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anonthenullifier · 7 years

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An Auspice of Scarlet

Title: An Auspice of Scarlet

Treat for: @atendrilofscarlet

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Word Count: 5.6k

Prompt: A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter: 1/?

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/27661812

Summary: After another failed seance, Wanda Maximoff finds herself seeking asylum from an unknown millionaire and his reserved, but kind butler. As with most things in her life, it's when the semblance of normalcy and contentment begin to form that her past comes crashing in to upend everything she's worked hard to form. Will the blossom of love be enough to vanquish the demons of her past?

Note: Anya - This is my gift to you in thanks for all of the hard work you put in to organizing the Scarlet Vision Exchange. I don't think anyone realizes just how much work it was to take this on and how amazing it is that things went as smoothly as they did. It was my honor to help you where I could and my delight to see all of the amazing Scarlet Vision works that came from the exchange. You are an amazing and wonderful person that I have enjoyed getting to know through our mutual love of Scarlet Vision. Since you put in so much work, as you are aware because I can't keep secrets, I decided to finally fulfill your request (that you made way way long ago, tried to find it but we have had too many conversations on too many stories to locate it easily) to write a Victorian AU of Scarlet Vision. This is against my better judgment, seeing as I am not an AU writer, but because it's for you, I'll deal with it :). I thought having to write the comic book versions of Wanda and Vision was out of my depth, but this story so far has made me feel like a shark stranded in the middle of the Sahara. So I hope you enjoy this and that it is everything you were hoping for with this AU. I don't know how long it will be, but I promise that I will fill it with as much melodramatic romance and angst, secrets and sordid pasts, misunderstandings and dramatic reconciliations in the rain as possible.

I hope you all enjoy!

Written for @scarletvisionexchange2017

The man holding her hand is trembling, a sickening claminess developing between their palms the longer she feeds the thickening, anticipatory silence. All Wanda wants to do is take her hand back, pack up her things, and eat dinner, but the lack of money to afford food dictates she continue. A deep, well-practiced hum builds in her chest, vibrating up her esophagus before it escapes her lips. There is a gasp in front of her, Harriet, the youngest of the five daughters at the table, no doubt (since she has been gasping about every three seconds), but at least she is receptive and so Wanda tentatively reaches out to her mind.

Despite spending the past three months working exclusively like this, Wanda is still disoriented when touching a mind that is not Pietro’s, the thorn of his name stabbing her heart, wrestling all air from her lungs. She pushes back the pain, the memories, the horror of his loss and instead caresses the surface of Harriet’s mind, searching for something to pull out. A cursory examination reveals only a recently deceased pet, which will have to do. “I believe my spirit guide has arrived.” A flick of Wanda’s finger sends a tendril of scarlet rapping against the underside of the table.

“Oh,” the table shakes as Harriet pounds her feet excitedly on the ground, “What does it look like?”

Wanda breathes in, memorizing the image from Harriet’s mind before pulling her powers out, “A white dog, with well-groomed fur, and a cerulean vest.” Another gasp from across the table is joined by a harumph from Mr. Clammy Hands. “It is informing me its name is Buttons.”

A reminiscent sigh of “My poor poor Buttons” fills the room, allowing enough distraction for Wanda to move on to her next target. An invisible pulse of power shoots into the husband’s head, twisting through his judgmental disregard of her abilities and Wanda has to ignore the ire curled tightly around his thoughts about how much he dislikes having this woman in their home.

“Buttons is running away,” a pained No and a stern Quiet, Harriet, barely register as Wanda delves deeper into the man’s memories, searching for something useful. “He is running towards a figure,” she pauses, trying to remember the advice from the seminar led by the Fox Sisters: give them drama, give them suspense, heightened emotion means heightened gullibility. Wanda drops her voice, emphasizing her accent as she announces: “It is a woman.” The image in the man’s mind clarifies and she can make out every wrinkle on the face, the perennially stray wisp of hair sticking out of the tightly coiled bun that likely horrified such a poised woman, and the intense, hawkish gaze. “She is old.”

A quiet, mournful, “Grandmama…” comes from across the table.

“Harriet,” the connection between their hands break as the girl’s father scolds her, “That is exactly what this…” Wanda parts her eyes enough to watch him gesticulate at her, his voice perfectly conveying his disgust at being a part of this seance, “skilamalink* woman wants.”

The Fox Sisters also emphasized the importance of rearing in the disbelievers, muffling their arguments as efficiently and tersely as possible. They suggested kicking their shin, but Wanda always tries to go for shock, figuring that she should save physical actions for a last-ditch effort. “The spirit has a message for you, Mr. Smith.”

She doesn’t have to watch him to feel the roll of his eyes and the impudence that clings to every movement of his sweaty palms. “Oh, I am sure she does, something about live a long, healthy life of prosperity, and how terribly she misses me and her morning cup of tea on the porch. You are all the same, just-.”

Wanda cuts him off, clenching her fist to grasp the memory firmly, attempting to match her voice to the stern cadence in his mind. “She says to go to the cellar and shove wool in your mouth for misbehaving, Willy.”

Suddenly the room chills, the man motionless, his surprise potent enough to quiet the women surrounding the table. Wanda, for a split second, thinks she might actually have conjured a spirit, until the screech of a chair being pushed back and the thud as it's thrown to the ground causes her to open her eyes to a red face gleaning with sweat, the drops jumping from his mustache into the air as he trembles. “Witch!”

A cacophony fills the room as Harriet screams, falling to the ground, and her sisters join her, crouching low, but Wanda is only focused on Mr. Smith, fingers curling into her palm, her nails digging into her skin, falling into the groove of her long ago acquired scars, horrified at how easily this man rips the red satin cloth from the table, throwing her candles, crystals, and gems onto the floor. All she can seem to think about, as she watches him crumple the cloth, struggle to rip its seams, is how much money this is going to cost if she can’t get it all back. Mr. Smith points an angry, accusatory finger at her, yelling “Witch!” once more before he stalks out of the house.

Wanda looks to the missus for help, but the frizzy-haired woman is pale, could even be a standin for a spirit at a seance, if need be, giving off the impression of being strangled by her high-necked dress. Harriet is even less help, still laying on the ground, surrounded by her sisters who are giggling and fanning her with whatever objects are within reach. Wanda can see Mr. Smith moving outside, slamming his feet in a straight path towards the Hudson and she groans a, “Not again,” before running out of the house after him.

“Mr. Smith!” The futility of talking sense into him does not escape her, yet Wanda always attempts reason first in hopes that one day it will work. William continues his emotional stomp, the tablecloth trailing on the ground, stirring the dirt of the path. Wanda tilts her body forward, steps increasing in pace until she is jogging behind him. Once she catches up to Mr. Smith, she attempts to grab the cloth from him, but his grip is too strong, too fueled by his anger as he fumes, whispering (she can’t tell if it is too her or to the sky) about how easy it would be to reinvoke the witch trials because clearly the people of Salem were on to something.

Eventually another voice follows, a slightly more colored (though still quite pale) Mrs. Smith, with her dress carefully clutched in her hands, pleading “William put her stuff down, this is preposterous,” but he doesn’t. The houses along the path remain silent, though the curtains pull back to reveal curious, terrified faces and Wanda tries to gesture for help, pleading with the bystanders for someone to take pity on her, but each pane is instantly re-covered. “William, please.”

“My house will not suffer a witch.”

Wanda tries one more time to wiggle the cloth free from his hands, but to no avail, and so she re-attempts to reason with him even though she doesn't have to be a witch to foresee it won't have an impact, “I am not a witch.”

They stop, the shallow gulping of water mixing easily with his heavy breathing, and Wanda sighs as Mr. Smith squints at her, a growl developing in his voice as he says. “Then may your spirit guides save your wretched soul.” For the seventh time in the past two weeks she watches as her materials are unceremoniously thrown into the river and then, without another word, she is abandoned.

Wanda stands alone on the riverbank, hands hanging limply at her side, watching as the cloth soaks up the water and begins its descent into the murky depths. An exhausted, fed-up sigh falls from her mouth as she unlaces her boots, strips her stockings from her feet, and hitches her dress up with a thin rope she has learned to carry around just for this situation. Slowly she dips her foot into the water, a half grimace, half relieved smile warring on her face as she wades into the river to collect her materials. Thankfully the sun has not set yet and so the water is tepid, uncomfortable, but not hypothermic.

Even though the temperature of the water is in her favor, the current is not nor are the branches and roots nestled in the sand, catching the tablecloth firmly between a rock and a branch, unwilling to move even with some gentle witchy (she looks over her shoulder before doing this, just to be safe as she’d really prefer not to be known as the first to be burned in the new witch trials) encouragement. It’s only when she braces her feet on two rocks, bending her knees to lower her center of gravity, that she is able to pull hard enough to get the tablecloth loose, but the force of the pull is more than she had intended and it sends her falling backwards into the water. “I,” her hands flop down into the water with a defeated annoyance, “give up.”

Wanda remains sitting in the river, not certain how much time has passed as her thoughts run through the cost of the materials she lost from this seance, certain she will not be eagerly welcomed if she returns later to ask for her candles and gems back. More concerning is that there are only three more families left in the hamlet that she hasn’t contacted, but she’s reluctant to proffer her services, particularly since one is the local minister and his very pregnant wife. Perhaps it is time to move on, yet again. What she does not understand is that, unlike the Fox Sisters who urge vagueness and shifty answers, Wanda actually contacts spirits, well, not real spirits, but the memories of lost loved ones. She does not believe in spiritualism and mesmerism as they teach it because she knows it is all doctored, with wires shoved up sleeves to lift tables, and tin boxes tied to knees to make a rattling sound when a “spirit” enters. Wanda, unlike the rest, actually offers something real, something tangible, but it is as if people are eager to contact the dead until the dead actually respond.

“Pardon me.”

If there is one bright spot to her uncanny ability to be tossed from houses and end up contemplating her life choices in the river, it is that her schedule seems to coincide quite nicely with a handsome, albeit, overdressed gentleman. “Do you always pass by the river at five?”

He hesitates, mouth contorting in amusement as he steps down from the seat of the carriage, his three-piece black suit perfectly matching the black hat on his head and his black-gloved hand dipping into the pocket of his waistcoat to check the time. “Five seventeen, to be exact.”

“Oh well, sorry for my imprecision.”

“It is shameful,” she watches as he examines the ground, feet shuffling the grass from side to side, a curious yet predictable action as he searches for a fallen branch long enough to reach her, never willing to sully the pristine suit on his body by wading into the river. “I will,” his face brightens as he bends down, scooping up a branch and approaching the shore, “excuse your imprecision, however.”

Wanda rolls her eyes as she grips the branch, one well-practiced hoist lifting her to her feet and kickstarting her momentum out of the water. “Thank you.”

“Oh,” a bashful smile flirts with his lips as he drops the branch and waits for her to join him in walking towards the carriage, “you are most welcome.” They walk in silence, his eyes set on their destination, allowing her a brief moment’s glance at his face, the only chance she ever gets to parse out this mysterious man who is going to give her a towel, a sandwich, and then insist he must be going. Wherever he ends up, she is certain it is outdoors, his face tinged with red yet his clothing has to be insufferable in the oppressive June heat. “May I make an inquiry?”

Wanda’s feet halt as her head cocks to the side, taking in the nervous twitch in his shoulders as he grabs the towel and the slight scuffle of his feet as he waits for her to respond. Slowly she accepts the towel, hands acting on their own accord as they bring it to the tips of her hair, lazily blotting the water. “You don’t have to ask me if you can ask a question.”

The concept seems to confuse him, furrow forming between his blonde eyebrows, his gloved hands, now free of the towel, hovering in the air as he contemplates whether to respond to her or continue with the inquiry. Wanda finds her lips lifting at his indecision, about to offer her opinion but he finally chooses a path and forges ahead. “Have you considered a profession that might be,” his hands wave through the air as he attempts to extract the appropriate wording, “less prone to amphibious attacks?”

A small, self-deprecating chuckle falls from her lips, unsure how to answer a question she asks herself almost daily. “Unfortunately, for an unattached woman as myself, the only other options are to be a dressmaker in the city,” not to be confused with a seamstress who would actually fix dresses instead of spend her nights spread eagle on a bed, “or consign myself to servitude and I refuse to be owned by anyone.”

This is not the first time she has defended her decisions in life, but unlike the majority of audiences (mostly in taverns or along the road or on the decks of steamboats as she travels), he seems to actually listen to her words, weigh them, parse out the meaning and other possible options, and then accept what she says with a gentle, affirming nod. “Understandable.”

Though the word is said without judgment, there is an odd, reticent quality to his voice that causes her eyebrow to lift, eyes trained on his back as he swiftly turns away from her, no doubt reaching for her pickled herring sandwich. This is the first time they’ve spoken beyond concerned inquiries as to her well-being, and so, since he opened the line of communication she determines to pry a little deeper to learn more about this man. “What is your calling in life?”

“I am,” he swivels back around, holding a small, carefully wrapped sandwich between them, his face ostensibly serious and neutral, yet his eyes dart to the side as he answers her, “a butler.”

Embarrassment rushes to her cheeks, the fancy three-piece suit, well-planned schedule, and ability to always have on hand exactly what she needs suddenly coalescing into an impossible to deny framework of the ideal butler. “It is a,” it is not like her to save face, always unapologetic in her opinions and emotions, but this man has been far nicer to her than almost any person she has met since immigrating to the United States, far nicer, in fact, than the majority of people she has met since the death of her parents when she was ten, “noble profession.”

A tight smile forms on his face, her feigned admiration transparent, “It is, akin to your reasoning, far preferable than alternative options.” The man’s lips slip into an easier, more controlled and congenial tilt, pulling a slip of paper from a pocket inside the right breast of his jacket. Carefully he holds it out to her, an expectant lift to his eyebrows that encourages her to grab the sheet and unfold it, confusion bubbling in her chest at the evenly spaced, disciplined lines of the numbers and letters. “I have inquired with my,” he pauses, weighing the most appropriate word likely due to her admitted distaste of his lifestyle, “employer and he concurs of my assessment that his estate be available to you for your seances. Due to the distance from the river and the impartial atmosphere, I believe it would be a suitable and, quite arguably, safer location for your work. Please do not hesitate to utilize this offer, I,” his gaze shifts to the murky waves of the Hudson, the alcove nearest the town filled with pockets of green, slimy algae that frames the distant, passing steamboats and barges, “do not object to helping you from the river but would prefer if it was less frequent.”

“I-” very few people have willingingly approached her, the distinctive patchwork fabric of her skirt and the scarlet, jeweled headdress she wears for seances a black mark against her, an experience she, sadly, is far too familiar with even in her home country. Yet this prim and proper man not only somehow is always at the river when she needs help, but he actually helps her, feeds her, speaks with her without reservation, and now, now he offers her his (well not his, his master’s) home. “This is very kind but I do not want to inconvenience you.”

“I assure you it is not an inconvenience.”

Wanda attempts a smile, appreciative of his offer yet hesitant to allow herself to believe there is no ulterior motive. “I will certainly consider it, but I should be leaving, before it gets dark.”

The man’s body freezes, only his eyes showing signs of life as they shift side to side, clearly thrown off by her refusal. “Would you consider an offer to accompany you back to town to ensure your safe return?”

Another foreign and tempting offer but Wanda shakes her head, “I’ll be fine, thank you. I am sure you are a very busy man.” She decides it’s best to walk away, fearing if she remains there looking at the confusion in his eyes or the slightly pained frown on his face that’ll she say yes, open herself up to one more avenue of contact that will only end in manipulation, if her past can predict the future. This doesn’t mean that it hurts any less when she hears the carriage rattle, a gentle hut hut as he spurs the horses into action.

Wanda wraps the towel around her shoulders, head held high as she enters the town, not wanting to portray any weakness to the eyes that appear in the windows, disappearing anytime she turns to stare at them. It is a walk that she despises but she will never allow it to render her as lesser in their eyes, steadfastly holding to her confidence. That is until she reaches her tiny dwelling, one she sublets from an elderly woman who occasionally sprinkles salt on the windowsills, and finds the two windows shattered and the door barely hanging on the frame. Scarlet dances around her fingers as she pushes past the door, turning the knob of the lantern hanging on the wall, a spark of red igniting the wick and filling the room with a golden, muted glow as she holds it aloft.

Everything is in disarray. The table flipped on it’s side, the floor strewn with her papers, tarot cards, and the books she had been reading. Her bed is in a similar state, the rickety frame missing two legs and straw spilling out from a large slash in the mattress. Wanda breathes in, attempting to keep the tears from forming in her eyes, fights back the nauseating memories from her final days in Sokovia, of the hysteria, the yelling, the thrown stones, and the pyre, but then she turns to the left, lifting the lantern to inspect the last part of her room and on the wall, in dark red, dripping liquid is the word Witch and she can’t hold back the sob anymore, falling onto her knees as her hand rises to wipe the tears away.

It is time to leave again, that much is clear.

“Wanda?”

The voice startles her, but not enough to cloud her judgment, and so she controls the flow of red tickling her palm, social survival outweighing her instincts to attack. This voice is kind, concerned, but brimming with anger. “Clint.”

More light fills the room as he sets down his own lantern, hand falling lightly, cautiously on her back. Wanda flinches at the touch but does not move away. “I tried to stop them,” if she lifted her finger an inch she would be able to access his memories of the event, but the quiver in his voice and the scrunch of his fingers in the fabric of her dress is enough to spur her imagination. Then the object of his anger shifts, lessening the emotions to annoyance more so than ire. “But you just had to mess with William Smith, didn’t you?”

“His wife offered enough for a month’s worth of food.”

Clint scoffs at her, a sound that should infuriate her but she knows it is down in partial, mostly good-natured mockery, a sign that he might actually care about her well-being. “I thought you listened to me when I explained that Marjory is not the voice of William. Wanda,” this time he sighs, sinking into the chair at her side before leaning back and staring at the ceiling, “that man owns this area, I don’t want you to be the next Helen Jewett**”

Wanda sits up, shaking away the timidity in her limbs, conjuring her confidence and reiterating, in her mind, that she did nothing wrong. Her eyes travel to Clint’s face, taking in the exhaustion of his half-hearted smirk, an effect of a new child and little sleep. This man, just as the one at the river, has surprised her, a Blacksmith by trade who strongly refused her offer to read his fortune (something about being swindled by a fortune teller in his youth), yet invited her into his home the day she arrived, stoked a fire to dry her feet, fed her, and provided her unasked for guidance in attaining living arrangements. She is not beholden to anyone or anything, utterly alone in life, and yet, she cannot ignore the itch of despair at his disappointment, actually finds herself defending her actions in hopes he accepts the excuse. “I thought it would be different, she seemed accepting and-.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Yes.” Wanda glances despondently around the room. “It is not safe here anymore.”

The thing she respects the most about Clint is his inability to soften his words. “No, not right now.”

The confirmation is what she was seeking, mind shutting down any peripheral thoughts, instead only focusing on survival, what is next. Perhaps she offers her services to a caravan, leaves the reassuring oldness of the settlements to pursue the paradise of autonomy the fliers posted along the road describe existing in strange places with names like California, Oregon, and Utah. But she also wonders if a denser, more populated area might be better, return to New York City where she could disappears into the faceless, pulsing crowds again. Though she left the city precisely because she could not escape, no matter how crowded it got. “I am not sure where to go now.”

“I have a suggestion, if you want to actually listen to me this time.” Wanda glares at him, his honesty can be both refreshing and infuriating, particularly when he takes on a paternalistic air, the need for a parent in her life long since necessary. But instead of biting back, she waves her hand for him to continue. “I think we can salvage this,” a statement that creates a small, strange roiling in her chest, the implication being he doesn’t want her to leave. It is a foreign concept, someone wanting her to stay. “We just need to reinvent your image, you know?”

Wanda’s listless glare morphs into a wrinkled brow. “No...”

“I think it is pretty fair to say you have not managed your public image or reputation very well,” something she’d likely argue against any other day, but given her dress is creating a small pond of mud beneath her (and, much to her fury, all of her other clothing is lying in roughly torn strips on the floor) she’ll concede to his point at the present moment. “Take a break, find some place safe, start small, and then come back once they’ve calmed down.”

“Where am I supposed to find safety?”

Clint stands up, offering her his hand, which she takes, and he pulls her back onto her feet with a smile. “I’d offer my house, but,”

“Your family deserves to live unworried.”

He nods. “Precisely, but got a friend of a friend that owns an estate just north of here. Bit eccentric but from what I’ve been told he never refuses a guest with an interesting past.”

It is only as they approach the estate, it’s appearance masked by the thick, oppressively humid darkness, that Wanda second guesses the plan, is uncertain why she agreed to ask for lodging from a stranger and why she trusts Clint so much. There is a strong likelihood this will end the same as every other endeavor since her brother’s death, but the mellow flicker of gaslights lining the cobbled path to the estate is quite inviting, enough to vacate her concerns for one night of warmth and safety. Wanda clutches the small bag in her lap, containing the only remaining, mostly intact possessions that survived the violation of her room. “You are certain of this?”

Clint gives an unhelpful shrug and an even more unhelpful answer, as he never elaborates on who his friend is beyond telling Wanda that she is terrifying in the most admirable way possible, “Natasha claims this is a safe place, I believe her. Plus she said there is an incredible archery range so if you stay long enough I can probably use it.”

The reigns are tugged twice, and the horse comes to a standstill, an expectant whinny filling the air, urging Clint to swing down from the seat and offer a morsel of apple in appreciation. Wanda is not as eager to get down, suspicious eyes studying the brick facade and the curve of the railing lining the porch that disappears into the shadows cast by the gaslights affixed to the building. A deep breath in readies her, steadying her shaking hands and feet as she takes Clint’s proffered hand and steps down from the carriage. Together they approach the door, Clint gripping the large, brass ring and releasing it with glee, the door vibrating from the force of the knock.

“Promise you’ll be fine.”

“I hope you are corr-” The door opens and Wanda finds herself unable to complete the sentence, taking in the surprised stare of the man from the river, no longer in his three piece suit, having foregone the hat (revealing unsurprisingly well-tamed blonde hair) and the jacket leaving him only in a dark, silk vest and a white shirt that clearly started out pristinely pressed but has rumpled naturally from a long day.

The butler recovers first, turning his attention towards Clint, “Mr. Barton, Miss-”

“Maximoff.” Wanda intercedes, realizing they’ve never actually introduced themselves.

He nods at her, a softness forming in the way his lips curl up ever so slightly. “Maximoff. What may I do to assist you?”

“Smith’s a bit upset with his seance experience today.”

The butler’s knowing, “Yes,” is ignored by Clint, who carries on, explaining what happened to her room, acting as if the man didn’t say anything, but Wanda finds herself unable to ignore him, her body collecting the humidity from the air and channeling it deep within her cheeks at the way his eyes have not left her since she told him her name.

“Was wondering if you’d mind her staying here, let things settle down?”

There is less than a second of silence between the question and the slight, rigid bend at the waist of the blonde man, his voice stiff and formal as he bows with an, “Of course.” He straightens his body back to its full height and steps gracefully back from the doorway, “Miss Maximoff, you may stay as long as you desire. Please,” his kind, blue eyes find hers again and the heat from her cheeks rushes down her neck, filling her chest with gratitude, leaving no room for concerns at the present moment, “come in.”

Clint nudges her back, an expectant, annoyingly paternal glint to his eyes before he waves to her, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Wanda thinks she lifts her hand in farewell, but her attention is fixated on the man in front of her, watching his arms travel behind his back, lowering to an angle suitable to lace his fingers together, and his body develop a subdued yet nervous sway as he glances around the house, likely assessing what needs to be done with this new, hopefully not wholly unwelcome, guest. “Miss Maximoff?”

“Yes?”

Her words have an instant effect, the apprehension leaving his body as he assumes his prescribed role, pulling his shoulders up into a dignified tension as his fingers release from behind his back, arms coming to hang at his side. She discovers she rather prefers the prior, more nervous, more honest version of the man from moments before, particularly when he speaks, his voice now taking on an air of formality and depersonalization, a far cry from the bashful, playful dialogue earlier in the day. “Would you be amenable to my showing you to your room?”

“That would be amenable, thank you.”

A quick, well-trained nod meets her words as he begins to walk towards an impressive, mahogany framed staircase, pausing briefly before turning with an indecisive frown on his face. “I-” the indecision leaves as he squares his body again, and Wanda is enthralled at the flickering of his personality between butler and man. The butler, it seems, wins out, his left elbow bending, arm forming a reluctant triangle that he offers her. “May I offer assistance up the stairs?”

“No thank you, I,” Wanda desperately wants the man from the river back, attempts to flash a sly smile at him while she adds a touch of joviality to her voice to tempt him to loosen up, “believe I am fully capable of walking up stairs on my own, unless you need assistance.”

For a brief, fleeting moment, he allows the seriousness to slip from his face, a twitch overtaking the corner of his mouth that could be construed as merriment, but then he nods, washing away the vestige of humor. “I believe I am also quite capable of traversing stairs. Please, follow me.”

They walk in relative silence, though it is a silence she has not experienced, lacking the tension of fear that hovers at a seance and no sign of awkwardness or boredom that engulfs her when she is trapped with a stranger on a transport. No this is comfortable, soothing, undemanding and incredibly refreshing. Which is why she isn’t sure why she decides to obliterate the silence, but curiosity is always a strong temptation for a Maximoff. “Your,” she attempts to remember his vocabulary at the river, “employer will be okay with me staying here?”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” The lack of hesitation combined with the nonchalance of the answer is reassuring. “As I explained earlier, you were already welcome, this is not qualitatively different.”

“Thank you.”

He nods as he directs her towards an open door, the room instantly stealing all of her attention as her eyes travel along the majestic four-poster jet-black bed, gilded panels etched with ornate designs of leaves. Next to the bed is an equally macabre and lavish chaise lounge, the deep purple encasing the cushions tempting her to walk across the room and run her palm along the indulgent softness of the crushed velvet. “I hope this room is suitable.” Wanda has no words, dumbfounded at the luxury of the room, never having seen something like this even in the homes of the elite she visited (and was often unceremoniously tossed from) for seances. “There are dressing gowns in the wardrobe and you should find all necessities for this evening. I shall better prepare the room tomorrow. Sleep well and do not hesitate to ring the bell near the bed if you require assistance of any sort.”

It’s not until his last words and the slight creak of the heavy wooden door that Wanda, without thinking, throws out a scarlet thread to stop the door, tossing out a hurried, “Wait!”

The butler takes a hesitant step back into the room, an anticipatory set to his face as he waits for her request. “How may I help you, Miss Maximoff?”

Wanda walks to the door, neck craning to stare up at his face, studying his features as best she can in the dim lighting. “What’s your name?” “Oh, yes, my apologies.” The man clears his throat before continuing, a nervousness permeating the air around him that she finds somewhat unsettling, almost making her offer an apology as the question seems to have upset him. “You may simply call me Vision, it is what my employer and his guests refer to me as and so it is what I answer to if you find you need assistance.”

“Vision?”

“Correct,” the man steps away with a small, stiff bow. “Sleep well, Miss. Maximoff,” and then he disappears into the darkness of the surrounding hallway, leaving her alone.

Wanda finds the information infuriating, a seething rage forming in her limbs at the implication of his words, but she resolves to release it for the night, change into dry clothes, and perhaps tomorrow she will unravel the mystery of this man and figure out what comes next for her.

*Shady

**A famous case of a murdered prostitute from 1800s NY

#scarletvisionexchange2017 #sve2017 #scarlet vision #Victorian AU #Antebellum US AU #fluff #angst #melodrama #chaptered fic #ao3 #be kind I am new and quite uncomfortable with AUs #aos

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