they are two separate entities, so separation, for the time being, is not an option. At least not for longer than a few minutes at a time.”

Tony was right. It’s no fairytale.

This is all horror movie.

Peter’s head is starting to hurt. Anxiety thrums under his skin, a sharp pulse of agitation that feels...different than usual. Not drastically, but just enough to be noticeable.

It doesn’t take long to click.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his index finger.

A brief silence, then, “Yeah, kid?”

“Stop that.”

“I - stop what?”

“That. Freaking out. It’s - it’s annoying, and it’s making my head hurt.”

For a long moment, Tony just stares at him. Opens his mouth like he’s going to speak, then closes it again. Does this exactly four times as he visibly cycles through what Peter deduces as the five stages of grief, then buries his face in his hands and, voice muffled, says, “I’m gonna have a fucking stroke.”

If Tony had a stroke, would that mean Peter would too? Or does this only apply to emotions?

He voices this to Strange, who replies, “As of now, it only applies to emotions. It is possible that, if the bond strengthens, you will begin to share aspects like pain, as well, but I don’t believe the injuries themselves will transfer.”

Well. Small miracles.

“If one of you dies, however, I do believe it will be fatal for the other.”

Okay. Maybe not so miraculous.

“That’s fucking perfect.” Sarcasm drips from Tony’s voice. Peter leans forward until his forehead hits his knees. “Of fucking course it’s fatal. Typical.”

Peter really wishes aspirin actually worked for him.

Even if it did work, would it fix his headache if it’s transferred from Tony?

Details, details.

“So how do we fix it?”

A beat, then, “I don’t know yet.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know yet, Tony,” Strange corrects. It doesn’t make Peter feel better, and it doesn’t seem to help Tony either. “This isn’t exactly precedented. I’ll have to do some research and see what I can dig up.” Without lifting his head, Peter asks, “And what are supposed to do until then?”

There’s actually a hint of sympathy in the look Strange gives him this time. “Get used to seeing a lot of each other. You’re going to be stuck together for a while.”

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“You know,” Natasha says, “you really got the short end of the stick, Parker.”

Strange left just minutes ago with a nod and a flash of orange. For a while, it’d been silent as the news rippled through the room, the three of them processing slowly, but surely.

Peter’s so far behind that it takes him a good ten seconds to even realize Natasha said anything. When he finally does, he glances over at her and all he can see is the remnants of platinum blonde hair resting at her shoulders and the shadows of trauma etched into the corners of her mouth.

(five year five years half the universe I’m sorry Mr. Stark I don’t wanna go)

He looks away.

“I, uh -” Peter scratches at the inside of his left wrist, just hard enough for it to sting. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. “I don’t think I did, Ms. Black Widow, ma’am.”

This knocks a surprised laugh out of Natasha, whose hand comes up to cover her mouth. Peter doesn’t really know what’s funny.

“He really is exactly like you said,” she tells Tony, smile bright in a way that feels so bizarre to Peter, under the circumstances. To Peter, she says, “Tony’s told me a lot about you, Spider-Man. And you can call me Natasha.”

A wave of something like embarrassment washes over Peter, and when he looks at Tony, his face is flushed pink.

“I didn’t even tell you all that much about him, Nat,” Tony mutters, but he’s smiling too.

Because he can, he says, “I assume s’all bad things, Natasha?”

“Oh, so when she tells you to call her Natasha, it’s no problem, but you still refuse to call me Tony?”

“Please ignore Anthony, he gets like this sometimes.”

Natasha laughs harder, shoulders shaking, while Tony lightly swats the back of Peter’s head. “Yeah, no. I’ll take Mr. Stark over Anthony.”

He says his own name with so much disgust in his voice that Peter has to wonder if there’s a story behind it.

Another day.

“Hey -”

Tony’s cut off by another voice.

“Oh my God, Peter.”

Peter’s head shoots up as May Parker comes barreling into the room, eyes bright and hair pulled up in a messy bun. Before he can even wonder if he can handle standing, he’s on his feet and taking the four steps he needs to meet Aunt May in the middle. Pulls her as close as he possibly can and presses his face into her shoulder, just like he did back in Washington DC.

(Things were so much simpler back then.

Strange, seeing as he was fighting his homecoming date’s dad, but, well. Apparently, when you’re a superhero, things can always get more complicated.)

“Peter, baby, I’m so glad you’re alright. Strange came to tell me you were awake, woke me up and scared the shit out of me.” She smells like hotel soap. Peter’s arms tighten around her. “I was so fucking worried.”

“M’okay,” he murmurs, and it’s not quite a lie. He feels, at least, like okay is within reach. Like he could hold okay in the palm of his hand if he just had a better grip (he sticks to walls, not abstract concepts). “Everything’s okay, Aunt May.”

That one’s a lie, full stop. None of this is okay, but he can let her believe it, just for now. Just for a minute.

May steps out of the hug, holds him at arm’s length. She looks him up and down once, twice, three times, before she seems satisfied that he’s not hurt, then drags him back in. Peter smiles into her shoulder.

Two out of three. He’s got two out of three of the people he cares most about back now, which, given his history, is pretty solid odds.

He’s still missing one.

“Have you seen Ned yet? He - shit, did he -”

He doesn’t even know if Ned survived the Snap or not.

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do if Ned did survive. Five years is a long time when you both start out at sixteen but only one of you keeps going.

“I’ve seen him. He’s been by quite a few times, waiting for you to wake up,” May says. “He - he didn’t survive the Snap, Petey. So he’s still sixteen, like you.”

Is it selfish to be relieved?

He doesn’t know which option was better - dying and coming back five years later or actually surviving and having to face those five years with half the universe missing. Hasn’t had enough time to figure it out yet, doesn’t have enough evidence.

The awful haunted look that he’s seen in the eyes of everyone who survived had him leaning toward the former.

“Okay,” Peter says, because it’s all he can say. “Is he here now?”

May finally releases him, but doesn’t move from his side. “Not right now, no. He said he’d be back some time tomorrow, though - or, well, today, I suppose. Or I can call him now, if you want to see him.”

Peter does want to see him, even if it’s just to confirm for himself that all three of his favorite people are okay. Even if it’s just to give him some semblance of normalcy.

Ned always makes things feel normal. Ned always makes him feel safe.

Where he’d be without Ned, he has no idea.

(Dead, probably, if the events of homecoming are anything to go off of.)

He wants to see Ned, but he wants to do it when his brain works right. When he’ll be able to keep up with Ned’s inevitable excitement, despite everything, over the idea that his best friend helped save the world.

Which, he supposes, he did.

“I’ll call him later,” Peter says. May nods understandingly, but then she glances around the room and the soft expression on her face fades quickly. “Wait. What’s wrong?”

Peter had hoped the little bubble of (oh, so blissful) ignorance would hang around a bit longer, but since nothing ever goes his way, said bubble is popped prematurely.

He tunes out the explanation, Tony and Natasha piggybacking off each other to get the full story out. Can’t hear it again or else he thinks he might scream.

When they’re finished, May doesn’t even look surprised. Just tired. Impossibly so.

All she says is, “The universe can never leave the two of you alone, huh?”

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? They saved the universe - all the Avengers did, but when it came down to the wire, it was Tony and Peter, however incidental his own involvement was - and yet, the universe refuses to cut them some slack.

Par for the course, really, and not surprising at all - Parker-Luck mixed with the fact that Tony Stark hasn’t been able to catch a break since 2008? It was always going to be a recipe for disaster.

Maybe the universe thinks it’ll be easier to ruin their lives if it keeps them handcuffed together.

Well. If nothing else, there are worse people to be indefinitely tethered too.

Like Captain America. God, he gets enough of those fucking PSAs at school.

“So what’s been going on?” Tony asks. “How’s the post-resurrection world holding up? How’s the team?”

Peter moves to sit down, taking May’s hand in his as he settles himself on the edge of Tony’s bed. He feels Tony’s fingers graze the back of his neck, a barely-there touch, before dropping to pick at a loose thread in the blanket.

The look on Natasha’s face as she watches them is indecipherable. “The team is fine, Tony. Everyone survived - I mean, everyone but...well, you - you know -”

Peter does not know, but the way Natasha’s gaze drops tells him not to ask.

Peter does not know who is being mourned, and yet grief settles somewhere low in his gut, clutches at his insides and twists them into something virtually unrecognizable.

Natasha clears her throat, but her voice is still hoarse when she says, “As for the rest of the world, things are...rough, to say the least. Bit of a shock, y'know, having half the population suddenly reappear. Not exactly your average Tuesday."

Was the battle actually on a Tuesday or is that just an offhand joke? Peter has no idea what day it is now, much less what day it was when he came back to life (is this the type of thing he gets bragging rights for? Oh, sure, you time travelled, but I died and came back to life. Too soon, he thinks, for now. Possibly forever.). He doesn't know what the date is, either, only the year.

2023. Peter never got to ring in the new decade.

Rabbit hole. Abort.

Natasha is still talking. Peter kind of can't believe he's even in the same room as her.

"Everyone knows what you did, Tony." Her index finger catches in her hair, twisting around a lock of it and tugging just a little. "None of the Avengers have said much yet, we wanted to wait until you woke up, but people won't shut up about you."

"And so the world is as it should be," Tony quips, but his smile is strained.

Rolling her eyes, she says, "I almost broke the team's unspoken vow of silence just to tell people to stop painting murals of you. Your head's big enough as is."

"'Me' as in Iron Man or 'me' as in Tony Stark?"

They're the same person, Peter thinks, confused.

"Both," Natasha replies.

May squeezes his hand, fingers laced between his, and Peter glances up at her. She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and mouths, Are you okay?

He wonders if he's supposed to lie. Smile and nod and say he's fine so she'll worry less.

Who is he kidding? May doesn't have any concept of worrying less.

Instead, he just squeezes her hand two times in quick succession - no, but I will be. An old code he hasn't used in years.

Two squeezes means he can handle it. Three squeezes means he needs help. Worked a lot better than trying to get him to talk when he was a kid.

For a moment, he worries that May won’t remember. But she doesn’t press any further, so she must understand.

"We have to say something now, don't we?" Tony sighs, and not for the first time since coming back to life, Peter's eyes catch on his graying hair. "Hold a press conference or something?"

"We don't have to do anything until you’re ready," Natasha says, and somehow it sounds sincere and completely untrue at the same time.

They're the Avengers. The world doesn't care if they're ready.

"You know," Tony says pensively, "this could be the perfect opportunity."

He's looking at Peter, a smirk playing across his lips despite the tiredness in his eyes and the sallowness of his cheeks. Peter lets go of May's hand, crosses an arm over his chest to rub at the opposite shoulder, asks, "Opportunity for what?"

In true Tony Stark fashion, he waits just a beat, smirk widening, as if there's an actual audience already and he's pausing for dramatic effect. Then, "To introduce Spider-Man as the newest member of the Avengers."

"That was for real?" Peter's voice comes out way louder and way more high-pitched than he expects. He sees Tony flinch and immediately tones it down. "You mean - when you said I was an Avenger now, when we were in space, you were serious?"

It's a bit of a jump, going from dreary to excited, but he lands shakily on exuberant, tucks and rolls through delighted, and finally stands straight on enthusiastic.

"Jesus, kid, you're gonna give me whiplash." Tony's fingers find his temples, and Peter knows he's feeling a headache similar to the one Peter had earlier.

Peter winces in sympathy. "Sorry."

Tony shakes his head, one hand carding through his hair. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just - don't get so excited, Pete, being an Avenger isn't all that."

"Oh, come on, Mr. Stark, just because I said I wanted to stay close to the ground last time doesn't mean the offer's not still really fucking cool."

"If you say so, Underoos."

"I do say so."

May is laughing at them. She's snickering into her hand, and by the looks of it, Natasha is close to joining her.

Tony flips both of them off, which only makes May laugh harder and Natasha finally break. Around her laughter, May says, "Sorry, sorry, you guys just - you guys are cute. I didn’t - I guess I forgot how close you two are for a second.”

“About to get a lot closer now, huh?” comes tumbling out of Peter’s mouth before he can think better of it.

It does not land well. Everyone just stares at him, and the look on Tony’s face screams, Not funny, kid.

After a long stretch of awkward silence, May pipes up as if nothing was even said. “So this means Peter has to stay with you, yeah? At the compound?” “Oh, I don’t actually -” Tony stops, eyes the two of them for a long moment, clearly contemplating something unknown to Peter, then says instead, “Yeah, I guess he does. You’ll come too, of course.” “Of course,” May and Peter say simultaneously.

Tony nods, satisfied. “We’ll set up a press conference for tomorrow, then, and figure the living situation out after that. And then…then I guess we wait for Strange to fix this. All we can do, really.”

“Wonderful,” Peter mutters.

And so begins the waiting game.

It’s a shitty game. It has no rules and no one knows where the finish line is.

Peter hates the waiting game.

But so far, being a superhero has been all about doing things he hates. The waiting game can’t possibly be much worse.

Right?

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anonthenullifier · 5 years

Note

You see all I wanted from infinity war/endgame was Vision and Nebula meeting up and being friends. But she doesn’t know that he’s always been a sythezoid, so she’s kinda like ��shit, what happened to you??” And Vizh kinda just “???” But marvel’s too cowardly to do anything fun, so could I please request a fic based loosely on that?

That would have been lovely! I’ve never written Nebula before, so I hope she’s in character here, and I hope you don’t mind a bit of Scarlet Vision at the beginning and the fact that I am just going to willfully ignore canon for this story. :D

A cozy, soothing rightness curls through his synthetic veins as he takes in the emerald wisps in the distance. His heart beats faster at the shimmering points of light deep inside the structure, understanding that each one may one day (in many billions of years) host a system teeming with conscious thought. He is awestruck at how so many elements all came together to form the majesty before him. There is also a part of his mind, one that rarely feels present, that sings with the knowledge of being home, back among the particles and the atoms which were birthed in creation.

“It’s beautiful.” Her voice brims with wonder, eyes wide and smitten, her fingers still laced with his, as they have been since the ship first arrived unannounced on the lawn of the compound. Through all of the conversations, all the planning, all the awkward introductions and stumbles of two teams attempting to work together, he knows Wanda’s attention, like his own, has rarely strayed from the panoramic windows of the ship.

“It is.”

Wanda tugs him closer, their hips meeting and trapping their joined hands, allowing her to lay her head along his bicep. “Do you know what it is?”

The simple answer, and likely all she is asking, is that they appear to be inspecting a nebula. Yet he has been attempting to discern the exact nature of the structure outside (one he knows is not nearly as close at is seems). There are numerous large, billowy clouds clustered together to form the overall shape which is, if he squints, reminiscent of a seahorse. “I believe it is a conglomeration of giant molecular clouds.” Wanda’s huh is accepting of the response without actually tucking the information away, the same sound she makes any time he has provided an answer that isn’t really an answer to someone without a deep knowledge of the topic. “This nebula is likely a stellar nursery.”

Her mouth curves into a waxing crescent, “That’s amazing.” Her joy is celestial, filling his chest with the appropriateness of experiencing this with her, of all people. “So, uh, what do you think…of all this?”

The mission, from what he gathered in the hotly debated group meeting, concerns thwarting an attempt to retrieve an ancient and powerful artifact, some confusion still remaining as to the actual artifact as well as why and how the Guardians of the Galaxy (or so their apparent captain - though there was debate on this as well - introduced them as) came to call on the Avengers. “I am uncertain what is happening due to the ill-defined plan we have been given.”

“Glad I’m not alone.” Wanda’s snigger is delighted yet empathetically annoyed. “What do you think of all of them?”

It’s a big question, one he has contemplated briefly, yet he isn’t sure if deep thought is needed to describe the way he feels, his emotions blindingly bright on the topic. Yet he gives it a moment’s thought before answering. Earlier at the meeting, there was a green skinned woman seated across from him, her eyes serious and mouth in a perennial frown throughout the debate. Next to her was a bulky man with straightforward, un-nuanced opinions that contrasted sharply with the intricate crimson markings inlaid in his skin. To Vision’s right was a woman with antennae, her mouth in a constant joyful curve, and to his left (well, Wanda’s immediate left) was a foul-mouthed tree and an even fouler-mouthed raccoon. The assortment was dizzying, only one truly normative human amongst them, and for the first time in his relatively brief existence Vision felt oddly…normal. Not a single individual on the ship stared at him askew, veered from his handshake, or whispered behind his back. Even on his own team he has never been treated in such a casual, unperturbed nature. It’s nice. “They seem passionate, well-trained, a bit disorganized, but accepting.” Well, mostly, during the meeting his eyes would wander to the far right of the gathering, to a face that was framed by the shoulders of Steve and Sam, to the unerring stare of the cybernetic woman who said all of four words the entire debate. That is not enough to sway his emotional assessment, however. “I am comfortable here.”

“Good,” she squeezes his hand while laying a kiss to his arm, “they’re a lot louder than our team.”

“Oh yes, most assuredly.”

Another hug from her fingers and she yawns, stifling it against the fabric of his uniform, her breath hot on his skin. “Alright, today’s been overwhelming so I’m going to sleep. You coming?”

Any other night he would say yes, but the expanse of space calls out to him, demanding just a little more time. “I believe I may remain here a bit longer and then I shall join you.”

“Okay,” Wanda rises up onto her toes, a cloud of scarlet, shimmering in unison with the nebula outside, engulfs his face, turning his head down and to the right so she can kiss him. “Good night, Vizh.”

“Sleep well, Wanda.”

Once she is gone, Vision tries to enjoy the solitude and silence of eternal night, except it is difficult to do when not truly alone. He waits precisely five minutes, forty-five seconds, and fifteen milliseconds before acknowledging the shadow that’s been watching him since the teams dispersed earlier in the evening (well they called it evening despite a lack of demarcation between day and night). “Are you intending to speak with me at any point?”

“Calm down,” the woman’s voice is monotone, which usually implies emotionlessness, yet he can sense a seething rage in each syllable, “didn’t want to interrupt your little moment.” A layer of disgust coats the last two words.

“I appreciate that.” She rolls her eyes and he finds himself at a loss for how to continue…well, more at how to begin. When they arrived on the ship, she was not present, at some point between introductions and the first aggravated groan of the meeting, she slinked in unannounced and relatively unnoticed, the only signs of recognition by anyone were some of the surprised eyes of his own teammates at her blue and purple skin and the unmitigated view of her metal parts. It means they have not truly met and that seems an appropriate place to start. “I am Vision,” he turns towards her and holds out his hand.

“Yeah, I know,” the complete disregard for the information is more effective at slapping his hand away than if she had physically done so, “so,” her eyes scan his body with a detached, almost scientific interest, “what happened to you?”

“I, um, do not follow.”

Her face is unimpressed by his lack of comprehension. “Had to have gotten into some deep shit for,” she waves her metal hand at him, “all this.”

This is a line of postulation he has not encountered concerning his appearance, the majority of people usually ask if the stone in his head is a way to turn him off (or on and then they laugh and run away). “I was created in a laboratory.”

“Well, that’s boring.”

For some reason the dismissal stings and he finds himself sharing the more dramatic details of his birth before he can reason through why he is doing it, “In which a rogue sentient robot controlled the mind of a renowned geneticist and forced her to create my body as a new form to occupy.”

A small, frightening smirk forms on the woman’s lips, “Now we’re talking.”

Vision nods slowly, confirming they are, in fact, speaking, “During the process, Wanda, who was, well, aiding Ultron-”

“Ultron the psychopathic robot?”

“I- yes, he is,” Nebula nods, a hint of pride on her face at connecting the dots of his story. “Wanda realized Ultron’s plan and freed the geneticist from the mind control, and then the Avengers captured the cradle my body was in and they finished bringing me to life, without Ultron’s influence.”

The woman accepts the information and doesn’t press for more, so he joins her in staring out the windows at the peacefulness of space. Then she speaks and the conversation veers in a direction he did not anticipate, one with a concerning level of hopeful curiosity. “Did you kill him?”

“I-” he thinks back to the forest and the regret he felt even though he knew it was the right thing to do, “I did, yes.”

“Nice. That’s my dream,” she doesn’t turn to look at him, the air around them chilling as she seems to dissociate from their conversation and slip into a wholly different mindset, “to murder the man who did this to me.”

The uniqueness of the conversation begins to take shape, the similarities of their appearance maps onto his deep understanding of the desire to find a kindred spirit. “Who-”

One word, one sign of interest is enough to catapult her into what seems a well-rehearsed monologue. “My father. When I was a child, he conquered Luphom, killed half the population, took me under his wing.” Vision’s lips fall at the decidingly unfatherly actions. “Every time I failed him he replaced more of my body, enhanced me, he’d say, usually without knocking me out, wanted me to know exactly what he was doing to me.” As subtly as possible, his eyes pinpoint every part of her visible body that is cybernetic, his stomach looping itself into knots at the innumerable lines along her face and at the fully metal arm, “This one was me,” she cocks her arm like a rifle, a wicked sneer on her face, “chopped it off to escape my sister.”

“Your family sounds,” he pauses, seeking out the appropriate word, his own experience with family abnormal, but not in a way that would encourage him to dismember himself, “complicated.”

She snorts, “Aren’t all families?” and the combination of the sound with the casualness of her words is alarming.

“I do not believe it is statically possible for every family to have such serious complications.”

Whatever humor she had in the situation vanishes, the shared ground between them crumbling with the purse of her lips. “You got a cape, assume you can fly?”

“Yes.”

Her chin dips with the victory of her deductive reasoning. “What else can you do?”

The breadth of his powers is vast, yet he believes he can boil it down to a small list, though hopefully she does not wish for a conversation on why he can perform the feats he can because he has not yet deciphered the best explanation. Vision begins with the most obvious enhancement. “Not only is my body laced with vibranium, but so are my cells. This makes me nigh indestructible and—” suddenly a leg cuts through the air, sliding diagonally from his right clavicle down to his left hip as his density drops, her foot connecting with the floor in a deafening thud.

“Fascinating.”

Vision’s sympathetic system activates as he turns to follow the shark-like circling of the woman as she takes in his now solid body, even reaching out to experimentally nudge his shoulder. Despite his body’s response, he does not currently believe he is in any real danger, no clear signs of a legitimate threat present in her posture or on her face. “I am able to shift my density, which also allows me to phase through solid objects.” To demonstrate, he reduces the density of his legs and drops down until the floor is at his knees. He returns to his full height, feet solidly on the floor, only after she acknowledges the action with a guttural hmm.

“Can you take the density the other way?”

“Yes,” and he does, shifting his molecules until his skin resembles the sheen and cut of diamonds.

She studies his skin, stepping closer to poke it again, this level of closeness one he never encourages or enjoys from anyone other than Wanda, but he worries if he flinches or pulls away it will demolish the tenuous sense of camaraderie and relative absence of judgment from the woman. This seems a decent plan until she winds back and punches him in the face, the force of which actually moves his jaw a quarter of a millimeter. Vision immediately steps back, creating what he hopes is a chasm of acceptable but not offensive social distance. The woman doesn’t seem to notice or much care, cracking her knuckles with a barely perceptible grin on her face, “I’m jealous.”

Now the attention is stifling and so Vision seeks to deflect it. “What do your,” he tries to conjure up a word or phrase that is descriptive without being offensive to her abusive upbringing, “cybernetic adaptations provide?”

“Super strength, durability, and rapid healing.” Vision watches as she takes three steps back, spine straightening, chin slightly aloft while her arms hang down and her hands are held out just to the sides of her hips. “Give it a try.”

He’s seen Natasha in the same stance, even down to the subtle quirk of her lip that says do your worst. Unlike in training, however, he doesn’t have to engage, instead he decides to double down on what his teammates call his otherworldly aloofness to parry the suggestion. “I am uncertain I follow.”

“Come on.” The flick of her fingers tries to entice him. It fails, his body remaining a respectable distance. “Just one punch, lab boy, see who’s really stronger.”

There is, to him at least, absolutely no reason to establish any dominance hierarchy based on strength, which is precisely what her tone and continued stare imply she wishes to construct. “I would rather not.”

Disappoint slips into her irate, “Coward.”

Perhaps he is, though he disagrees with the assessment given his past behaviors in battles. “I believe I may retire for the eve—”

“Arm wrestling?”

The question is a smidgen desperate, something he finds surprising, yet it does cause him to contemplate the suggestion and weigh all possible outcomes of accepting the offer. “I suppose that would be an acceptably nonviolent test of our strength.”

“Good.” He follows her to the dining table located towards the back of the main room and watches with interest as she clears a space for them, shoving cups and plates and vid screens without caring when something falls. “Right or left?”

“I am ambidextrous.” This is accepted with a sharp smile, the woman choosing her seat and placing her mechanical elbow on the table, hand held aloft, fingers open and inviting. Vision settles uneasily into the other chair, rotating his torso fifteen degrees to bring his left elbow to the cool, metal table. “Are there rules?” The question is asked as he places his hand in her own, the feel of her prosthetic on his skin a fascinating texture in comparison to other hands he has held.

The woman flexes her fingers, rearranging her body to get a better grip. “No external weapons,” a fair rule, “that’s it.”

“What about-” Vision feels his arm begin to give out as the woman unexpectedly starts, attempting to use surprise to her advantage, but he recalibrates his muscles within a quarter second, flexing his bicep to bring their hands back to the starting position. “That was unsportsmanlike.”

“Oh, boohoo,” she snarls at the lost ground, eyes locked on their hands as she struggles to push his arm.

This is not his maiden voyage in arm wrestling, in fact, one of the first team bonding activities they did in his life was such a competition. Captain Rogers alone gave him pause in his dominance, though even then he tried not to use the strength inherit in his full density for fear of harming his teammates. This woman surprises him, on comparable footing to Captain Rogers, but she has a slight advantage in ruthlessness as he’s fairly certain a screw or two is being shoved into the skin between his thumb and index finger. Vision increases his density slightly to counteract the questionable use of technically-not-external-weapons and manages to drop her hand an inch and a half closer to the tabletop.

“Come on,” her voice is strained, teeth clenched while she strives to regain her position, “that all you got?”

Vision likes to think of himself as above the human need to win, yet Wanda is typically the first to point out his sourness in losing at games, including this one, the woman’s words egging him on despite knowing he should remain unmoved by the taunt. He increases his density a fraction more, pushing her hand down farther and that’s when she screams and he sees her humerus fracture. Panic floods his mind, body, and voice at the same time. “Oh, oh no, I will go get aid immediately.”

But she doesn’t let go of his hand as he tries to leave, doesn’t cry or wince as she stares hard at him, a sickening snap coming from her body as her bone shifts back into place. With his attention frazzled, she thrusts his wrist down in a swift arc, slamming the back of his hand to the table. “Gotcha.”

A sadistic chuckle echoes around him as his parasympathetic system kicks in, breathing beginning to settle and the adrenaline leaving his cells, his mind whirring in an attempt to reconcile all that happened. Vision isn’t certain how to proceed, simply stating, “That was also unsportsmanlike.”

Her nose scrunches in disagreement, “You used your density manipulation, I,” she holds out her arm and winces as she replays the maneuver, her gaze locked on his as she reconnects her artificial bone, “heal very quickly. Comes in handy from time to time.”

“That must, um, be quite useful.” And manipulative in non-dire situations, yet with the family environment she has informed him of, perhaps it is an adaptive survival technique.

She takes his compliment with a satisfied smirk, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “Not bad for a couple of scrap heaps.”

Self-deprecating humor is something he himself has toyed with, an outlet for acknowledging his deep insecurities without alarming others. He tries hard not to use it, knowing how easily it can tip into a spiral of self-doubt. Given his own perceptions of his inhuman physique, it’s not surprising to find this woman has mastered it and even though he chuckles politely, his mind also rushes through the various ways to counter the lighthearted dehumanization. “Are you familiar with Gestaltism?”

“No,” she levels a serious gaze at him, “but I hope you’re about to tell me about disemboweling enemies.”

Thankfully he is not, nor is he willing to enter into that branch of conversation. “It posits that in the process of perceiving a stimulus, the whole is considered something other than, and distinct from, the parts that make it up. In fact—”

She stands, the sound of her chair scraping against the ground effectively silencing him. “This is boring.”

“My apologies.”

“The angry woodland creature would be better to discuss parts and wholes with,” an impish, knowing slant forms on her mouth, “though I don’t think you’ll agree with his philosophy.”

Vision isn’t sure which shipmate is the angry woodland creature, given both the tree and raccoon were snarky during the meeting. “I will do so, thank you.”

With a curt nod she turns to leave, takes four steps, hunches her shoulders, swivels to face him, stomps the four paces back and thrusts her mechanical hand out. “I’m Nebula.”

Vision shakes her hand like Steve taught him, firm yet friendly. “Vis—”

“I know.” Before the words are out of her mouth, her hand is gone from his, back at her side, fingers flexing in discomfort. “You’d be more formidable if you talked less.”

“I will process your constructive feedback.”

This time her snort isn’t alarming and might even be a bit friendly. “Good night.”

“Good night.” He remains at the table for several more minutes, face turned towards the windows of the ship. The conglomeration of gases, clouds, and stars still swirl together, forming a whole object of wonder, one that has explanations, yet still remains a relative mystery. Nebula, he reasons, seems a very fitting name.

#nebula #the vision #vision #scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #ask anon #replies #mine #mcu #marvel #thanks for the ask!

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