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takeabitetoremember · 5 years

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Stay With Me (Part 12)

“Shhhhhhh, there, there… just lay here with me, Mallory”, his words like silk, making her heartbeat faster as his arms envelop her, pulling in her in closer to him; wanting her to feel the safety he knows she’s so desperately seeking now.

Trembling as his strong hands begin to slowly begin to caress her bare arms, such an innocent act, that’s meant to be of comfort, is doing anything but. Right now, Mallory feels as if she could crawl right out of her skin. The slight touch of Michael’s fingertips grazing against her bare flesh as his strong arms hold her is enough to set her body on fire. The combination of what is now, and what was in her dream has her heart beating faster, and faster. It’s only when he shifts ever so slightly, that she can no longer take any more.

“Are you cold my love?” whispering, his full lips grazing against her ear, leaning down to pull up the covers around them, shifting ever so slightly so that when he covers her, keeping her petite body right against his, she’ll be able to feel his erection that has in no way waned from their earlier slumber.

Mallory, at this point, unable to even speak, not even able to reply with a nod, just clinging to Michael, afraid if she opens her mouth, she’s going to say something she’ll regret. In fact, she knows she’ll say something she’s going to regret. She just doesn’t know how much longer she can fight it. He’s not doing anything right now she didn’t ask him to. SHE was one the one who was the crying mess crawling over into his arms, begging him to hold her. He’s been a perfect gentleman thus far. He’s held her lovingly in his arms and made sure she was warm and safe. Biting her lip, still trembling, without thinking, she makes a bold move, at least for her.

Looking up with her beautiful eyes, that once melted his heart, and now, can find what is left of it, begins to speak before she even realizes what she’s doing, “Michael, when you were asleep, and holding me. What were you dreaming about?”

Unable to believe that she really asked that, and part of her not really wanting to know the truth. Laying in his arms, knowing even though he’s shown interest in her since he arrived, that doesn’t mean he’s not some kind of sick sadist. She doesn’t exactly know what kind of people the Cooperative are, well aside from Venable and Mrs. Mead and neither have seemed to look at her in a favorable light. This could all very well be a horrible trick to hurt her.

Running his fingers through her long brown hair, her heart racing as his fingers so delicately tilt her head so that he can look into her eyes as he replies.

“Do you really want to know, Mallory?” Pausing thoughtfully for a moment, not expecting an answer, moving his hand down, caressing the tender flesh of her neck, moving down her chest, stopping at the top of her gown. Leaning over, his lips dangerously close to hers, touching as he spoke each word.

“I was dreaming about you.”

Mallory’s heart began to beat faster, swallowing hard, there was no denying what his words did to her, feeling embarrassed, her nipples were painfully erect against the thin material of her gown. The grip of her small fingers tightened on his back, and she hadn’t heard a detail one.

“You know dear Mallory, the Cooperative had tasked me with not only finding those suitable of going to the Sanctuary, but those suitable for human reproduction as I spoke of when I arrived. I’ve been to all nine outposts, and until I arrived here, I’d lost hope of finding a mate. Of finding anyone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Of finding anyone I wanted to carry my seed. Until you. You want to know what I was dreaming about Mallory? I was dreaming about making love to you. Unapologetically. I was dreaming about making sure you were carrying my seed, my beautiful angel. Oh, and was it ever a delicious dream.”

Rubbing her legs together, almost grinding against Michael as he spoke, whimpering so softly, realizing she’d completely missed his entire speech when he arrived; all she could think about was that the man the from her dreams was real- he was here. She never heard a word he said, not until the very end. Biting her lip and panting, by this point, if it hadn’t been for Michael saying he wouldn’t touch her until she asked him to, she’d be crying because he hadn’t taken her already.

“Mich… Michael…” her voice so soft and shaky, “Michael, do…. Do you want to, uh. Do you want us to have a baby? I mean, am I the one you want?”

Mallory’s soft hands pawing at his chest, looking up into his eyes innocently, reminding him of days gone by. He was the one who was the aggressor, and she his submissive angel. His reply was simple.

“Take off your gown,”

Sitting up, untying the ribbon, unlacing the top slightly, letting the straps fall off of her shoulders, exposing her breasts to him. Her small hand reaching out, taking his much larger into hers, moving it onto her right breast. Biting her lip, trembling, her chest visibly rising and falling as his large hand touches her bare breast for the “first time”. Propping himself up on his other elbow, cocking his head to look at Mallory. Watching her every move as his hand slowly begins to caress the mound. It’s only when he captures her sensitive nipple between his thumb and finger, rolling and pulling on it that she begins to whimper, arching her back and pushing closer to him.

Smirking, almost laughing at how quickly she’s gone from being ashamed to so needy, giving the pink pebble between his fingers a slight tug, eliciting yet another needy whimper from Mallory’s perfect lips.

“If you’d like these sucked my dear, then follow instructions”, Michael’s eyes moving from hers down to the gown pooled around her waist, then back up to her eyes, giving her entire breast another firm squeeze to bring his point home.

In her attempt to be alluring and sexy, she completely forgot to take the rest of her gown off. It takes a moment to register. Her hand covers her parted lips as she begins to blush, embarrassed that in such a desperate state of arousal, she forgot all about what she’d been instructed to do. Laying down beside of Michael, trying not to look as desperate as she feels, slipping the gown the rest of the way down her body, letting it fall off the side of the bed. Turning to face Michael, her heart racing as a shy smile crosses her face.

“Is this better?”

Looking at Mallory as if he were a predator circling his prey, moving in closer, pulling her body right up against his, whispering against her lips, “Much”, before they close in, claiming them.

At this point, Mallory has reached the point of no return. She’s laying in a bed, completely naked, vulnerable, confused, but feeling comfort as Michael’s strong arms hold her against his warm body. His lips taste like the most expensive wine she’s ever tasted, and tonight, she wants to get drunker than she’s ever been. Feeling his erection grinding against her through his pajama bottoms just makes her paw at him more, and it’s a feeling he loves; her small fingers digging into his back and shoulders as they kiss feverishly, while she grinds involuntarily against his erection. Oh, how he loves her neediness. She hasn’t changed at all. His sweet Mallory needs his just as much as she always did. She was the one good thing in his life that made him feel needed. She made him feel loved, and never more so than when he was inside of her.

Kissing his way down her neck, moving to capture her right nipple between his lips, Mallory begins to tremble. Running her fingers through his long strawberry blonde hair, panting as his tongue flicks over the painfully erect pebble in his mouth.

“Michael”, panting arching her back slightly grinding against his leg, feeling the slickness coating it, giving her nipple a tug with his teeth, making her whimper.

“Spread your legs, Mallory.”

Spreading her legs, absolutely no hesitation this time, doing exactly as he asks, although, apparently not wide enough, as his hands push them wider, trembling, as he grabs her throat, holding it firmly, his tongue assaulting her mouth once more, unable to hide his absolute delight and arousal from the power he holds over her. Forgetting himself, reverting to teenage Michael, taking two fingers, pushing them deep into Mallory, groaning into her mouth at how tight she is. Thrilled. Knowing she’s still his pure angel. No one else has touched what’s his. He’s the only man whose been inside of her and will ever be inside of her. This he’s sure of.

“So tight”, kissing his way down to her left breast leaving bite marks all along the way, sucking her left nipple hungrily, greedily as his fingers begin to move in and out of her harder. Spreading her legs wider now, on her own, a familiar feeling begins to spread through her body, a feeling of warmth, a feeling of deep pleasure; holding Michael’s head against her breast, she begins pushing herself back against his fingers, whimpering.

“Michael, ohhhhhhhh, God, Michael…. Please. Michael, don’t stop, please…” whimpering, her body trembling.

Proud of himself, Michael’s fingers drive it home, fingering Mallory hard, rubbing her g-spot with every penetration. The extra ministration he gave to her nipples pushed her over the top, just the way it always had.

“Michael, ohhhhhh, Michael… Michael!” screaming, gripping onto his arm, pulling him up, desperate to feel his lips against hers, whimpering and trembling, as she tries her best to kiss him. Her spasming cunt clenching his big fingers so hard he can barely finger her, she’s soaked, and more needy than he’s ever seen her.

He doesn’t stop.

“Michael..” whimpering, feeling her body becoming sensitive as he keeps on, hearing how wet she is, knowing he’s going to force her to have yet another orgasm. She’s going to have to fully submit before he’s inside of her, especially since she doesn’t remember who she is, yet.

Gripping onto his shoulders, panting, whimpering, her jaw trembling as he looks down into her eyes. This is exactly what he wants. He wants her to look at him. He wants to see the deliciously helpless look on her face, the beautiful tears as she screams out his name as coats his fingers with all of her juices.

Feeling his fingers pounding into her, rubbing that sweet spot once more. Already over-sensitive, feeling like she’s going to crawl right out of her body, arching her back, digging her nails into Michael’s shoulders, begging him, pleading. At this point, she’d almost sell her soul to his father for relief.

“Michael, Michael please…. Please…” begging, tears streaming down her beautiful porcelain cheeks.

Smiling at her, his fingers never relent. “Yes, my darling, coat my fingers. Coat them, and then, you’ll coat my cock like a good girl, won’t you?”

“Michael….” grabbing hard onto his shoulders screaming so loudly that indeed, it can be heard echoing through the halls. If a memo hadn’t been sent out someone very well might have thought Mallory were being either pleasured in the most delicious manner, or being dismembered, either way, they were sure not to be disturbed.

So pleased feeling the sweet walls of his angel spasming around his fingers, and her sweet juices leaking out of her making him groan.

“Such a good girl”, leaning over kissing her cheek, kissing away the tears, sitting back, slowly withdrawing his fingers from her. Looking at her as he holds them up, looking at them in the candle light.

“Such a wet, wet girl you are Mallory”, licking both fingers clean, making her blush. It’s not until he takes off his pajama bottoms that her heart begins to skip a beat. She could feel him against her as they kissed, but being able to see him, the actual size of Michael’s full erection was a lot to take in- literally and figuratively.

Michael took notice of Mallory’s widening eyes, as if this were the first time she’d seen him, remembering back to when he took her virginity. It hurt her, but it was a release of pain for both of them, a good kind of pain. If this hurts Mallory at all, he hopes it will be a good pain. Spreading her legs wide once more, laying against her, feeling her trembling, holding her for a moment.

“Don’t be afraid, Mallory. I won’t hurt you”, sensing her rising anxiety that after he sex with her he’ll leave her. “You are my chosen one, Mallory. You are my wife”, touching her face, rubbing against her, not yet penetrating her, wanting the act of lovemaking to be at her discretion.

“You are my chosen one Mallory. You are my wife.” Those words keep repeating in Mallory’s head. She can hear the young Michael calling her his wife before they made love. She can see it. She can hear the young Mallory calling Michael her husband before they made love. She can see it. She’s on the verge of a panic attack. Her heart is beating out of her chest, holding onto Michael not realizing that he’s able to read her every thought, feel her every feeling.

“You were my wife then, Mallory. You are my wife now. You will be my wife for time, and all eternity, Mallory. I’ve searched this world for you for so long, and I’ll explain everything, but right now, I need you, Mallory.”

She’s not crazy. The dreams. They weren’t just dreams. They were flashbacks. She remembered him. He was her husband. He IS her husband.

Tears begin to stream down her cheeks once more, no longer shaking, no apprehension. No fear. “Michael, my… my Michael, I…I need you. Make love to me, Michael.”

That was all he needed to hear. Lining himself up, slowly pushing in, moaning as he leaned down, pressing his lips against Mallory’s. The reuniting of their bodies and souls made all of the flames in the outpost shoot high, terrifying everyone. Her hands gripped so tightly onto his shoulders, terrified if she let go, he would disappear. He memorized every curve of her neck, the way her face looked with each thrust, the way she felt around him, how she wrapped her legs around his waist, wanting to keep him inside when he would thrust especially deep. Whether or not she realized it, her body realized how badly she wanted another baby. After so long apart, Michael wasn’t able to last as long as he’d hoped inside of the warmth of his angel. This wasn’t a problem for Mallory. Her arms were clinging to him, kissing him hungrily, moaning against his mouth as she felt his seed deep inside of her. She kept her legs wrapped tightly around him, wanting to keep him inside of her as long as possible, hating the feeling of when they have to become two separate people again.

“Michael…. I… I love you, Michael… I… remember a little, but I remember I love you, and I remember I’m your wife. That’s all that matters”, clinging to him so tightly, knowing there’s a lot to talk about, but for now, content to be held by her husband.

“I love you, Mallory. You are my wife, my angel. I promise you, I will tell you everything. Nothing will be kept from you, despite with your family tried to do. No one will keep us apart, ever again.”

Feeling Michael beginning to soften, panic setting in just like it always did when he would slip out of her, seeing her face, moving over onto his back, pulling her over onto his chest, wrapping his arms around her lovingly, possessively.

“Michael, did you know I was here from the beginning? I mean, you said that you mentioned something about the Cooperative needing people to reproduce and all that stuff. Are they needing other people, for real? Like actual other couples? Or did you just actually need a partner? Like, they were making you find a partner?”

“Oh, my sweet angel. There has been no one but you, and there would never be anyone but you. Ever. They do want other couples. I’m looking at Timothy and Emily as potential candidates. You are my only candidate. They’ll be pleased to know that we’re working on our baby. Perhaps, we’ve already made ours.”

Smiling up at Michael, rubbing his chest, interlocking her fingers with his, seeing his rings, she remembers: rings.

“Michael, I wonder what happened to our wedding bands? Do you know? I’d give anything to have mine back, again. I can’t remember what happened to it. I know I had one. It was from a jewelry box in the house. There are bits and pieces of things I remember. They’re fuzzy. I’ve remembered most things from dreams or things that come as little flashes here and there.”

Unbeknownst to Michael or Mallory, Timothy and Emily were trying to sneak away and find some privacy of their own. They found a room that wasn’t in use, and didn’t look like it had been in use since the outpost had been opened. Excited seeing a larger bed, in their haste to light an extra candle, they knocked a box off the desk in the room. Hurriedly gathering up the contents, sitting on the bed, trying to put them back in as best they could, that is, until they realized what was in the box.

“Shit, Timothy! Make sure no one is coming. We’re gonna be in a lot of trouble for this!” sitting on the bed, holding up the t-shirt, looking at it puzzled, folding it back up as best she could, placing the small diamond ring atop it.

After looking both ways out in the hall, and shutting the door, walking over to Emily, sitting on the other side of her on the bed.

“What’s the big deal? This just looks like some junk that belonged to someone before the world ended.”

“Yeah, it did. You know what’s really scary. Is who it belonged it. Look at these pictures”, flipping through the small photo album that had fallen out, trying her best to figure out where the pictures that had fallen out belonged.

Leaning over Emily’s shoulder, looking at the album with her, “This looks like…”

“Yeah, it looks like Langdon, but who’s the girl?” Emily flipped through the pictures, thinking the face looked vaguely familiar, it wasn’t until she came to the handwritten letter that fell out of the back that she knew exactly who it was in the pictures.

“Mallory, this man is your husband. His name is Michael Langdon. He lives in Los Angeles, California. The two of you lived there together, very happily. You were pregnant with his child. At around 13 weeks you had a miscarriage at home. Your baby was a little girl. You loved Michael more than life itself. He made you happier than you’d ever been in your life, and he loved you more than anything. These are pictures of you and Michael in your home together. You wrote this letter on the morning of October 18th, 2015. You were taken away from him. You did NOT leave him by your own choosing. You don’t remember this, but you didn’t. He loved you more than his next breath of air. Never forget how much you love this man. His is your true love for time and all eternity, not even death will part us.”

Emily’s hand began to tremble as she read the letter. Tears welled in her eyes, thinking how horrible this must’ve been for Mallory, she can’t begin to imagine what happened. Looking at the top of the box, there’s a note taped to it: “Deliver to Behold, from Cordelia do not return to the coven under any circumstances. Information you requested is enclosed.”

“Timothy, it’s Mallory. The girl. The girl in these pictures is Mallory, and boy is Langdon, only Mallory doesn’t know who she is now.”

“What? This is crazy! No. Emily, that’s impossible.”

“Over a year ago, we would’ve said ending up where we are is impossible but look at our circumstances. What if Venable is in on this? She HATES Mallory? What if SHE is this Cordelia woman or Mrs. Mead? Did Mrs. Mead ever say what her first name was anyway?”

“We need to put all of the things back together as best we can in this box and take it to Langdon tomorrow. He seems like he’s high up in the Cooperative, and maybe this will get us in his good graces to get us to the sanctuary. Especially since this seems like something that was really sentimental to Mallory. We just can’t get caught with it between now and then.”

Timothy checks the halls before they both exit the room, Emily hiding the box beneath her dress as she hurriedly runs to her room, shoving it under her bed, covering it with a nightgown; feeling a sense of relief at least for the time being. As she undresses for the evening, there’s a deep sadness in her heart. She’s not much older than Mallory was in those pictures. Seeing how happy she and Langdon were, how in love, knowing that in that short of a time that she lost a child, and was taken away from the man she loved, for what she believed would be forever- having her memory erased, not knowing who she was, or he was, how horrible that would be! She just couldn’t imagine the hell Mallory had been living. Life could be so cruel. She only hoped that if Venable was one of the people who hurt her, and made her a Grey when she was assigned to the outpost that Michael would make her pay dearly.

Taglist:

@langdonicotine

@Kilcort

@Nely-Collins

@Neonlacrima

@waiting-to-be-lost-at-sea

@Perfect-Ginger-Maniac

@bi-tiger

@amanda-d0000

@zonietta

(If you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist at any time feel free to message me! Always glad to add people! I love new followers! Sad to see people leave, but no hard feelings ever- and NEVER a block for for leaving! I always appreciate your time with me no matter what!)

#millory #michael langdon #mallory #michael and mallory #american horror story apocalypse #ahs apocalypse #michael x mallory #stay with me #mallory langdon

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angstymarshmallow · 6 years

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“The Jester” (Part 4 of Fantasy AU, a TRR Fanfic)

[A little note: A half-rushed but fully excited sequel to my fantasy au series. I’m still working out some of the kinks in my story, but I do think its going in the right direction with a couple moving pieces in place. Here’s part 4 - specifically focusing on Maxwell’s Beaumont’s role in this adventure, Let me know what you think, it keeps me motivated knowing people like this sort of unorthodox fic series :’)].

[Summary: Maxwell Beaumont is many things, but the one thing he isn’t is happy with living in the shadows formed from past mistakes from the Beaumont lineage].

[Word Count: 4342]

Tagging: @nerdpossible, @mfackenthal

Part 1: “The Beginning” Part 2: “The Adventurer” Part 3: “The Knight”

Maxwell Beaumont ignored the sounds of his older brother barking incessant orders for him to hurry as he slammed the mop obnoxiously across the floor.

Ever since they had ridden themselves of servants to save their finances, Bertrand’s prattling went from intrusive to nearly downright unbearable.

The nobleman thought their circumstances would have changed after a few weeks of tackling old debts and selling whatever antiques they could to keep themselves afloat and the greedy tax payers at bay, however his hopes of returning House Beaumont to its former unapologetically expensive lifestyle, were severely dashed when his brother begun calling off their monthly soirees.

Instead the Beaumont name continued to tarnish with the decline of their wealth, and their own family lineage’s hidden curse made it nearly impossible for them to completely fit in, despite how hard the elder Beaumont brother tried. Their once heavily decorated halls shrivelled in comparison to the past with and only each other for company; dull memories of a much grander time when they wined and dined begun to fade.

Now they did all the work; beginning with Bertrand’s cooking, Maxwell keeping their home spotless and ended with Bertrand managing the bookkeeping.

It was, Maxwell decided – most difficult to stay inside such a home that had become so exceedingly boring.

When Bertrand gave him another terse order, Maxwell’s own patience waned. Nearly at its end, he snapped his head up to glare at his brother – the older of the two’s forehead crinkling enough to show the wear and tear of being in charge of House Beaumont, and his nearly angular face tilted at him as though daring the younger one to speak.

Maxwell held his tongue. He bit on the inside of his cheek before giving the usual off-beat smile that often placated any budding tension between each other. “I’ll be done before you know it brother.” He amiably said, forcing a note of cheerfulness inside his tone. Besides, it was what he had always excelled in; his aloofness and guile manner was a force of radiating happiness in almost everyone else’s eyes.

He could live with that truth, even though half the time it felt like a lie.

Nevertheless, he polished the floor until he could see himself clearly. He dusted every hall, nearly tripping once or twice over his own two feet. He wiped every window; paying special attention to the tiny spots of cracks and when he was finally done – he skipped happily along the hall to inform Bertrand of the news.

The house was clean and with no other chores, Maxwell wanted to escape as soon as possible. He hoped The Accords discussed interesting matters that Liam would be willing to share by the time he was ready to leave and visit his friend.

Maxwell was several feet away from his brother’s study when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Familiar feelings of apprehension filled him and made him shudder. It was a regular occurrence when it came to his own gift of sight, but unusual after weeks without anything. Flabbergasted for a moment, he stood still and waited for clarity – images, something to flare into inside his mind but when nothing came, he forced himself forward.

He approached Bertrand’s study with timid steps, until he could decipher the deep baritone of his voice. He froze for a moment and wondered why his brother was speaking so softly – as though he did not wish to be heard.

Maxwell’s body grew tense; shoulders stiffening as the apprehension he felt moments ago returned tenfold and his stomach filled with a sense of anxiety. His intuition was telling him something. It was imploring that something was wrong – and Maxwell rarely ignored his gut.

The study’s entrance door was closed.

Finding it odd at this time of the evening, Maxwell slid is mouth open to speak but thought better of it at the last second. He inched closer instead.

Wanting to know what his brother was saying, he pressed his ear by the door and listened keenly.

Truthfully, Maxwell didn’t know what to expect but whatever it was that Bertrand had decided was too important to mention – he would uncover it. He nodded to himself, resolute in his decision to meddle within his brother’s affairs despite the countless of times he had been discouraged not to.

At first, Maxwell wasn’t able to hear much of anything. And as he slanted his eyes closed, slowed the erratic beat of his heart, he could finally make out enough words to put several together.

“…pushed….too far…”

“….no…..was supposed to…”

“…this plan…wrong…”

Startled, Maxwell leaned closer, bracing his hands on either side of the door. He had no idea what Bertrand was talking about but based on the urgency in his voice, and the little he could understand – it couldn’t have been anything good.

Maxwell hoped if he only pushed just a little father – just a little more, he would be able to hear more – maybe even full sentences to help solve this quiet mystery that was beginning to befuddle him. However, the moment he did, the door creaked on its hinges and he accidentally shoved his shoulder too har, causing it to make another obnoxious creak before flying wide open.

“Ooof.”

His body followed, tipping him forward until he was only able to let out a strangled gasp until falling flat on his face.

“Oh heavens!” He dramatically rolled to his side, clutching his stomach and bracing a hand over his forehead; hoping it would diffuse some of the flare of anger in his brother’s eyes when he met his stare.

“Maxwell!”

No such luck.

Bertrand’s voice sounded outraged at the interruption.

Maxwell couldn’t understand why. He was after all – trying to be decisively quiet until the door had given out. If anything Bertrand should be mad at the door for being incapable of doing its only function. “We should really get better doors Bertrand,” He grumbled, as he got to his feet. “I was testing its structural capabilities – and it failed tremendously.”

Bertrand didn’t as much as crack a smile.

Maxwell’s shoulders slumped. He mumbled a stiff apology as his eyes flickered over. The words caught in his throat, and his eyes froze as curiosity quickly replaced the fear of incurring his brother’s wrath.

Inside Bertand’s hands was a crystal paler than any Maxwell had ever seen. It was bigger too – nearly the size of his hand cupping it. It glowed momentarily and Maxwell blinked hoping it was a trick of light until it went completely dim.

“What sort of rock glows like that?” He pointed for emphasis until his brother quickly the oddly-shaped crystal stone inside his pocket.

“Nothing,” Bertrand snapped; lips forming a scowl. “Nothing to worry yourself with anyway. It is for work.” His stare shifted, “besides – why are you here? I’ve told you a hundred times, I strongly prefer not to be interrupted while I’m inside my study.” His dark eyes glinted with a hard edge as he waited for an explanation.

Not knowing how to respond, Maxwell shrugged for a moment; loosely lifting his shoulders while his mind was still stubbornly stuck on the crystal, now hiding inside his pocket.

“Maxwell.” His brother’s voice was dark and biting; until Maxwell forced himself to tear his gaze away.

“Sorry.” He murmured, “I was just letting you know I was finished that’s all.” No need to be so angry at me. He added more to himself than aloud. He wouldn’t dream of saying that aloud.

“Ah, very good.” Bertrand straightened himself upright and tucked his hands behind his back.

Silence suddenly filled the room, thick tension of two people that barely knew each other anymore. With Bertrand always working tirelessly on the estate and Maxwell wanderings across Cordonia – the two had never been as loyal and as estranged to each other all at once before.

The thought made Maxwell sad, but he didn’t know how to repair what was once between them. Bertrand would always be his brother – but there was no denying that their relationship hadn’t been the same since their accumulative debt finally caught up with them.

Bertrand cleared his throat, bringing Maxwell from his sullen thoughts. “Ah, perhaps we should prepare supper now.” He added a small smile.

Maxwell returned it, his spirits lifting immediately at the sight of his brother smiling. It wasn’t often he did that anymore. “Does that mean I get to help this time?”

The smile faded. A small frown remained in its place. “I suppose it depends on what you mean by help.”

An exasperated sigh left Maxwell’s lips, “the small stuff.” He muttered glumly. “I can peel the potatoes…and clean the plates.”

Bertrand clapped him on the shoulder as they exited the study, “wonderful! I knew I could count on you.”

He laughed and agreed good-naturedly.

They walked the hall along each other, with only their voices filling the silence of a house that had once seen a great deal of people nearly every night. It felt lonely sometimes, but Maxwell knew as long as he had his brother – he would never truly be alone.

Supper was ready nearly two hours later – Maxwell’s forgetfulness had caused several delays to their food, but once they were both settled in front of their large wooden table – still elegantly dressed in royal embroideries, they were content to eat in silence.

Warmth and flavour filled Maxwell as his forked picked at the steam vegetables. He hummed in pleased delight that the food had faired as well as it did. “You should really look into running your own meadery,” he said between bites. “This is fantastic.”

“Please don’t speak with your mouth full of food,” Bertrand pointed his fork at him. “But thank you,” a brief smile flitted in place of his scowl. “I am flattered that you think I have grown to such a degree.”

Maxwell nodded emphatically, happy to see his brother pleased by his compliment. “Seriously, you would excel in it.”

“Enough,” He waved a dismissive hand, and the firmness in his one-worded answer made Maxwell realize this was no longer up for discussion. “My hands are tied enough as it is looking after our estate,” he rubbed his temple for a moment as though lost in thought.

“Bertrand,” Maxwell interrupted after some time. “Is that what this crystal is for?” He prompted, “the one you had in the study? Are you selling it for our finances –”

“No.” His answer had been so abrupt and harsh that Maxwell drew upright in his seat, startled.

“Bertrand –”

“I said no Maxwell.” He said crisply, eyes snapping at him. “Cease this line of questioning because it will get you no further.” He angrily stabbed his fork into the meat on his plate. “It will help us but we do not discuss such matters at the dinner table.”

“It’s not like you wanted to discuss it to be begin with.” Maxwell quipped tartly back at him.

The fork paused, and the look Bertrand gave him, had been enough for Maxwell to sink farther into his seat. “That crystal is never to be mentioned again.”

Maxwell made a face at his food.

“Do you understand, Maxwell?”

He didn’t understand. What was so special about the crystal that it had to be kept a secret? What was it about the blasted thing that he wouldn’t even tell his own brother? “But Bertrand –”

“Do you understand?” He cut in darkly, waiting for his answer.

Maxwell uttered a long-suffering sigh. “…..as you say, brother.”

“Good.” Bertrand released his own sigh of relief before bringing his attention back to his plate, dabbing at the corner of his lips as he gestured with his fork. “Now, what do you think of the chicken?”

When they cleared the table, Bertrand rushed to excuse himself from the room, and Maxwell knew by his abrasive demeanour that his brother did not want company inside his study.

He glanced miserably after him as he stalked angrily down the hall. It didn’t take much for him to realize, he was still very upset with him. He couldn’t fathom why – all he wanted was to learn about the strange item inside his back pocket, and his own intuition had been adamant that something was amiss, though everything appeared to be normal.

At least Prince Liam would give him a much warmer greeting than his own brother.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Maxwell fetched his coat; deciding it was high time for him to distract himself from such unpleasantness as this. He would drop by the palace and hope The Accords meeting was interesting enough for Liam to have something to share. He tucked his lucky bracelet through his breast pocket as he searched for his boots.

There was a small hole near the soles of his feet, and as he examined his left boot; his shoulders sagged. It was small enough to remain unnoticeable by most; however now that he knew it was there – he could never un-notice it. His boot was just another reminder of how far they had fallen from grace, their Beaumont legacy growing dimmer and duller with each passing day.

Feeling dejected and lonely, Maxwell pulled them onto his feet and tied their strings before stepping towards the entrance of the estate.

No sooner had he taken another step that he heard an abrupt knock on the door. It was terse, quiet. And he froze, brows furrowed together as he stared blankly at it.

“Bertrand, Bertrand there’s someone at the door!”

“Then answer it Maxwell.” Came the response, bellowing from the open door’s study.

Rolling his eyes, Maxwell clucked his tongue and opened the door with a flourish. He beamed at the familiar figure in front of him – until his eyes met the figure’s tired stare and noticed several bruises running among their tawny arms.

Drake? His smile faltered. And the grim expression on Drake’s face dictated that this was not a social call.

“Sir Drake!” Maxwell said pleasantly enough, as soon as he recovered from the untimely visit. “I was just on my way to the palace, to what do I owe this –” He stopped short as Drake struggled to pass through the entrance; bracing himself against the door’s frame until Maxwell looped his arm around him. “Drake, what’s –”

Drake muttered something under his breath as the shorter man caught and stopped him from stumbling on his feet. He winced as he hurriedly helped him inside and didn’t speak until he was seated by their comfortable furniture, resting his bare forearms near the edge of his seat.

Maxwell tried for patience as a thousand different questions raced inside his mind. Why was he here? Where did all those bruises come from? A feeling of trepidation filled him as he met the knight’s solemn expression with a grimace.

He was having trouble even staying still once he waited for him to speak first. But the most important question that plagued him had to be asked and eventually, he had given up for him to break the silence first. “Are you alright Drake?” He tentatively asked, eyes skimming over him with concern.

Drake’s lips thinned and instead of answering right away, he heaved a sigh. Then, Maxwell watched as the walls Drake had often placed around himself had rebuilt itself; starting with his shoulders lifting and the careful look inside his eyes as he stood on steady legs to beckon to him. “Is Bertrand around as well?”

Maxwell eyed the parchment with the royal seal inside Drake’s hands in mild fascination and horror. The royal seal on anything had never meant anything good, and Maxwell had a feeling whatever the document said wasn’t going to bode well for House Beaumont. “He’s in his study,” he huffed, gesturing with his free hand down the hall. “But I wouldn’t go in there – he’s had very deliberate instructions to not be disturbed once he’s inside his study.”

“I see.” Drake pursed his lips, “but unfortunately for you both, I don’t care.” He said curtly, “and the only thing I feel inclined to care about or even have any sympathy for doesn’t extend towards you or Bertrand.” His voice had grown impatient, on the cusp of irritation. His grip tightened on the piece of parchment inside his hands. “Now, the queen herself had commanded me to deliver this to you both and for the sake of time, I require Bertrand’s immediate attention.”

“I’m sorry, I already told you – he doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s in his study.” Maxwell’s own voice rose, uncharacteristically as Drake moved to fall into step with him the moment he stood.

“And I don’t like to be left waiting when I have more important things to do.”

“It is alright Maxwell,” A voice interrupted their bickering seconds before they both turned to find Bertrand leaning against a wall several feet away. His face was a somber mask as he watched Drake. “To what do I owe this pleasure Sir Drake?”

The knight handed him the parchment, wetting his lips as Bertrand’s eyes widened moments before he quickly unloosened its string. “It is probably better if you read the queen’s message for yourself.”

They both watched as a look of horror and pain flashed inside Bertrand’s eyes. “I see.”

If Maxwell hadn’t felt uneasy before – he did now. His stomach felt as though it was twisting with nerves, making it difficult for him to keep his mouth closed. “Bertrand – what does it say?”

“The Queen needs your services at once Maxwell.” He levelled him with a cautious stare as the younger Beaumont brother blinked several times; as if he had heard him wrong.

“My s-services?” He stammered. “But…it’s forbidden.” A lump suddenly formed in his throat and he shook his head at them. “I don’t understand, she has never approved.”

“It isn’t about approval,” Drake’s tone had grown in impatience again. His expression darkened with a sense that Maxwell could describe as only urgency. “It’s about doing whatever is necessary to recuse the prince.”

“Rescue the prince?” Maxwell echoed, grabbing the parchment out of his brother’s hand. “Let me see this!” He read it quickly and blinked several times, before reading it again. Oh no. His stomach dropped. It was worse than he thought.

Prince Liam had been kidnapped – whisked away from the kingdom by a bunch of radical mages. “Oh god, when did this happen?” He stared in horror at Drake and watched the man’s eyes break their careful mask for a moment long enough for him to see how truly devastated he was.

“This morning, during The Accords.” Drake sighed heavily, “we should have been more prepared. This shouldn’t have happened.”

“I’ll say.” Bertrand responded tersely. “You have all failed your utmost duty in protecting the crowned jewel of Cordonia.” He nearly spat, arms folding as he regarded Drake with a look of disdain. “If House Beaumont had been present –”

“I don’t think this is necessarily helping brother.” Maxwell interceded, giving his brother a pat on the back as he watched Drake’s shoulders stiffen. “What can we do?”

“Well as the letter said, they want you to try again. To see if you can find him.”

Maxwell bit the inside of his cheek, weighing his words and the implication Queen Regina left inside the letter. The Beaumont family’s reputation had been tarnished enough with their father’s own magical talents during the war. If Maxwell tapped into those abilities again…he was afraid of what that meant for their family in the future. “I cannot.”

“You have to.” Drake’s lips formed a frown. “Your queen commands you to.”

“He’s right. Despite the position it puts us in, we cannot ignore the Queen’s summons.” Bertrand gave his brother’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sure she’ll pardon any use of it on our behalf if we agree, but surely she must have mentioned the conditions we would work under.”

Drake’s lips quirked into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “She did mention compensations were in order.”

“All we want is to restore our family name.” Maxwell’s chin lifted stubbornly.

“Of course you do.” Drake murmured, lifting a sardonic brow.

From beside him Bertrand stiffened, and Maxwell’s own rare temper flared to life at Drake’s indifference to their circumstances. “You have no idea what it’s like being us. Being stepped on constantly, degraded for something that was outside your control, from birth –”

If Drake’s sudden laugh could be any more brittle and bitter, it would have shattered the windows inside their manor. Maxwell watched in alarm until the knight had shaken his head and sneered at them.

“The irony isn’t lost on me trust me, but it isn’t my place to say how foolish this all is.” Drake grunted, “I’m wasting precious time here instead of searching for the prince myself.”

“The nerve!” Bertrand interceded, pointing a finger at him which as far as Maxwell realized, Drake pointedly ignored. “You could at least address us with the proper respect of people from our stature.”

Drake continued speaking as though the older Beaumont hadn’t spoken. “But we are running out of options quickly and the queen had convinced me that this was the best alternative than me finding him on my own.”

“Well of course it is, you have no idea where to start.” Bertrand harrumphed.

“So, I trust this is enough.” Drake precured another parchment and Maxwell’s eyes widened as he read the queen’s crisp cursive over his brother’s shoulder. “My goodness, that is a lot of coin.”

“And not just coin Maxwell –” Bertand’s eyes sparkled with excitement as they drifted to him. “This a deed to restore our family’s name,”

“But,” Drake interrupted their premature celebrations by grabbing the parchment back and stuffing it inside his trousers. “This is a tentative offer that heavily relies on Maxwell’s help.” His eyes drifted over him, “if he can truly tell the future of course.”

“It isn’t,” Maxwell frowned. “It isn’t that simple –” magic had never been that simple.

“Of course, it is.” Bertrand clapped the back of his brother’s back, as though stopping him from saying anything else. “He will not disappoint, won’t you Maxwell?”

Drake still looked skeptical once Maxwell met his expression. He hesitated before nodding enthusiastically, “right of course.” The awful feeling inside his stomach was back, churning and making it difficult for him to keep a straight face as he cleared his throat. “Do you have something belonging to the prince?” He inquired, “it would make forming a connection easier.”

“Ah, right of course.” Hesitantly, Drake retrieved Prince Liam’s favourite ink, cupping it for a moment before dropping it into Maxwell’s waiting palm.

Nothing happened, not at first.

Despite Maxwell’s brows furrowing in concentration – no image had immediately come to life and as he gripped it tighter, Bertrand’s impatient glare made him want to sink into the floor. “Just a moment –” The longer he fixated on the ink, closing his eyes as his thumbs rubbed tiny circles across the pattern – the less he was able to hear the world around him; until his only awareness was the sound of his own heartbeat, slowing..

Then it happened.

A flash of images sprouted to life and grappled his mind so quickly that Maxwell had to clutch his temple. Pain flared and pulsed as images of the prince, Drake, himself and several others he had never met before blurred and mingled together.

A sharp cry escaped Maxwell’s throat as he tried to make sense of them in the flurry they erupted within his head.

He saw a raven-haired woman with wild curls and bright magic sparking from her fingertips. He saw another woman riding a blue scaled…dragon with her sword raised into an enemy of undead – he saw himself and Drake fighting back to back against hooded figures that felt as threatening as the moment Maxwell learned of his own lineage stripping away their rank in nobility.

And lastly he saw the prince – somewhere far away, past snowy mountain tops bound and gagged with a hooded figure standing in front of him. When he tried to push the pressure he felt inside his mind – he saw the hooded figure lift its cape, and his blood ran cold as their cool dark eyes seemed to bored through, as though they knew he was looking – searching for them. He saw their mouth move before he realized the telltale signs of casting and quickly retreated – hissing and clutching his head with bot hands as red-hot pain flooded his mind.

Ah. They had caught him.

Tremors racked his body as he struggled to stay on his feet.

“Maxwell!” Both Bertrand and Drake yelled, concern stretching their faces into frowns as Maxwell sagged against his brother.

It took several minutes for the pain to pass, and all the while Bertrand kept a comforting hand on his shoulder; mumbling soft words of encouragement while the pain had threatened to pull Maxwell under.

Drake was pacing uneasily across the room until Maxwell was able to sit upright inside the wooden furniture; his arms rubbing across the goosebumps that erupted across his flesh.

“Are you alright?” They both simultaneously asked, eyes flickering in concern.

Maxwell forced a smile, not quite knowing how to answer. Truthfully, the explanation was difficult to mull over – let alone tell someone else. As an oracle, he could see the past, present and the future; but with how quickly the images had assailed his mind – he had no idea what could become true versions of reality – and what wasn’t.

Yet one thing was for certain, he saw Prince Liam in the present – and the mage that had caught him spying on them – was one of the most dangerous people in the mage rebellion they were fighting against. Straightening his shoulders, Maxwell looked solemnly over his brother and the knight, tightening his hands until they were nearly stark white.

“I think I know how we’ll be able to find Prince Liam.”

#the royal romance #fantasy au series #playchoices fanfic #maxwell beaumont fanfic #maxwell beaumont #bertrand beaumont fanfic #playchoices fanficiton #drake walker fanficiton #drake walker #trr #playchoices #more plot things #pretty pls won't you leave feedback?#an angstymarshmallow writes #eventually the romance'll be here #just exploring the adventure side of things ;)#long post #adventure

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anonthenullifier · 6 years

Text

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 6

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter Title: In which the past is left behind and the future is embraced

Chapter Summary: Wanda adjusts to her new life while also navigating how to interact with Vision outside of the manor.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/34942517

I hope you enjoy!

Wanda hunches her back, lifting the wrinkly palm closer to her face, the task of finding the most pertinent lines rendered more difficult by the effects of age and a lifetime of manual labor. “Is fame and fortune in my future?” The question is asked with a good-natured playfulness, a hearty laugh joining the gleam in the elderly woman’s eyes when Wanda glances up at her. This woman is a widow, not a recently made one, or so she informed Wanda the first time she sat on the stool and shoved her hand out. This is, if Wanda is recalling correctly, the sixth time she has read the woman’s palm, the only person from this tiny town that has been willing to dip their toes into mysticism, their avoidance of her more out apathy than fear, she thinks. “So,” a nudge to Wanda’s shin brings her back to the present, “fame or fortune?”

A tight, politely apologetic smile goes along with Wanda’s response, “That is beyond the scope of this reading.” If she wanted to, Wanda could easily delve into the woman’s mind, mine for information she can twist into profoundly prophetic albeit empty statements, but since the séance and its fallout, she has vowed to be slightly more judicious with her powers. “Based on the branching of your life line,” Wanda traces the line etched deep in the woman’s palm, “you have been blessed with extra vitality, some would consider that quite fortunate.”

“You know,” the tone and cadence of these two words is known by everyone, the drawn out, condescending preface of someone who believes they are better versed in a matter than the expert they’re talking to. Wanda can’t afford to lose her one client so she clamps her annoyance down and remains silent. “The readers in the city,” a term that is loosely used by the inhabitants of quiet communities to speak of any conglomeration of people larger than 200, “always tell me fame, fortune, and love are just around the corner.”

Wanda fully believes the other readers claim this, regardless of what the lines actually say, broad optimism the greatest tool of manipulation within the craft, “Well Mrs. Mesnier-”

“Miss—don’t want to scare off potential suitors.”

The wink is salacious, far more practiced than even Stark’s signature smarminess, stirring a small laugh from Wanda’s lungs as she corrects her statement. “Miss Mesnier, I refuse to interpret beyond the lines.”

A succession of four clicks comes from the woman’s mouth making her disagreement with Wanda’s refusal transparent, her interest in the reading waning as her eyes idly scan the sunlit market visible through the swooping part of the curtains over the entrance of Wanda’s makeshift stall. “Would you mind re-examining my heart line then?”

This is the most common request Wanda gets in such readings, though usually from tittering socialites who only recently discovered the idea of romantic attraction and courtship. “I am certain it hasn’t chang-”

Wanda’s assurance of the uselessness of the act is cut off by Miss Meisner tugging her hand, lightly enough that it remains in Wanda’s grip, but hard enough to direct her eyes to follow along with the woman’s. “Are you certain? That dapper yard-of-pump-water* is quite intently staring at me.”

There is, in fact, a dapper man watching them, his three-piece suit and matching hat impeccable yet jarring against the rougher fabrics of the people milling about around him. His gloved hands are occupied with a simple, unshowy wicker basket, and even from this distance, she can make out the way he nervously wrings his fingers around the handle. Wanda’s lips curve upwards at the sight of him, an antsiness spreading through her body the longer she stares. “I’m sorry, Miss Mesnier,” Wanda squeezes the woman’s hand before dropping it, “he’s here for me.”

“Oh, well,” the distinctive clink of a coin against the table harmonizes the disappointed of her voice and the rustling of the large, high-waisted skirt, “I predict fortune and love in your future then.”

Wanda barely registers the woman leaving, her mind far more focused on the approaching form of Vision and the tentative arc of his mouth that matches her own. “Miss Maximoff,” a slight, polite bow goes along with her name.

“I thought,” she waits until his bow is over, “we were past Miss Maximoff.”

Embarrassment flits across his face, a quick gaze to his left accompanying the clearing of his throat as a family walks past them. “I do not wish for anyone to perceive my behavior as untoward.”

“I see,” it’s an unfounded concern, no one in the town will likely notice or even be aware of the norms of high class culture, but Wanda determines to play along for now, both to make him feel comfortable and as a way to channel her own nervousness. “Well, Mr. Vision,” she stands just a bit taller, chin snapping up to mimic how she’s seen women in expensive parlors act, “wouldn’t it be quite untoward if you didn’t offer me your arm?”

The effect is instantaneous, his discomfiture falling away in time with his lips turning ever so slightly up, a sight she hopes means that he has not spent the last two weeks ruminating about her abhorrent actions and all the pain she wrought on both him and Stark. “I had been informed that such offers suggest a lack of independence and I did not wish to insult your self-sufficiency.”

His tone is surprising, wholly welcome and exhilarating, but still contrary to what she’s come to expect from him when manners are involved. “Would Robert Robert’s approve of such cheekiness?”

“Mr. Roberts would not condone this visit in the slightest, so I suppose,” a subdued yet what she can only describe as rebellious smirk goes along with the offer of his arm, “there is no need to strictly adhere to his rules while I am here.”

“Fascinating.” Wanda slides her arm into the triangular gap between his torso and elbow, her fingers curving gently into the folds of his jacket, and it’s only now that she realizes his hesitation at offering his arm the night she arrived unexpectedly at the manor, even through the multiple layers of fabric she can feel the hardness of the rods, if she extends her fingers she can brush the hinge at his elbow. Shame flares beneath her cheeks, something that has been common in the dark hours of the night since she moved, her thoughts relentlessly cycling through her past actions, identifying all of the signs she missed because of her narrowed focus on revenge. But she has learned that with knowledge comes the ability to rectify past ignorance, more than that, is that she is finally at peace with all that has happened, content and proud that, though she still harbors a strong, unshakable distrust towards Stark, her hands no longer erupt with scarlet when the memories stir. “So,” but now is not the time to delve back into the depths of her regrets, her past is immutable and her hand is on the future, “what is on your list?”

“Nothing in particular,” the nonchalance of the comment is yet another surprise for a man she assumes has lists and detailed plans for every aspect of his day, control over the environment a vital aspect of his butlering. Vision pulls her gently towards a stall, “I am simply examining the potential of the merchandise.”

Wanda watches with interest as they move through the stalls, the precision and repetition of his examination mesmerizing, whether he is investigating lettuce, carrots, radishes, cuts of meat, or gaudy penswipers, he is always diligent in selecting the most pristine specimen. “How are things at the manor?”

A tomato is tossed back into a bin, deemed unacceptable. “Quite hectic, actually.” They move towards a cabbage stall, his lips pursing as he forms his next statement, “Mr. Stark and I are in the midst of preparing for several demonstrations and he seems to prefer completing the work in the middle of the night.” Vision’s distaste for such antics is clear, the shedding of his butler persona more pronounced the more the distance between himself and the manor increases.

“What are you-” she stops her question, a deep vexation building at the sight of Vision paying the mustached man at their current stop, “Did you just pay forty cents** for that?”

“I-” Vision’s eyes move between the incredulity on her face and the head of cabbage in his hand, “yes.”

Wanda shakes her head, lips fighting against showing the mirth bubbling up at the guilty look on his face. “You’re being swindled.” The comment is loud enough to reach the farmer at the stall, his attention quickly moving on to the next customer as he shoves the money farther into his pocket, but Wanda isn’t going to insist on rectifying the con, if she’s being wholly honest, she has, quite unapologetically, overcharged poshly dressed gentlemen for palm readings before. “I think it’s the hat.”

Vision’s eyes rotate up to study the brim of his simple, yet elegant top hat, “I believe the absence of my hat would do little to negate the dissimilitude of my clothing.” A fact that is irrefutable, Normanskill is a labor community of roughly sixty people, almost all of whom work at the lumber mill and none of them likely own a three-piece suit, much less one near the quality of Vision’s.

“It might be worth losing it anyway.” They both know the suggestion is ridiculous, or so she presumes his raised eyebrows indicate, but Wanda uses it as a small redirection meant exclusively to goad a more relaxed quality of conversation from the butler. The absence of any obligation to serve creates a striking difference in Vision’s demeanor, subtle enough she doubts anyone else would describe his precise movements and polite words as casual, but she finds herself growing even more enamored and fascinated with him in this setting.

Vision gently removes his arm from hers, bending to place the overpriced cabbage into his basket before reaching up and lifting the hat from his head. “Better?”

He is still overdressed, and will no doubt continue to be taken advantage of, yet it does create a marginally less moneyed persona. Wanda gives an affirming nod, “Much better, you should get lower prices now.”

“I personally,” a tiny, likely-improper-for-a-butler shrug accompanies his words, “see no reason to argue over cost. Mr. Stark will not care if I pay two cents or forty, so the affront to my dignity is worthwhile if it means giving money to someone who will notice it.”

The mindset of limitless money is foreign to her, to everyone around them, her own pockets practically empty, the people here are sensible, practical, and have relatively low levels of superstition, a fact that is both an issue for her income but also a boon for her ability to not be chased from town or have her tools thrown into a river. “That’s very noble of you.”

Vision picks the basket back up, his top hat perched on its lid, and offers her his arm once more, ignoring the sardonic drip of her comment, “Shall we?” They stroll casually along the dirt road, occasionally stopping for Vision to buy more produce, a companionable silence between them that matches the serenity of the cloudless day. “Wanda?” She tilts her head up to look at the budding question on his face, “Are you happy here?”

It’s a multifaceted question, happiness determined by far too many things to provide a simple but truthful answer. “No one has thrown me into a river or destroyed my belongings, so...”

“That is good.”

If Wanda thinks about the question deeper, however, it’s been almost thirteen years since she has experienced a moment like this—her hands calm, mind clear and unworried, and her heart palpitating at a casual, mostly even pace. When she fled to the wilder parts of New York, traveling far from the city that had first welcomed her to this new life, she believed she had left her past behind and with it the turmoil of obsessive vengeance, clearly, however, she was mistaken. Yet now that she’s in this moment, arm linked with Vision and the sun overhead, surrounded by people who are not outwardly staring or crossing themselves, she’s at peace. She squeezes his arm, relishing the small smile he gives her, “It is.”

They stop walking eventually, the stalls behind them and a small, intricately crafted and easily recognizable carriage in front of them, “I-” the reality of the situation only becomes apparent when Vision eases his arm away, opening the door of the carriage to place the basket inside before turning back to her, hands clasped at his waist, “thank you for joining me today.”

Wanda almost succeeds at not rolling her eyes at the supposition that she wouldn’t have spent the afternoon with him, “Of course, Vision. When-,” they had not spoken of anything beyond this first meeting, a tentative agreement to explore whether or not this would become a regular occurrence, and now that he’s leaving, Wanda knows what she hopes will be the conclusion of the experiment. Regardless of her wants, there are two people involved, her powers snaking through her body, tempting her with the offer of an easy way to establish if he feels the same, but she clenches her fingers, determined not to resort to such measures. Wanda proceeds with what she hopes is a casual, unconcerned tone, “Do you think you’ll be frequenting this market?”

Vision allows his eyes to roam over the small cluster of people and haphazardly built wooden stalls filled with vibrant fare. “I believe it has some merit,” words that send her heart into a maddening rhythm, one that increases at an alarming rate when he looks at her. “Unfortunately,” Wanda’s eyes narrow at the term, defeat harshly pulling her heart back into place, “the carrots are much better up in Schenectady, though,” the twisting of his sentence is dragging her through far too many emotions, the one most prevalent now is hope, anchored both on his word and the shy upturn of his mouth, “the company here is far preferable.”

“Well there is more to see here than the market,” a fairly empty comment as there is the market, the lumber mill, one tavern, and the ravine, none of which are particularly out of the ordinary.

Vision glances back towards the market, “I was thinking,” his uncertain gaze slides back to her, “instead, that perhaps I might make good on my promise to teach you paille maille.”

“I believe that is an acceptable alternative.”

Elation threatens to break the seam of his polite lips, “Then I will see you next week.”

Wanda steps back, watching him climb into the carriage and waving as he pulls away. It’s only once he is out of view that a full-bodied grin erupts on her face, her mind already lost in the future.

The sun glints off the metal hoop half buried in the ground, it is idle, nothing changing about its position or size and yet it taunts her. Wanda squints, readjusting her feet to be just a tad farther apart, knees bent slightly, hands wrapped firmly, but not too firmly, around the handle of her mallet. Off to the side, just barely in her periphery, she can sense an underlying flicker of cockiness in Vision’s silence, two games already down and she has not once gotten close to the hoop before him, something he keeps reassuring her is nothing to be upset about, a sentiment that would be more believable if his thrill at being victorious was not so loudly pouring from his mind. The last game she hit the ball too hard, sending it careening into the tall grass beyond their makeshift alley. This time she is utilizing a strategy of incremental, easy hops. Her arms lift back as the head of the mallet rises behind her and then it falls with a swish through the grass, sending the ball in a small arc before it bounces and rolls to lay about a foot in front of the hoop. Satisfaction fills her arms as she swings the mallet up in front of her, bringing the head to rest proudly on her shoulder.

“That was a respectable hit.”

The satisfaction crumbles into a glare, “You can stop gloating.”

It is late in the morning and yet it is stifling, not even the shade from the tree providing a reprieve from the summer’s attack, a day that would be perfect for a dip in the lake, a thought that instantly leads to a sharp guilt as she watches Vision frown at her comment. “I am being sincere,” the surest sign of the heat is the sight of Vision sans coat and hat, though he is still in a waistcoat and shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cinched shut with a bow tie. His mallet hovers in the air, directing her attention towards the two charcoal colored balls in the grass, “You have utilized a classic block to ensure a win is not feasible on my next turn.”

“Well that was definitely the intent,” Wanda finds her entertainment at discovering his latent competitiveness outweighing her annoyance at the thinly veiled dubiousness on his face. What does not surprise her is the utter seriousness of his gameplay, every turn he walks around his ball at least three times, scrutinizing its position relative to the hoop, currently he is using his mallet to steady himself as he lowers into a squat, torso moving left and then right as he studies the predicament of her block. “You can concede my victory, if you want.”

“I believe,” he stands with a deliberate slowness, a wince occurring as he straightens his legs, “I shall attempt to persevere for a bit longer.” One last assessment of the area and Vision nods, strolling up to his ball, mallet lining up just right of the sphere, a couple of practice swings confirm the strength and angle of his shot, and then he moves slightly, body crouching, fingers opening and then closing until his grip is perfect, and with ease he sends his ball rolling across the ground and straight into hers, sending it flying into the trunk of a tree.

“What was that, you hornswoggler***?”

A breathy laugh meets her words, his unabashed amusement in the face of dirty actions threatening to consume her own irritation. “Nothing in the rules prohibits such actions.”

The only rules she was made aware of were that they each get one hit per turn, must stay (as best they can) within the bounds of the course, and that the ball must enter the hoop from the front to win. “How convenient to leave that out.”

“It is far more important to develop the basic skills,” his face attempts to remain serious in light of his surging glee at continued domination in the game, “before introducing the intricacies of the gameplay.”

This development radically changes her perceptions of the sport and her own strategy, a wicked smirk forming on her face as she pokes the tip of her pole against the top button of his waistcoat. “Pride goeth before destruction, Vision.” Despite his face remaining neutral, even tipping towards good-natured, she does not miss the ripple of worry from his mind nor the intrigue as he watches her saunter towards the tree.

Her elbow rubs against the rough bark of the oak, one foot on a protruding root and the other on the ground. It seems impossible to recover from such a disadvantaged spot, but she reasons if interference is allowed then a small utilization of her own unique skills could fall under that rule. She notes the way Vision squints at her, the sun peaking above the tree to obscure his sight, another advantage as she sends a mist of scarlet into the ball. A hard swing and a flick of her wrist and her ball soars through the air, thudding into the dry soil just to the left of the crisscrossed surface of Vision’s ball.

There is no respectable hit this time, just a glower, a suspicious stare, and his brow wrinkling at the turn in gameplay. “Interference,” he explains, feet uncertain where to go with her ball directly in his path, “during the other player’s turn is prohibited.”

“Understood.”

An ungentlemanly sigh accompanies his decision to switch sides, hands rearranging along the mallet to adjust to the change in approach, his stance significantly less confident than before. Wanda is prepared for a conveniently strong wind to knock his ball off its path, but finds such interference unneeded, his shot too weak to reach the hoop. Vision waves his mallet towards her, a silent, somewhat sour invitation to finish the game.

The path to victory is unobscured, a bit farther of a distance than she would like, her accuracy still a work in progress, but it is likely the only chance she’ll get. Wanda lines up, striving to ignore the intensely focused stare of her opponent, her powers surging through her arms in preparation if things go poorly, and smacks the mallet against the ball, watching it hop with each bump in the ground, its course going exactly as planned until it unexpectedly hits a particularly large rock sending it in the opposite direction of the metal hoop. Anger boils in her chest at her slow reaction, knowing if she uses her powers now it will be too obvious. “I guess you’ll be victorious yet again.”

Vision frowns, eyes flicking down at the sure victory. The moral thing to do is end the torment quickly and painlessly, something he has done quite willingly in the other matches. This time, however, he seems less ecstatic in his movements, still taking the same conscientious assessment and body position as his other turns, but he hesitates. “Vision.” It does not take a mind reader or a soothsayer to predict his considered action, her voice stern in redirecting him away from such perceived chivalry, “I don’t need your charity.” An understanding nod precedes his hit, the ball easily rolling through the hoop. “Congratulations.”

“Wanda, wait,” Wanda pauses mid-bend, her hand hovering over the etched surface of her ball, “I think it would be beneficial for you to continue, your long game is quite commendable,” there is no underlying sarcasm here, a fact that makes the day feel just a touch hotter, “but your short game is absent finesse.”

“Oh? What would you suggest?”

“Please,” he waves towards her ball, “set yourself up as you have been doing.” Wanda plays along, feet out wide and elbows bent, eyes focused on him as she waits for feedback. “This is excellent for a long range shot but for a shorter distance your feet need to be closer,” her boots shuffle towards each other while Vision hovers several feet away, gesticulating with his mallet to emphasize his instructions, “Your right foot should be a bit more forward,” she adjusts her foot, “good, now your right shoulder needs to rotate roughly,” he swivels his own shoulders, assessing the amount of movement and positioning, before providing her directions, “fifteen degrees to match your foot.”

Wanda relaxes her body as she follows his instructions, “Better?”

“A bit more,” she acquiesces, “too much,” she brings her shoulder back, “no I—” she can sense the division in his mind, whether to remain at a respectable distance (despite the lack of onlookers) or come closer. It’s been a battle he’s been waging all day, the lack of socially acceptable reasons to be close always infuriatingly pulling him away. This time she decides to determine the outcome for him by purposely over-rotating her shoulders. Vision grimaces at her correction, “Not quite—”

Wanda strives to remain outwardly attentive yet aloof, laying the final steps of her war plan. “You can come closer, if that would help.”

Discreetly he scans their surroundings for an audience before placing his mallet on the ground, stepping forward, and puncturing the bubble of propriety, his body a foot away now, hands timidly held in the air, acting as if they have never touched, that she has not held his hand, nor run her fingers along his skin, that he himself did not wrap his hands around her waist and pull her close. But to acknowledge those moments would require them to rip open barely healed wounds, and there has been a silent contract between them to simply enjoy these meetings, pushing back any reckoning and unanswered questions for another time. “May I?”

As much as she wishes to act like he is alone in this nervousness, the question causes her heart to betray her attempt at self-control, face growing hotter as if the temperature of the day is controlled by the nearness of his hands. “Of course.”

His fingers curl around her upper arms, applying a slight pressure to turn her body. Wanda tries to remain relaxed in his grip despite the fluttering tingle overtaking her being while her eyes scan his features, mesmerized at the wind stirring the hairs just above his ears. “There,” the comfort of his touch vanishes and Wanda considers ruining her stance to bring him back but he moves away from her too quickly. “Now you should be focusing on a point just beyond the hoop.” Advice he gave her at the very beginning of their time together, a task that should be easy yet the rustle of his clothing behind her and the proximity of his person is distracting. “I have-Wanda remember to keep your eyes beyond the hoop.”

“Sorry.”

“I have my hand up behind you,” a statement that tempts her eyes but she resists, keeping her attention on the ground while his voice fills the air around her, “on your backswing go until you’ve touched my palm and then let the mallet fall naturally, like a pendulum.”

She doesn’t want to potentially hurt him and so she uses a painstakingly slow pace to lift the mallet, each slight increase in its ascent feels enormous until she finally meets resistance. “So just let it go?”

“Yes, and let your body follow.” She does, arms falling along the arc of the mallet and her hips swiveling slightly at the momentum and they both watch as the ball rolls into the hoop. “Soon,” Wanda turns excitedly towards him, surprised to find him directly behind her, the right side of his mouth wistfully tilted up, “you will be unstoppable and I will need to retire.”

Wanda returns the smile while bringing the handle of the mallet between them, offering it to him, “So would you like to test that prediction?”

“A very tempting offer.”

“But?”

“But,” he dips his hand into the small pocket of his waistcoat, thumb clicking open his pocket watch, “I promised Mr. Stark I would be back by sundown and I need to go to Rensselaer before returning.”

A cloud of scarlet forms in her hands, fingers directing strands to engulf the equipment, drawing the objects to levitate next to them. She is acutely aware of his undivided attention and the way his eyes move with the sway of her powers—intrigued and unafraid, no trace of hesitation as he reaches into the red mist to grab the mallets in one hand and the balls in the other, leaving the hoop for her. There is a tiny smile on his face, the quality of which is different from his others, it is still polite, but almost, if she were to allow a small flight of fancy, adoring. “What?”

Vision’s shoulders inch up and then drop, the smile disappearing as he talks, though the tone of his voice maintains its effervescent character, “I have found myself contemplating” now he slides back into his typical reserved staccato, “almost daily the efficiency your abilities would add to my work, it’s um,” and now the confession falters, his eyes desperately searching her face for some sign he has not offended her, “not to diminish the—”

Her powers are a curse, a reminder of all she has experienced, the death of her parents, of her brother, her descent into an unforgivable life, and yet here is someone who sees none of that, considers her powers fascinating and efficient whilst glossing over the horror they have caused to his own life. The scarlet rescinds into her palms, sparking lightly at her fingers. Perhaps it is time to consider reorienting her own views, embracing instead of fearing what is inside her. “It is quite useful,” she closes her hands around the hoop, fully extinguishing her powers and with them the conversation as she parts from him, guiding him down the path back to his carriage, “You are very good at paille maille.”

“Yes, only because I have the advantage of experience. Mr. Stark and I,” Vision keeps his eyes forward as he answers, “play at least three times a week and I also,” now the surety of his voice lessens, gaze never leaving the gentle slope of the mountains ahead of them, “played competitively while at university.”

The image of this other version of him is hazy in her mind, a specter of a lost time she has no expectations of ever knowing. “You know you don’t have to tell me about,” she’s not sure what to say, if she means the person he was or the life he had, “if you’d rather not dwell on the past, you aren’t obligated to share.”

He finally glances at her, his pace slowing moderately, a contemplative silence descending around them. “I truly appreciate that, Wanda.” A tight, painfully mannered smile follows along with the statement. “But I feel disingenuous, given your knowledge, to not share when the information is pertinent.”

“Thank you for sharing,” the persistent downturn of his features is enough motivation to offer a slightly new focus, “now that I know your expertise, I think it will be my mission to best you next week.”

Vision doesn’t smile but his lips do return to the equilibrium of neutrality, “I suppose I should leave these,” he holds his hands out to show her the equipment, “for you to practice and, in your favor, Mr. Stark and I will actually be out of town for several weeks, thus you will have ample time to improve.”

Her feet stop moving as she turns towards him, “You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” when her stare does not move, Vision swivels to face her, an apologetic, apprehensive slant to his features, “Mr. Stark and I are traveling to New York City next week for the Exhibition of Industry-”

His admittance from the market floats up from her memories. “Is that why you’ve been working late at night?”

“Yes, and all the traversing,” something she wondered about as well, each time they’ve met he’s he mentioned numerous towns in the area, but nothing in all the time she has known him indicated his job required much traveling beyond the closest market. “We,” he shifts his arms to counteract the awkward grip he has on the mallets and balls, “well, Mr. Stark, will be bringing three inventions, he is even tasked with performing the opening demonstration for the Exhibition.”

Wanda can’t contain her scoff at this information, “As if he is not self-absorbed enough.”

A commiserate and exasperated chuckle meets her words, “Yes, he has required me to watch his performance numerous times, it is unnecessarily showy, in my opinion.”

It seems wrong for Vision to go, though why, exactly is beyond her grasp of comprehension, or at least, a reason beyond her own selfish desire to spend time with him. If she recalls correctly, Stark returned from the city while she was at the manor, a seemingly clear precedent of traveling alone, a fact that feels pertinent and separate from her own reasons for being upset at the journey. “Why is he forcing you to go?”

Vision’s face falls at her choice of words. “Mr. Stark wishes to have my expertise in case any of the circuitry malfunctions.” A reasonable explanation, though she would expect no less from the man in front of her. “I was hoping,” he shifts his body along with the movement of the conversation, eyes glancing towards his carriage down the path, an apparent discomfort at leaving with her annoyed, “if you were amenable, that I might visit before I leave.”

Wanda scrutinizes him, taking in the slight hunch of his shoulders and the crystalline blue of his eyes in the sun, “Yes,” the effect of assent on his features is rapid, body straightening out while becoming slightly less rigid and a softness overtaking his eyes, “Vision, you are always welcome.”

Wanda rushes between the lines of laundry hanging behind the house, hands plucking sheets and shoving them into a bag while her powers yank down the few skirts and blouses she has amassed to form a new, measly wardrobe, which is why she’ll be damned if they are ruined in this storm. She has never lived on a homestead like this, her meager earnings from fortune telling typically affording her a bed in a shared room, at most a single room in a larger tenement, but now she finds herself with space, a small wooden home, sparsely furnished with an actual bedroom, a one stall stable, and a coop she has yet to fill. It is too much, or should be, no one has come to collect payments and Vision tactfully avoids the topic each time it is raised. She doesn’t push him too much though, worried the truth may force her to give this up and the freedom of solitude is far too exquisite, waking to the whisper of the earth each morning a wonderful influence on her mental tranquility. The only downside, so far, to her separation from people, is during moments like now, the sky growing dark, grumbling in the distance as the wind picks up, sending the trees into a shiver.

She finishes her task, rushing to the porch as a peel of thunder rattles the wooden posts holding up the roof and the sky opens. Her breathing evens out now that she’s protected, heart returning to a normal level that brings it to be just slower than the beat of the raindrops.

A faint rumble rises from just beyond the hill, too rhythmic and hurried to be from the sky, the likely culprit a carriage, but that seems ludicrous in such weather. Wanda walks to the end of the porch, her hands wrapping tightly around the bag at her hip as her eyes strain to make out any movement through the curtain of water. No one ever approaches from this direction, the town of Normanskill itself a quarter of a mile south of her, and there are other, better roads to travel for traders who wish to go to the town center. A scowl drags her mouth down, eyes widening when the idiotic traveler crests the hill. She drops the bag immediately, marching to the center of the porch as the carriage pulls up, her voice loud and failing utterly at keeping her worried fury contained, “Vision, are you an imbecile?”

“Yes,” the tremble in his voice is clear even above the thunder, “may I please use your stable?”

How he insists on remaining socially respectable confounds and infuriates her, scarlet oozing from her hands as she points at him, “Get down and come inside,” he begins to gesture towards the stable, “now!”

Hurriedly, and quite uncivilly, he scrambles down from the carriage, four loping steps bring him onto the porch. “Wanda, I—”

Her hands connect with his back, shoving him towards the open doorway and away from the rain starting to blow sideways into the porch, “Inside.” Thankfully the horse is docile as Wanda leads it through the rain, whinnying softly in what she assumes is contentment once it is safely inside the stable. She turns towards the downpour, fists clenched and pulsing with red.

Wanda stomps through the collecting puddles, the edge of her skirt soaking up the water almost as fast as her blouse, but she doesn’t care, her attention honed in on the worried fluctuations of Vision’s mind. He is standing in the middle of the room, hat rotating in an uneasy circle between his fingers, far enough from the door to escape the stray drops coming in but still close enough to watch her approach. A polite host (or so she’s gathered from watching people at her séances) always offers to free a guest of unnecessary clothing, doubtfully, however, by sheathing a hat in scarlet, roughly tearing it from his hands, and tossing it on the table. “What were you thinking?”

“In my defense,” statements starting as such are not what she wants to hear as she circles around him, not caring if he views her actions as untoward when she runs her hands along his jacket to assess its saturation, “it was a pleasant day when I left this morning.”

“Your jacket is soaking.”

Vision is already unbuttoning his jacket before she finishes the sentence, hands moving automatically as he continues to explain his abhorrent decision making, “I had to go to Clarksville to collect a number of custom welded parts,” he slips his arms out of the jacket and Wanda grabs it with her powers, sending it to hang on a hook in the wall, “it was not until I was several miles from the town that the weather grew menacing.” She walks around him, palms skimming the silk back of his waistcoat before transitioning to the textured brocade of the front, the cloth only mildly damp in some places, “By then I had three options, I could return to Clarksville, I could pull off to the side of the road and sit inside the carriage with the machinery, or I knew you were equidistant to me as was Clarksville.” The explanation, of course, makes sense, his rationale fairly seamless and lacking any sign of illogic despite still being foolish, “Miss Maximoff.”

“What?”

There is a gorgeous smile on his face, one so at odds with the anxiety strangling her mind that it holds her body in stasis, “Are you done undressing me yet?”

“I—” Wanda looks down, somewhat horrified at catching her fingers actively undoing the last button of his waistcoat, a blush searing along her neck at the realization, but she collects herself, sliding the button confidently through its hole while adjusting her tone to match the merriment in his eyes, “Depends, do your gas pipes**** need to come off too?”

Her forwardness seems to stun him, eyes widening, brows arching, and what might even be a pinkish tinge forming on his cheekbones as he stutters out a weak retort, “I do not believe that is necessary, I was barely in the rain.” He steps back, breaking her contact with him, regaining some semblance of control and rigor over his voice, and finishes removing the vest, his eyes never leaving her. “If it is acceptable to be concerned about clothing, then might I suggest you change as well.”

“What...” Now that he seems fine, not a trace of concern or fear left in his mind, all wet articles of clothing removed (at least the ones he is willing to part with), Wanda becomes keenly aware of her own dripping garments and the feel of wet hair falling out of her usually tight bun. “I’ll be right back, please um, get comfortable.”

When she returns to him, clothing blissfully dry and her damp hair loose, he is still standing in the center of the room, absentmindedly plucking his gloves off while his eyes roam over the minimal decor—a table with three chairs, a small cabinet where she keeps her dry food and cookery, a hearth, and a two-seat settee. What she had considered spacious now feels dreadfully inadequate under his inspection. “It’s not a manor.”

Vision turns to her, confusion marring his forehead at her apologetic tone, “It is perfectly adequate. I apologize for imposing on you, I am certain you had other things—”

“Vision,” one cycle of apologies is already too many, whatever her afternoon was going to entail, this is far preferable, “I told you, you are always welcome.” Vision is not her first guest, that honor went to Clint and his eldest son, Cooper, the other week, but where that visit felt easy with little expectation of cordial etiquette, Wanda now realizes she has no notion at how, precisely, to host someone who knows every last rule for such things. She is, however, fairly sure that standing in the middle of a room staring at one another is not considered acceptable. “Would you like to sit?”

The options are limited, his eyes first moving to the couch but that, she has already reckoned, would require their legs to touch, and thus she isn’t surprised, maybe a touch disappointed, when he takes a seat at the table. “Will you join me?”

“Of course,” Wanda is aware the appropriate seat to take is the one across from him, an innocuous distance for respectable interactions, which is why she bypasses the chair, settling herself at the head of the table, her feet knocking lightly against his as she adjusts to be comfortable. Now that they’re close, the threat of the weather kept at bay by the walls around them, she can see the exhaustion manifesting in darkening circles beneath his eyes, even his body is less poised, leaning forward with his hands on the table. “So,” his hands are actually on the table, no gloves present nor is he shoving them in his pockets, and it sends a thrill down her spine to know he feels this level of comfort around her.

“My apologies.”

Vision’s hands begin to retreat, but she reaches out, trapping them in a tentative embrace. “No,” the fact he has not flinched nor attempted to remove himself from her grip encourages her to remain touching him, a firm, earnest squeeze hopefully conveying her gratitude at his openness, “I’m sorry for staring.”

Vision nods, a perceptive smile on his lips as he returns the squeeze, absolving her misstep. “It is fine.”

“Tell me,” Wanda sits back, reluctantly pulling her hand from his, not wanting to cause him too much social discomfort at the onset of their gathering, “what is so important about this exhibition that Stark is fine putting you in danger?”

The light jab at Stark is artfully sidestepped with a raised eyebrow of dissent, nothing more. “It is an event to showcase the industrial advancements from around the world. Mr. Stark attended the Great Exhibition two years ago in London.”

“Did you go as well?”

Vision threads his fingers together, a melancholic air instilling his actions, “I journeyed with him, otherwise I would have had to forgo my treatments and, well, at that point I had finally managed to walk properly and,” the pause in his thought is deafening and she desperately wants to find something to say, yet her own tongue is silent. Vision shakes his head, a small movement not even strong enough to stir his hair, “but I did not attend the actual exhibition, thankfully, as Mr. Stark was approached by several of my prior contemporaries. It sounded marvelous, however, so much so that once we returned Mr. Stark immediately formed a coalition amongst several private businesses and now,” he waves his hands much like she’s seen mesmerists do when the finale has concluded in their show, though Vision’s is less expressive and showy, “the Exhibition starts on the 14th, even President Pierce will be there.”

“I don’t view that as a selling point.”

This receives a deep laugh, one she knows would never occur outside the freedom of their current privacy just as the unfettered delight in his voice would be silenced if just one more person were present, “Mr. Stark is actually hosting a private soirée at the same time as the President’s in protest of his tacit support for the anti-abolitionists.”

An entertaining fact, one that won’t change her view of Stark, only reaffirming the extraordinary protection of wealth. People will no doubt laugh at Stark, roll their eyes and whisper about the eccentric millionaire whereas if she were seen at such an event, her deportation would be imminent, a concern that shifts to the man next to her, “Are you attending that?”

“No,” the strength and immediacy of his answer is reassuring, “I purposefully remain at a distance from such topics in public. My only occupational requirements for this trip are Mr. Stark’s inventions and upkeep of Stark Tower.” An imposing structure, one of the only buildings in the city over five stories and one she has possibly cursed at several times in passing. “I have also been ordered,” a word she loathes and almost comments on until he smiles broadly, “to take personal time and enjoy the Exhibition.”

“Good,” she matches his grin, fighting the temptation to reach out and touch his hand again, “You work too hard for that man.”

Another avoidance of her commentary changes the focus of their conversation, “How is your business?” A topic they have danced around, for the most part, one that veers them awfully close to thoughts they’ve kept prohibited from their time together.

“Um,” the easiest tactic is to mirror Vision, avoid it with a wave of a hand or a subtle shift back to him, yet that would only continue them down a road of leaving things that might need to be said unsaid and she doesn’t want that as a cornerstone of their relationship, whatever that relationship may be. “Poorly, actually,” Vision sits up straighter, concern overtaking every inch of his face, “they don’t seem terribly interested in palm readings.”

His mouth opens, then shuts, a finger raised to ask for a moment’s patience and she watches him stand, walk to where his coat is hanging and rifle through the inside pockets until he pulls out a box and a small, leather bound notebook. “Would it help,” apprehension fills his movements as he returns to his seat, laying the easily recognizable box on the table, “if you could expand your offerings?”

“How long have you been carrying those around?”

Carefully he opens the lid of the box, removing the cards in two stacks before placing them on the table, his eyes never quite meeting hers, “Since you refused to take them, I, um,” he fiddles with the notebook now, flipping the pages back and forth, showing her the meticulous lines of his writing, “have been transcribing the cards during my downtime and thought you or we—”

When he first offered her this gift it instilled in her an anger, her refusal predicated on not wanting to think of him whenever she used the tarot cards, of needing to throw away all memory of her time at the manor. Perceptions can shift, however, quite swiftly and strongly, a burgeoning excitement now racing through her body at the thoughtfulness of the action. “You want me to write the Sokovian next to each one.”

“Yes.” The syllable is drawn out as both a statement and a question, his plan predicated on her agreement and also her ability to write, something that is not a guarantee for individuals of their backgrounds. Luckily her parents were strong advocates of education, insisting she and Pietro spend extra time at the synagogue each week to learn all they could.

Wanda reaches out, drawing the notebook towards her, “Do you have anything to write with?” Another raised finger and another journey to his coat concludes in her holding an intricate metal fountain pen*****, “Okay,” she tests the pen on the paper, impressed at the smoothness of the writing, “what’s first?”

Slowly he turns each card, reading her the words at the bottom and then showing her where on the sheet he has it written, his face remaining close to hers as he watches her, an inquisitiveness filling his mind at the translations. The whole activity is calming, diversions peppered throughout as he asks her some interpretations. Apparently, he has been reading about the practice of tarot, finding the disproportionate numbers of alternative meanings alarming. It’s as they move from the major arcana to the cups, that his next line of questioning begins, “Wanda.”

“Yes?”

Vision stares at a card, lips pursed and eyes distant in thought, “Did you know English, before immigrating?”

She’d been expecting another spirited debate on whether a reversed card should be interpreted differently from its usual meaning, not a step into her past, but she obliges, not wanting to be disingenuous, as Vision himself argued the other day, by denying such information. “None, I learned it to survive once I got here.” Amazement bursts from his mind, procuring a small half smile from her, encouraging her to share a bit more. “I actually,” at the time she found the method demoralizing, only in retrospect is she able to accept the somewhat humorous methods of her early months in the city, “I would have to mime what I wanted, sometimes I would resort to clucking to buy chicken.”

“I never,” he pauses, words escaping him as he looks at her, admiration clear in his features, one she doesn’t particularly feel she deserves, “It must have been quite difficult.”

Wanda nods at the understatement, “It was, fortunately after several months I ended up renting a room from a couple who were kind enough to teach me.”

The information is factual, surface level, which means the deep contemplation on his face spurs the nervousness growing in her stomach, she has no issue being truthful, but she is worried that too much truth might lead to an irreparable judgment of her. Wanda stands, channeling her nerves into ambling towards the window to confirm the rain is still falling. When she turns back he is watching her, head cocked to the side and his face serious, “Why did you leave Sokovia?”

The tapestry of her life is stitched in a complicated pattern, not one thread able to tell the entire story, yet all it might take to unravel the deeply buried secrets of her life is a tug of gentle, earnest curiosity in a tantalizing accent. She needs time to determine what to say, her mind having been consumed with how he would view her simply based on the séance that she devoted little of her cogitation to explaining the rest, justifying the unjustifiable so as not to scare him away. This, she realizes, is a weakness she had avoided since Pietro died, a strong and unwavering commitment to never grow attached or settle roots. How she allowed it to happen is concerning, but not enough to run just yet, the promise of something more buried in his eyes incredibly alluring. “Are you hungry?”

Vision blinks rapidly, half rising out of his chair as he responds, “I suppose I could eat, may I help with anything?”

“You can sit,” he’s too kind, too honest, too genuine for her, “I only have bread and cheese inside, not much to prepare.” The cabinet door blocks her from his sight, his attention stifling in a way that is both desirable and terrifying, her heart torn between celebrating his interest and fleeing into the night. The latter option is not actually considered because she knows he’d follow and she won’t do that to him twice. Wanda returns to the table with two tin plates, no ornate designs or even shiny surfaces to compare to what she used at the manor. She lights a lantern, turning the knob to illuminate the tabletop as the sun sets. “So why Vision?”

“Pardon?”

Wanda nibbles on her bread, the diversion faltering already, “Why did you choose Vision for your name?”

His gaze is wary, a flash of hurt at her redirection, but unlike her he answers, keeping it brief yet informative. “Whenever Mr. Stark was explaining the procedures and the results of my surgeries, the one thing he kept saying to me as reassurance whenever I wanted to give up, was that I was a vision of the future of medicine. If this worked for me, think of how many others could be helped by the same procedure.” He shrugs, eyes turned down towards the plate. “It felt appropriate to assume that as my identity, merely a vision, nothing more.”

“You are far more than that.”

A small smile dismisses the affirmation, leaving them to eat in silence, the air around them growing more humid as the rain continues, even the small movement of eating a piece of bread meeting resistance. It is not the weather, however, that Wanda finds most uncomfortable, that causes her lungs to malfunction and her breathing to be labored, no it is that his question hangs in the air despite his politeness to not repeat it. If she wants to lose him, to return to a life of no ties then she should remain silent. “I left Sokovia because I literally had nothing left there.” Empathy curves his mouth down, his food forgotten as he stares at her. “After my parents died, my brother,” she corrects herself, deciding it isn’t worth minimizing the uniqueness of the experience nor the striking pain of losing the other half of her soul, “My twin, Pietro, we survived for many years, odd jobs and some stealing,” she pauses, gauging his response to the minor crime of survival but nothing changes, his gaze unmoving and his mind is calm with openness to hear her experience. “I told you that I volunteered for the procedure for,” Wanda sets her hand ablaze.

“Yes, you did.”

“Pietro was with me, he went through it too.”

The first crack in his visage occurs, a wrinkle protruding from his forehead. “Why?”

Wanda has asked herself this question numerous times, both with Pietro and after, nothing ever feeling wholly right but that assumes all behavior makes perfect sense. “It paid well,” so well that it wasn’t until she moved to upstate New York that she ran out of the money saved from their trials, “really well, on purpose, I assume, to tempt vulnerable people into the program.” The next part of their motivation is stronger than the money, a firmer, more, in her mind, logical reason for their willingness to be turned into monsters, “They also promised employment if you made it through the experiments,” but she can’t bring herself to tell him the whole truth of this employment, of the guarantee of revenge instilled in their duties.

“Did they tell you beforehand what they were doing?”

“No.”

The empathy fades into an irritation, one that keeps descending into anger, his voice hardened, “That is despicable, that is malign manipulation.”

There is no denying his statement, his anger mirrored in herself as well. “It was,” she and Pietro almost left after the first round of surgeries, the pain immense, debilitating, but with each procedure and each advancement in the program, with each person that died instead of them, the money increased. “But that’s not the worst of it.” She takes his horrified silence as acquiescence to continue, “After they were done we moved back to Novi Grad, were able to afford an apartment, could eat full meals every meal.”

“Wanda, what happened?” It’s whispered, tentative, almost regretful, but he won’t look away, desperate to show her he is listening.

She already told him of Stark’s swift removal from Sokovia, the lasting impact it had on the economy which became a major factor in the way their country responded to other regional events, “There was unrest, rumors of revolutions in the other territories of the Empire*****,” she remembers Pietro’s face when they heard of the German resistance and then of the uprisings in Prague, his heart drumming even faster than his feet at the notion of leading a revolt in their own collapsing city. “Hungary had just changed laws, restricted our language, our trade abilities, our religion.” As the tensions rose in the city, they were instructed to keep a low profile while in public, use of their abilities prohibited unless they were on official business for the Baron, but Pietro started pushing back, questioning why he could not use his speed to help his country. “People were angry and superstitious and ready to fight.” It was a fire in a hospital, people whispered that the Austrian army started it, others said it was Sokovian rebels, regardless of the arsonist, she and Pietro determined they had to help. “Someone saw me use my powers to save a woman from a fire.” Wanda can feel tears on her cheeks, a shaky inhale doing nothing to steady the quiver of her voice, and she finds she can’t look at him any longer, can’t handle the sadness and fear in his eyes. “They accused me of being a witch, they started throwing rocks, bricks, whatever was near, and they were screaming, the crowd just kept growing. Then someone tried to shoot me. Pietro, he,” the image of his body stiffening and then folding in on itself as he fell to the ground is forever burned into her memory, the hollowness of his eyes haunt her almost as much as the fact she never got to cradle him or say goodbye, a supposedly well-meaning man yanking her from the crowd before she died too. “I couldn’t stay there without him.” She can’t hold in the sob, feels her own body crumple, mild confusion cutting through her tears when she lands against a shirt and not the table.

Vision wraps his arms around her, hugging her close while whispering apologies into her hair, his heart pounding beneath her cheek, the metallic waft of his body bringing her gradually back to the present. She weakly attempts to break from his embrace, palms pressed against his chest as she pushes just far enough away to see his dampened eyes. “Wanda,” her name breaks in half as he says it, his arms rearranging from hugging her to tucking his elbows into his sides, his hands cupping her face, thumbs wicking away the tears crashing down her cheeks. “You,” he strokes her skin with each word, “are extraordinary.”

The barrier of his hands makes it hard for her to vehemently shake her head, “No, I’m not.”

A smile cracks under his tears, “You are the single most extraordinary person I have ever met.”

“No,” he doesn’t know what he’s condoning, his basis of her character relying on partial truths that glance over the most unsavory bits of her life, “you should be terrified of me.”

He shakes his head, denying her statement without reservation, “I have no reason to be fearful of you, Wanda.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“If you truly doubt the veracity of my statement,” it is almost painful, the loss of his hands on her face until he reaches down and grabs her shaking hand, guiding it to his cheek, “you are always welcome to look for yourself.”

Only Pietro ever gave such a statement, this level of trust unwarranted, misguided, and exceptionally foolish. It is possible he misunderstands the breadth of his offer. “You’re aware you are giving me permission to access your thoughts at any time?”

“Yes,” his eyes light up, beckoning her into her head. “I have faith you will do so judiciously.”

It is very tempting to dive in, feel the soothing rhythm of his orderly thoughts, but she can’t, not without confirming he truly understands his offer. “How?”

He repeats his earlier sentiment, as if it should be readily assumed and unquestionable, “There is no reason for me to distrust your intentions towards me.”

“You have every reason to distrust me.”

“No,” the joy fades from his eyes, replaced by a steadfast certainty and strength that stirs a fire in her chest at how seamlessly his devotion and single-mindedness transfers to her. “I will concede that Mr. Stark has every reason to distrust you,” truer words have possibly never been spoken, “but, I do not.”

“Vision.”

He does not allow her to counter him yet, “Did you harm me? Yes, immensely,” an admission that causes her to wince, “but it was done inadvertently. I understand and respect your disdain towards Stark though I do not condone your actions,” a fact he has made clear in his avoidance of her demeaning remarks towards the man. “Yet I also believe that relying only on the worst aspects of behavior and negating the good can lead to illogically prejudiced beliefs. Thus,” Vision bends his head to make sure their eyes are level, the brilliant blue of his eyes sparkling in the light of the lantern, “it seems reasonable to separate your treatment and beliefs of Stark from your view of me. Or am I wrong in my assumption?”

How she found this man must involve sorcery or kismet—kindness, understanding, and a propensity to forgive an uncommon match. “You are nothing like Stark.”

He places his hand over hers, his face almost as confident as it was during paille maille except for a tenderness in his eyes, one that seems to melt her resolve and give in to the sensation of being two souls swirling together by the flickering light of a dying lantern. “That only confirms my point, you have never harbored animosity towards me. Even after you learned my own secrets, nothing changed. You treat me with the same respect and you still insist on challenging my views instead of reaffirming my place in this world.”

“Some of your views are terribly askew.”

His laughter is joyous, twining through her being, igniting her soul, “Yes, I have discovered my ignorance now.”

Wanda wiggles her thumb free from the cocoon of his hand, running it along his cheek, enthralled at the effect it has, his eyes closing and she realizes how close they are, how all it would take is to lean forward and shatter the last boundary of propriety. It is immensely tempting, not just to test the waters of mutual affection but to also eschew sleep, stay wrapped in his honeyed voice, allow his subdued laughter and intense gaze to consume her body, but she knows he has barely slept, worries this closeness is a mixture of empathy, exhaustion, and politeness. “It is quite late.”

Vision’s mouth dips at her statement, the disappointment in his eyes is painful, but far more excruciating is the moment he leans back, severing their connection as he pats his hands against his chest. A tendril of scarlet leaves her hand retrieving the pocket watch from his discarded waistcoat. His frown deepens when he clicks open the lid. “It is very late.” He tries hard to make the statement sound authoritative, yet his own remorse at confirming the undeniable truth causes a quivering hesitation to shake the words. A moment later Vision stands, slightly uneven strides bringing him to the door where he examines the pitch black night that no longer rings with rain. “The tavern has beds, correct?"

“You can’t seriously think it's a good idea to travel now.”

Despite the gradual easing of his behaviors and the loosening of his resolve to remain proper at all times, the overall influence of his deeply ingrained manners is still strong. “I do not wish to impose further.”

“You can stay.”

Her words draw him two steps back into the room, though his face is still not wholly convinced of accepting the offer. “What will people think, if I stay?” The concern in his voice isn’t for him, but for the flimsy social code that polices behavior, particularly against women if there is any blame to be had.

Wanda shrugs, “No one knows you’re here, Vision. And if they find out,” she channels her own fluttering nervousness at the possibility of staying with him longer into a feigned nonchalance, hoping not only to convince him to remain but to also, perhaps, decipher the true meaning of his intentions, “They will simply assume it was a bundling******”.

“I-um, I,”

The fact he does not outright deny it or question it, that he doesn’t ask why they would think such a thing or deem it a preposterous statement enlivens her confidence, a wry smile growing on her lips as she pushes the notion more, “I mean ever since your first visit there’s been a flurry of gossip about my handsome suitor,” a mostly accurate statement, there have been many pointed looks and some bawdy inquiries from Mrs. Meisner and the other bored ladies of a dizzy age******* “No one would mind, they might even expect it.”

The flabbergasted expression on his face shifts, moving first to denial, then consideration, waltzing briefly with confusion, until it settles on a deeply invested gaze of scrutiny. “Does it trouble you that such prurient******** assumptions may be made?”

The question brings her to the precipice of her wants for the future, to remain independent, alone, unattached which is safer, or to forge ahead with something new, that carries with it a high price of potential pain if it crumbles. “No.”

He takes three more steps into the room, the door shutting behind him with an echoing thud and her heart sings at the victory. “I suppose I can stay but I insist on sleeping on the settee.”

Wanda tamps down the rebellious urge to jostle him further by suggesting her bed, an option he’d in the best scenario laugh nervously at but decline and in the worst, say no and flee into the night. “Of course.” They find themselves back at the beginning of his visit, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, staring and waiting for the other to set the course of what comes next. Honestly, Wanda doesn’t know what should occur, how far she can interpret his responses, whether he actually wants the people to think they are in a courtship or if he is simply falling back on politeness as he is wont to do. She gives him a curt nod and a “Goodnight, Vision,” turning towards the bedroom to place the decision in his hands.

“Wanda?”

The whisper of her name ties itself around her heart and pivots her back towards him, “Vision?”

“I wanted to thank you for allowing me to stay. I-” the words are ushered out by the restless waving of his fingers and another step towards her, his eyes seemingly torn between her face and watching his hands betray his nerves, “thoroughly enjoyed your company.”

The emphasis he puts on the thoroughly seems to shrink the room around them, increasing her own awareness of how close they are standing, his even breaths echoing around her and she fears he might be able to hear the rampant drumming of her heart. Wants are dangerous things, unnecessary diversions that can only complicate life, and yet her decision earlier is only strengthened in this moment, staring up into the confused yet curious gaze of this man, of how very much she wants to be closer to him, in numerous literal and figurative ways. Wanda takes a step forward and the room shrinks even more, the space around them narrowing so much any movement, even a simple inhale, would cause them to touch. So Wanda continues, a half step forward brings her chest to brush his and a stream of scarlet from the hand at her hip helps steady her as she rises onto her toes, other hand coming to lay on his shoulder. “Me too.” The cessation of his breath and the crumbling of his calm and orderly thoughts as she presses her lips to his cheek confirms what she had hoped, that perhaps it isn’t merely civility influencing his actions.

Wanda flashes him a demure smirk as she lowers herself back to the ground, her tongue preparing to say another good night before she sneaks away to privately relish her bravery, but the intensity of his stare gives her pause. “Vision?” His continued silence is disconcerting and a quick, hopefully unnoticed brush of his mind uncovers a fascinating phenomenon as his thoughts seem to collapse into a tight bundle of single-minded ideation. Earlier he had offered her access to his mind whenever she pleased, and now her curiosity, her desire to know his thoughts, gives her the courage to accept that offer, his breath hitching as she lays her palm to his jaw, “May I?” A silent nod grants her permission and she enters his mind. A broad, goading grin shoves her cheeks up at what he allows her to read. “I’d very much like that.”

It takes a moment for him to translate her consent and piece it together with her presence in his mind, but once the puzzle is complete, Vision smiles softly, bringing his hands to her face in a purposefully lazy pace, his fingertips skimming along her skin until her cheeks are cupped by his palms. Wanda’s own smile has to defy the laws of anatomical possibility by growing wider, expanding from her mouth to fill her entire body, her hands wrapping excitedly around his wrists, the contrast between his skin and the metal captivating, and she uses her grip on him to pull herself up just as he bends down. The kiss is tender yet chaste, polite but not devoid of passion, an unspoken, ineffable rightness in the way his lips move ever so slightly against hers. Much too soon he pulls back, his thumb brushing her cheek as he stares into her eyes, flashing her a charming, spoony******** smile that she immediately reciprocates. “You know,” she grips his wrists a bit tighter, “If they believe we’re bundling already…”

A self-conscious, though charmed, laugh meets her words; if the light was just a bit brighter she knows there’d be a blush on his face to match the one in his mind. “Goodnight, Wanda.”

“Goodnight, Vision.”

Victorian Language Decoder:

* yard-of-pumpwater: tall and lanky man

**In 1853, in a small town with steady jobs, the average daily wage was between $1-$1.50

***hornswaggler: cheater

****gas-pipes: Pants, typically particularly tight ones, though I doubt Vision wears tight pants. I just liked the term

*****The fountain pen with an ink reservoir was first available in the 1700s but didn’t meet mass production until around the 1830s in England and the 1850s in the US.

******During the 1840s a series of revolts started where the countries ruled under the Austrian Empire (including Germany, Austria, and most of Eastern Europe) were beginning to demand autonomy, largely encouraged by economic depression and food shortages. The first big revolts were in Poland and Germany in 1846 and then from 1846-1848 there were major uprisings in Slovakia, Romania, and Croatia (there were others but those are closest to where Sokovia would be located).

*******Bundling: a practice in courtship where the two people are wrapped/bundled together in bed (apparently, they were given separate blankets) and were expected to spend the evening talking (I’m sure there was lots of “talking”). It was not super common in the 1800s, but was still practiced in many places in upper NY and Pennsylvania into the late 1800s. There was actually a NY court case (Graham v. Smith, 1846) about the seduction of a 19-year-old woman, but the court was like – “What did you expect to happen when you had them bundle?!” (not a direct quote)

******* Dizzy age: elderly

********prurient: having or encouraging an excessive interest in sexual matters

*********spoony: foolishly amorous/stupid with love

#Scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #vision #AU #victorian au #mine #ao3 #fanfic #hopefully you all enjoy #I decided to end this on an earlier scene than planned #i have another 6 pages but that can wait until next time #AOS

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loraleislysiren · 7 years

Text

Siren Song - 8

For the remainder of the Charms lesson, Draco and Y/N didn’t speak, make eye contact, or interact in any way. Instead, Y/N focused intently on repairing her lilac and gold filigree teapot. Using reparo, she managed to fix her porcelain second quickest in the class. Finishing only behind Hermione, who was indeed still in possession of her wand, Y/N was pleased with her own command of the spell.

The way she figured it, Draco could keep her wand until the end of class. She didn’t need it yet.

Not wanting to tarnish her reputation with her Charms professor, especially after Flitwick had already scolded her for using her magic against Draco, she swiftly formulated a plan to take her wand back after class. Y/N would simply wait until they were out of the classroom and she’d attempt to discretely accio it back. Easy, she hoped.

She wasn’t about to risk getting into further trouble in class, not because of him. He was simply not worth it she decided.

When Flitwick dismissed class, Y/N scanned the room for Blaise. They had Potions together next and he was going to show her how to get there.

Professor Flitwick, however, had no knowledge of, and thus no regard for Y/N’s intentions. He approached the Slytherin student as she was collecting her bag from the chair. “Ms. L/N.”

“Yes, Professor?”

“I’d like to continue working with you on developing your wandless magic. Perhaps pick up where your Ilvermorny instructor left off. Would this be something you’d be interested in?”

Y/N smiled, “Absolutely. I’m definitely interested in that.” A perfectionist through and through, she genuinely wanted to hone her craft. She took pride in the fact that her magical abilities were distinct from her peers, although she was careful not to intentionally brag about it.

“From what I have seen today, you have a particular gift with charms.”

“Thank you. I’ve always loved Charms class and just charms in general.” She spoke honestly.

“I can see that, and you have a real knack for it, it seems. I have a book you might find interesting, and you may borrow it if you like.”

An avid reader, Y/N replied, “I would, sir, thank you.”

“Give me just one moment, and I’ll grab it for you.” Flitwick turned his back on his student, walked to the front of the classroom, and began cycling through the titles of a stack of books taller than himself.

As she waited for Flitwick, Y/N noticed Blaise waiting next to the door with a tall brunette boy she guessed to be Theo. Not sure of how long Flitwick would take, she motioned for them to go ahead and head on without her.

She directed her attention back to her professor who was carefully pulling a dingy salmon colored book from the middle of the stack. Flitwick walked back to Y/N and handed her the book. The pages were gilded and its title read Charmed, Naturally: A Guide for Abandoning the Wand.

“It contains techniques and tips on learning to channel your magic without your wand. You might find some of the advice pertinent to you.”

“Thank you, Professor. I can’t wait to look through it.” She smiled, appreciating his generosity.

“Ms. L/N, just make sure you bring your wand to class next time, just in case. And I hope you have a great day.”

“You too, Professor Flitwick. Thank you.” She turned and exited the classroom.

As the door behind Y/N shut, a voice spoke up from her right, “That was pretty impressive, you know.” Hermione offered a small smile to the Slytherin girl. “Not just about the wandless magic, which if I might add, I’ve never seen anyone our age do, but also what you did with Malfoy. I didn’t want to say anything in there, but did you see his face? I don’t think he quite expected that.” The brunette’s smile broke into a large grin. She had been waiting for Y/N to exit the classroom so the pair could continue talking.

“I honestly wasn’t expecting it either. I lost it when I saw that he had my wand. Did you see that? He had my wand literally up his sleeve.” She shook her head in annoyance. “He must have taken it out of my bag or something. I knew I had it with me earlier!” She paused, briefly in thought. “But that’s not even what irritates me the most… he was just going to let me get in trouble with Flitwick for something he did, for something that was his fault. ” Y/N exhaled a frustrated sigh.

“That’s Draco Malfoy for you. A coward who cares about no one but himself.” The Gryffindor’s speech turned hard and unapologetic.

“Yeah, I seem to get that impression. Last night at dinner he told me I wasn’t aloud to sit near him because… “ Y/N hoped Hermione was more openminded than some of her Slytherin compatriots, “because I think the whole ‘blood status matters’ argument is ridiculous. And apparently he cares very deeply about blood purity.” She punctuated the sentence with a roll of her eyes.

Hermione’s eyes, however, momentarily flashed dark; she knew firsthand of Malfoy’s cruel treatment towards muggle borns. “I couldn’t agree with you more. It’s honestly barbaric to think that your blood purity determines your capability as a witch or wizard. It’s insulting. So, are you muggle born?”

“No, but I hope you won’t hold that against me.” Y/N smiled, wanting to change the conversation away from Draco Malfoy and blood purity.

“Not at all.”

“Perfect. Because I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”

“Alright, what would the favor be?” Hermione’s voice was now riddled with trepidation. “Could you possibly help me find my way to the Potions classroom? I was told that Slytherins have Potions with Gryffindors after Charms. I know I’m headed back down to the dungeon, but would you mind if I tagged along with you? If you’re headed that way… ”

Hermione chuckled lightly, “Why do you think I waited for you? Navigating this castle, especially as a new student, can be tricky.” “Yeah, I’m kind of surprised no one gave me a map of the castle. Ilvermorny passes out maps to first years so they don’t get lost. But maybe it’s Hogwarts way of encouraging new students to talk to people.” Y/N smiled at the brunette.

Truth be told, in spite of the warnings about Gryffindors, Y/N was happy to have Hermione’s company. From what little time she had spent with her in Charms and in the hallway, the intuitive Slytherin felt like Hermione was a decent person. At least she seemed more amiable and accepting than her Slytherin roommates. Hermione and Y/N twisted through the castle’s dungeon passages before arriving at the Potions classroom. Y/N pushed open the heavy door, and the girls entered the chilly room.

Stepping just over the room’s threshold and then stopping, Y/N was struck by how different this classroom felt from the rest of Hogwarts. The initial word her mind impressed upon the room was somber. The air was still, stagnant, and to Y/N, seemed almost sepulchral.

Whereas the Charms classroom was airy and inviting (with massive windows filtering in dusty sunlight onto warm wooden floors), the Potions room was dim and slightly oppressive. Light, an enemy to the room, fought through a singular, small window and Y/N couldn’t distinguish if its source was natural or magical. Pallid candles that dripped melting wax dotted the room in a feeble attempt to provide more illumination. Candlelight flickered against the stones walls and low, vaulted dome ceilings. Blackwood shelves, which lined three quarters of the room’s walls, contained hundreds of glass jars of varying sizes. The contents of the jars, marked by labels written in scrawling black ink, contained: dried plants of all designs and colors, pickled animal parts preserved in (yellow, green, and brown) brine, incandescent, iridescent, shimmery bug wings, dried and shriveled beans, herbs, coarse and fine powders, multi-colored liquids, and numerous other ingredients ready to be plucked for the cauldron at a moments notice.

Hermione interrupted Y/N’s cataloguing of the potion ingredients, “Professor Snape assigns us seats. I’d wait to find a seat until he gives you one. Or you could end up taking someone else’s seat, and I don’t think he’d be too happy with that.”

“Thanks for the tip.” She smiled at Hermione as the Gryffindor found her seat. Over the next few minutes, the Potions classroom began to fill with students locating their spots. Y/N wondered who she would sit next to and hoped she wouldn’t be forced to sit alone. At the back of the classroom she noticed an empty table where no one had chanced to sit yet.

“Ms. L/N,” Professor Snape — a monochromatic image of black hair, sallow skin, and black robes — appeared from the shadows of the room. Had he been standing there all along?

Snape continued and drew the attention of the rest of his students, “We are going to create a Girding Potion today. Are you familiar with it?” He spoke to everyone, yet he addressed the question directly to Y/N.

Y/N, who wasn’t expecting to be interrogated before even finding a seat, hesitated a moment, “A Girding Potion, Professor?”

“Yes, Ms. L/N, a Girding Potion. Are you familiar with it?” Snape leered at the girl, his patience waning by the second.

“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never made it.”

“And could you enlighten me to its purpose?” Towards the front of the classroom, Hermione’s hand shot straight up in the air.

Y/N articulated, “A Girding Potion is for endurance. It’s like a boost for your stamina, I believe.”

Snape’s face partially softened towards the Slytherin at her correct answer. “Ms. L/N is correct. Five points to Slytherin.”

Snape paced the length of the room as he spoke. “We will be making the Girding Potion today. It is indeed known for bolstering endurance, and a single dosage can last up to two weeks. Known to provide its user with a considerable boost of fortitude, I caution any of you thinking about drinking this potion in large quantities. More than two vials at a time can have detrimental effects.

You will find the list of ingredients and directions on the board, as always. You will be creating this potion individually, but you may discuss the directions with your partner. I will be circling the room providing guidance so none of you burn down,” he stared at Neville Longbottom, “or blow up,” he moved his gaze to Seamus Finnegan, “my classroom.”

Snape looked over his students’ faces, anticipating questions. When none arose, he walked to the back of the room and spoke, “You may begin. You have until the end of class.”

“Ms. L/N,” Snape now stood ten paces in front of Y/N, “you will be working with Mr. Malfoy.” In creeping horror, she realized her professor was standing next to a table with Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle. Was this really happening? Of all the people Snape could have chosen, did it have to be him? Also shocked by Snape’s decision, Draco’s eyes widened and his mouth raced to catch up with his thoughts about his new Potions partner, “But Professor, don’t you think that—“

Snape cut him short, “You see, Ms. L/N, I’ve been generous and let these three,” he rapped on the Slytherin boys’ table, “work together. We had an odd number of students, and now we don’t. That is why Mr. Malfoy,” Snape now turned to Draco, “will sit with you and be your Potions partner.”

“Professor, are you sure?“ Draco, protesting, was desperate for Snape to change his mind. With a slew of reasons popping into his head, Draco knew sitting next to Y/N would be a complicated distraction. “I’m sure there is someone else who would —“

“Do not challenge me, Mr. Malfoy. Your grades are exceptional in my class, and with exception comes privilege. You will help Ms. L/N, is that clear?” Snape’s tone was dry and unyielding.

“Yes, Professor.” Those words were bitter in Draco’s mouth and he had to fight the urge to keep arguing with Snape. He knew he had lost this battle.

Y/N and Draco’s belongings (bags, cauldrons, quills, wands) appeared at the once empty table at the back of the room. The Slytherins took their spots in their new seats.

“Thank you, Professor.” Y/N managed to utter before Snape turned and walked away. The moment Snape was out of earshot, Y/N rounded on the blonde next to her and demanded, “Give me back my wand. Right now.” Her voice was firm, but calm.

Draco, not to be intimidated by a girl much smaller than he was, took a step towards Y/N and closed the distance between the pair considerably. He was still fuming that she had drenched him with water in front of everyone; Draco was use to embarrassing others, not the other way around. He didn’t handle humiliation well, especially from a blood traitor new girl. There was no way he was going to make this easy for her. “And why would I want to do that?” He taunted her.

“Because it’s not yours. Now give it back to me.”

“Demanding, aren’t we? You’re not even going to say pretty please? Now that’s rude.” Draco sneered at Y/N.

Y/N, not backing down, folded her arms across her chest and stared hard at the boy in front at her. “Give. Me. My. Wand. Or —”

“Or what? What are you going to do? Conjure some more water to drop over my head? Good luck, you’ll earn detention with Snape. He won’t be easy with you like Flitwick was.”

Unfortunately, Y/N believed he was probably telling the truth. She got the impression that her Potions professor wouldn’t tolerate such behavior without substantial punishment. “Maybe I’ll just tell Snape the truth… that you took my wand from me and won’t return it.”

Draco challenged her, “Go ahead, tattle. Do it. Snape won’t believe you. I’m his favorite student. He’ll listen to me any day over you.” Draco was confident in this fact. “Besides, he doesn’t allow wands out anyway. But go ahead, see what happens.”

Y/N was growing irritated. “Seriously? What is wrong with you? Do you think holding my wand hostage is a game? Is it fun for you?”

“Did you think it was fun dropping a ball of water over my head?”

“Yes,” Y/N replied cheekily without hesitation. “But you deserved it.”

Draco took another step closer to her, “Then I think this is great fun. And you deserve it.” The corners of his mouth turned up maliciously. His confidence swelled and he felt like he had regained control over her. Draco knew he had the upper hand against Y/N. “Let’s make a deal, shall we?”

“How about we skip the deal and you just give me my wand back.” She wanted none of his bullshit bargaining.

“No no no. Where’s the fun in that? You had your fun with me, now it’s my turn.” He paused for a moment, caught up in a thought. “How about this: if you make a better Girding Potion than me, you can have your wand back.”

She narrowed her eyes at Draco and weighed her odds. “Okay. Deal. But, if I win, if my potion is better, not only do I get my wand back, but you don’t ever again get to tell me where I can and can’t sit. Ever.”

Was she really taking this challenge? Draco hadn’t expected her to concede, let demand something else from him if she was victorious. His arrogance got the best of him, though, and Draco accepted, “Fine. But what do I get if I win?”

“What do you want from me?”

Draco could think of a good many things he wanted from Y/N, none of which he particularly wanted to make public to her. His mind raced, he pondered, “How about…” he stalled, then settled firmly on his answer. “A kiss.” His eyes darted to her lips for a half a second.

Y/N wasn’t sure what Draco was going to come up with, but she definitely didn’t think it would be that. He was handsome, but he had been an ass to her. Shocked and caught off guard, Y/N scoffed, “Absolutely not. I’m not kissing you. Choose something else.”

“Did I say that I wanted you to kiss me? Don’t flatter yourself, L/N.” His voice was a knife, sharp and cutting, and he stressed her last name as if just saying the syllables gave him displeasure. “I would never kiss you.” He knew this was a lie.

“You’ll kiss whoever I want you to kiss, whenever I want you to do it. No house is off limits. I can choose any student I want.” He reveled smugly in his cunningness; he had a plan.

Although Y/N’s better logic warned her to weigh her options more carefully, her pride betrayed her reluctance. She couldn’t attest to how dexterous Draco was at potion making, but she was sure of her own skill. Competitive by nature, Y/N badly wanted to beat him and wipe the smirk off his face. She was use to being underestimated and used this to her advantage, “Fine, Malfoy. It’s a deal.”

Y/N extended her hand to Draco to seal their pact. Draco took her hand in his. Their handshake, which was more like a gentle squeeze, lasted a few awkward seconds longer than either party had anticipated.

“Alright then,” Draco chided, “you’re on.”

#draco x reader #draco malfoy x reader #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom #harry potter x reader #harry potter #slytherin #slytherin house #slytherin pride #blaise zabini #hermione granger #professor flitwick #professor snape #snape #severus snape #hogwarts #charms #potions #loraleisirensong

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