Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vision’s spent so much time browsing through the personal ads on Craigslist that when he finally comes across one that seems promising, it’s nearly three in the morning and his eyes are so tired and strained that he nearly skips right past it without thinking. Thankfully his slow reflexes save him by meandering along the page slowly enough that his sleep-deprived brain actually begins to make sense of the words he’s reading, and he sits right up in bed in surprise. 

Looking for a personal chef w/ cooking experience. Job would involve preparing multiple meals at a time and dropping them off at a private residence two-three times weekly. Pay negotiable. Serious offers only. 

He frowns as he rereads the message a few times. That’s all it says; there’s no mention about contracts, money, nothing. It’s as ominous as it is tantalizingly intriguing. The poster, Wanda M., has no other listings under her profile when he clicks on her name. It’s not exactly the best offer he’s ever seen, but for some reason he hesitates, his finger hovering over the little red x on the screen. 

The thing is, Vision has plenty of experience; he’s worked three separate personal chef jobs over the years, plus he’s worked at two restaurants, and has two years of culinary school under his belt. He would be more than qualified for whatever this job entails. On the other hand, the lack of information is more than a little daunting, and he knows enough about personal ads to recognize when something might be a scam. Multiple visits a week to a house that hasn’t even been listed? Pay negotiable? Yeah, that sounds pretty cat-fishy to him. 

But on the other, other hand, Vision’s rent is due in two weeks and he’s going to face eviction if he can’t cough up another two hundred dollars that he very much does not have. He has absolutely no room to be picky at the present. So despite the red flags popping up in his brain, he decides to answer it, sending a brief blurb about himself and attaching a link to his resumé - and then he rolls over in bed, falls asleep, and immediately forgets all about the job until the next morning. 

He forgets about it so completely that he doesn’t even remember answering the ad until he checks his email after breakfast and sees that he has an email from someone named Wanda Maximoff. 

Mr. Shade,

Thank you for your inquiry. The job is still available, and I’m willing to offer you a trial run as an interview. Would you be able to bring a few meals over on Monday, around 7am? Ideally, they would be meals that require little prep, as I have a busy work schedule and have very little free time outside of work to cook for myself. If you are available, please respond to this email within the next day or two so that we can work out the particulars. 

Thank you,

Wanda Maximoff

Vision blinks in surprise, sipping his coffee. It seems - well, it seems like he might have actually stumbled across a decent opportunity here. There’s still plenty to work through - he’s going to have to meet her in person, they would need to discuss salary and a schedule, and of course there’s the fact that she would actually have to like his cooking, but the wording of the email is professional enough that he’s suddenly a lot less suspicious than he was last night. 

Miss Maximoff, he types back, after he’s had the necessary amount of caffeine.

I’m available on Monday to meet with you at 7am, provided you live within commuting distance. In the past I’ve worked well with developing menus for my clients, but I’ll need a little more information before I can prepare you any meals. Firstly, do you have any allergies or foods that you avoid? How many days’ worth of food would you need? Would I be providing breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or some mix of the three? If you have a menu in mind, I am more than willing to work within your preferences so long as they are within my skill set and budget. If not, I am certain that I can find some ready-to-eat meals that will fit your needs. 

Thank you,

Vision Shade

He gets a response back much, much faster than he expects.

Mr. Shade,

Thank you for responding so quickly, I only have so much free time to answer non-work emails these days. To answer your questions - I live in the Upper East Side (see attachment for address and Google Maps link). I have no food allergies or dietary restrictions. I would prefer to have three meals a day, with breakfast and lunch being something I can eat on the go or in my office, and I would like it if you could bring two or three days’ worth of meals at a time so that I can prepare my schedule in advance, if that’s convenient for you. Food isn’t really my area, so I have no menu in mind, but I feel that that’s something we can discuss during your trial run. If you need any more information than that, please do not hesitate to ask. If you need to cancel at any time, please give me a few days’ notice so I can look for other applicants. 

Thank you,

Wanda Maximoff

His cat jumps onto the back of the sofa as he mulls over the last email. “Well, Murphy,” he says, stroking a hand down her back absently as she headbutts his cheek with a soft purr rumbling in her throat, “it looks like I might have a job again.”

He spends most of the day emailing back and forth with his possible new employer, and by that night Vision feels like he has a fairly good grasp on what kind of menu Wanda Maximoff will (hopefully) enjoy, so after dinner he makes a staggeringly long grocery list and grabs his keys, pulling the collar of his coat up to shield his neck from the unseasonably cold autumn wind as he steps out into the street. He’s always preferred shopping at night when there are less people to be anxious around, and since he thankfully lives in the city that never sleeps, there are plenty of options of places to shop for him to pick and choose from, though of course he ends up just sticking to his usual routine and going with the market down the street from his tiny rented apartment. 

He doesn’t realize that he has a new problem until he’s halfway through the grocery list and starts to actually calculate how much this is going to cost. The answer? Way too much. If he doesn’t land the job, there’s no way he’s going to be able to afford all of this food and this month’s rent. He can always ask his mom, but, well. He’s twenty-eight years old. And as much as he knows beyond any doubt that Helen Cho would hand him the money he needs without a single qualm, there’s a large part of Vision that really doesn’t want his mom to know what a mess his life has spiraled into over the last year since his engagement to Virginia abruptly ended, which had left him without a home, without a job, and with only their recently adopted cat as the only thing he actually owned. 

Well, he supposes that the only option he really has now is to go ahead and purchase the food and hope like hell that he actually manages to impress Wanda Maximoff enough that she hires him. Failing that, he’s fairly certain he would be able to ask for compensation for the groceries he’s buying since, job or no job, he is going to be providing her with several days’ worth of food. 

You can do this, he tells himself. You are a good cook, and you can do this. 

He finishes the shopping and doesn’t let himself look at the bill as he pays, and he feels like an absolute failure at life as he carries bag after bag of fresh, expensive, perishable food into his little apartment and starts making room for it all, which, considering the size of his kitchen, isn’t an easy task. I can’t do this, he thinks, as he squishes the carton of fresh milk into the last empty spot in the fridge, sighing in relief when he can actually still close the fridge door all the way. I can’t do this. 

He sits on the floor, and Murphy crawls into his lap, gnawing on the sleeve of his sweater. “What was I thinking, Murph?” he whispers. She looks up at him with her sweet, innocent little calico face, purring as he strokes her beneath her chin. “How can I be someone’s personal chef when my own personal life is such a mess?”

Murphy, oblivious, just blinks her golden eyes at him and curls up in a ball on his thighs, her nose tucked into his sleeve. 

He sighs. He’s so - lonely. He’s so fucking lonely. “Thank you for listening,” he tells his cat quietly. 

He looks up at the bags of groceries on the counter, the ones that don’t need to be frozen or refrigerated. Garlic, golden potatoes, pasta shells, fresh herbs, red pepper flakes. He takes a deep breath, picking Murphy up gently and depositing her on the back of the couch before he goes over to the counter and starts rummaging through the bags. He lifts up a bulb of garlic and inhales deeply. It grounds him, sending him flying back to his childhood, all those hours he spent at his mother’s side in the kitchen, learning from her, cooking with her, laughing with her. Life was easy, then, and the recipes haven’t changed. 

He knows these recipes like the back of his hands. He knows these foods. He knows food.  

“I can do this,” he says to no one in particular. 

He can do this. 

He’s going to do this. 

Vision cannot do this. 

“Why?” he asks Murphy the next morning as he sprinkles food into her bowl as she winds urgently around his ankles and nips at his toes. “Why did I think I could do this much cooking in two days without any prep, Murph?”

His cat attacks the food like she’s starving and doesn’t answer, and Vision groans as he stumbles sleepily into his kitchen and sees the sheer amount of food that’s waiting for him. It’s already Saturday, which means he only has today and tomorrow to prepare three to four days’ worth of meals. “I can do this,” he reminds himself, not even believing it. Regardless, he rolls up his sleeves, queues up his Netflix to the newest season of The Great British Bake-Off, and opens his fridge. 

He decides to start with the recipe he knows the best. He grabs a deep pot and sets it over medium heat, filling it with stock and some water before gently placing an entire pound of chicken breasts into the mix and topping it off with some bullion cubes and some salt, pepper, and chopped garlic and onion for taste to gently parboil together. As the chicken cooks, Vision also steams the broccoli and boils the pasta shells on the two back burners. On the last burner, he sets up a saucepan, balancing it precariously on his overcrowded stove with the grim determination of a man with nothing left to lose before grabbing the fresh produce. He chops and grinds up a generous amount of zucchini, bell pepper, onion, garlic, carrots, and baby corn until they’re in small enough bits that he can run it through his food processor to puree them together, tipping the vegetable medley into the saucepan and adding the crushed tomatoes and tomato paste. He adds the stock, the bay leaves, and the spices, and as the spaghetti sauce starts to come together and fills his kitchen with its heavenly aroma, Vision finds something in his shoulders begin to ease. This, this is what he knows. This is what he’s good at. 

By the time the spaghetti sauce is fully cooked and he’s able to take it off the burner to cool, the chicken, broccoli, and pasta are all ready, too, so he grabs a large mixing bowl and starts to actually assemble the first meal. He shreds the chicken and broccoli into small pieces and adds an even amount of both to the bowl, combining it with heaping portions of alfredo sauce, mozzarella, and parmesan, mixing it thoroughly before carefully stuffing each individual pasta shell with the filling and lining the shells up neatly in a portable baking pan. Once he’s done with that, he ladles the spaghetti sauce on top, adds the extra alfredo, and tops it off with cheese before covering it and sticking it in his freezer. This is his favorite dish to make beforehand and have in his freezer for cold nights when he wants some indulgent but healthy pasta to warm his belly, and he’s never met anyone who didn’t like it. He dearly hopes that Wanda Maximoff isn’t the first to prove him wrong. 

With the first recipe done, he starts to breathe a little easier. One down. He’s got one down. 

The rest of his weekend passes in a frenzy of cooking and countless episodes of The Great British Bake-Off and, when he runs out of episodes of that, Antiques Roadshow. Murphy spends most of Saturday and Sunday following him around in a huff, not pleased that he’s suddenly too busy to cuddle with her, so he sets up her bed up in the corner with a handful of treats and her favorite mouse toy, and she curls up contentedly and watches as he bakes, stirs, chops, and sautés his heart out. 

He finishes with his coup de grâce, his crème de la crème: cheeseburger soup. His mother’s secret weapon against head colds and bad moods. His favorite comfort food, and certainly his favorite recipe. He cannot count how many times he’s made it; it feels a little strange, sure, to be making it for a stranger, but it’s not the first time, and if it helps win Wanda over - well, he doesn’t think his mom would mind. 

He browns the beef on low, making sure it retains its moisture as he flavors it liberally. As soon as there’s no visible pink, he sets the beef aside and sautés the carrots, celery, onions, basil and parsley in a thick drizzle of melted butter until the onions are translucent and tender, then adds the stock, diced golden potatoes, and the beef and lets it simmer for a little while. Once it smells right, he cooks up a bit of flour in some extra butter and adds it to the soup to thicken it, and finally he stirs in a mountain of cheddar and some milk, salt, pepper and sour scream until it all bubbles and melds together into something truly divine. It smells so incredibly good that he can’t resist stealing a bowl before he stores it in the fridge, and he goes to bed late on Sunday night with his belly full of warm soup and possibility. 

Wanda Maximoff’s house is only a forty-five minute drive away from his apartment, thankfully, so he finds himself arriving at six-fifty a.m. the next morning after spending a nerve-wracking hour driving as carefully as he could, terrified that the pyramid of food containers in his back seat would collapse on the way over. He spends the last ten minutes internally freaking out and convincing himself that he had not just spent all of that time and money to bail out now, and at seven a.m. precisely, he walks up the steps to the beautiful brownstone that’s so far out of his economic status that it’s nearly laughable, arms filled with goods, and rings the doorbell. 

Thirty seconds, he discovers, is more than enough time to panic. He hyperventilates a little, cradling his food to his chest like a baby, and when the red door cracks open and light spills out into the murky, grey dawn, Vision has a momentary out-of-body experience and thinks, I must look like a lunatic. 

But the woman who answers the door only smiles in greeting, frightfully put together despite the hour. "You must be Mr. Shade," she says. She has auburn hair pulled up into a neat bun, bangs framing her hazel green eyes, her cheeks turning pink as the cold air hits her. She's young, maybe his age, and for a moment he thinks she must be a secretary or something, but then she grins and leans against her door and says, "You're a lot more punctual than the DoorDash guy," with an air of authority, with an air of this is my home and I'm comfortable here, and he blinks and thinks, ah. 

He swallows. "Punctuality is important," he says very seriously. His hands are sweating. Oh god. 

Wanda Maximoff lets out a little huff of amusement, straightening back up. She's wearing a black pantsuit over a silky red shirt, polished and neat despite it being, again, barely seven in the morning. Vision is wearing the same pants he went shopping in three days ago. He hadn't had the spare time to go to the dry cleaners. He regrets his life choices. 

"That looks heavy," Wanda says, gesturing at his armload. "Is there more? I'll help you carry it."

"Oh, no," he says quickly, wincing to himself. He's not going to let his boss - god, he hopes she's going to be his boss - help him. "I've got it," he assures her. "If you could maybe just show me to your kitchen?"

"Oh!" Wanda says, and backs up quickly, opening the door wider and ushering Vision into the foyer, "right, sorry, you probably want to put that stuff down. Here, the kitchen's this way."

He follows her, trying not to look too much like an impoverished hermit as he quietly admires the inside of her house. It's…. well, it's very nice, obviously very expensive and neat and tasteful, but it seems almost - cold. Empty of warmth and personality, everything done in frosty tones of white and silver and touches of pale blue. Like a magazine editorial. He wonders, briefly, if she maybe just moved in. Or if she had someone else pick out the décor.

Then he remembers that she's his boss and it's not his place to judge, and so he shuts his brain up as he walks into the kitchen, where he’s momentarily stunned by how beautiful and huge it is, easily four times the size of his own, and it’s all so state of the art and very obviously unused. Again, he gets the distinct feeling like he’s walking around in a Better Homes and Gardens magazine. Empty, clean, lovely, but devoid of feeling. Kitchens are the heart of the house, he thinks. This room doesn’t have any shred of warmth to it. It’s a little unsettling. “Should I just…” he gestures towards the immaculately clean granite countertop as best as he can with his arms full. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Wanda says, and reaches towards the mountain of plastic containers in his arms, taking the smallest one on top and helping him put everything down before he spills it. “Wow, this all looks amazing.”

Vision’s face heats up. He’s never really known what to do with compliments. “Thank you,” he say demurely, “I - there’s more in the car, do you mind if I -”

“Sure!” Wanda says, then, “I can help, I have a little bit of time before work -”

“No, no,” he says, heart thumping, “that’s really not necessary, there’s only a little bit more, but um, thank you.” He retreats quickly before she can insist, retracing his steps through her (frankly huge) house to find his car out front and grabbing the rest of the containers, balancing them carefully in his arms and shutting the back door with his hip, praying to the heavens that he doesn’t actually drop anything and ruin her beautiful floors. 

Wanda’s right where he left her, standing in the kitchen and surveying the food like she’s not quite sure what to do with it all. When she sees the amount of food he’s carrying, her eyes grow comically round. “Holy shit,” she says, and grabs the bag that’s half-falling from his grasp before it can hit the ground. “How much food did you make? I’m not sure that I can eat all of this.”

“Most of it is freezable,” he says, “and I wanted to bring you enough samples to see what you like.”

Wanda shrugs. “I’m not really that picky, honestly.” She looks at the food again. “So what - what is all of this?”

“Oh,” Vision says, “right.” He reaches for the nearest container, opening it up. It’s a batch of his favorite blueberry muffins, the kind with the brown sugar crumble on top. “Blueberry muffins for breakfast,” he says, nervousness clenching in his stomach when Wanda picks one up and peels the wrapper off, giving it a curious sniff before taking a bite. 

She blinks at him, mouth full. “Oh my god,” she says, putting a hand over her mouth as she chews and swallows. “These are amazing.”

He takes a deep breath, bolstered by her compliment. “Thank you,” he says politely. “I’ve also made a few smoothies that you could use as a breakfast or a snack between meals.” He nods at the water bottles that he’d emptied and filled with mixtures of fresh yogurt and fruit and honey, little bits of ice shining through, illuminated by the fluorescent lighting. “I didn’t put in any added sugar, so they’re a little more healthy than the muffins.”

“I love smoothies,” Wanda says, taking the bottles and sticking them in her fridge. Her nearly empty fridge. God, he’s glad he brought extra food, it looks like she needs it. She turns back to him, still with that friendly, open smile. “So that’s breakfast, what else is there?”

He goes through the rest of the food he brought, explaining which should be eaten first and which can be frozen or refrigerated for a few days or even longer. There’s barbeque chicken he’d made with the leftover shredded chicken and fresh rolls for sandwiches, grilled chicken and asparagus over rice, garlic mash potatoes, orange-glazed pork chops, a spinach and dried cranberry salad, and his stuffed pasta dish and cheeseburger soup. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner for at least three or four days, probably longer with the amount of leftovers. Easy items to warm up in the microwave at work, or stick in the oven late at night. Wanda watches him as he talks, taking everything in, her eyes calm and serious and surprisingly reassuring. 

After he’s done, Wanda picks up one of the rolls. “Sourdough,” she says, appreciative. “This is my favorite brand, even. Wow, Mr. Shade, this really all does look amazing.”

“Vision,” he says, “please.”

Wanda smiles. “Wanda,” she says back. She rips off a chunk of a second blueberry muffin and starts eating it, which he thinks - hopes - is a good sign. “So,” she says, “salary.”

He blinks. “I’m - sorry?”

“Salary,” she repeats. “I’m thinking -”

“Sorry,” Vision interrupts, head spinning, “so sorry, I just - is that the whole interview? I thought this was a trial run? Is this - am I hired?”

Wanda takes another bite of the muffin. “This is the best muffin I’ve had in literally years,” she says, “and you’re punctual and polite. You’re hired, if you want the job. You’re the best applicant I’m ever going to get, I’m pretty sure.”

He feels a little faint. “I want the job,” he says. 

She grins. “Excellent! Does this time of day work for you? On Mondays and Thursdays I don’t go into work until eight-thirty, so I’m thinking you could come by between seven and seven-thirty twice a week, possibly on Saturdays as well if you find that you can’t cook for that many days at a time.”

Vision is mystified. This is the easiest job interview he’s ever had. He feels like he should be waiting for the other shoe to drop, somehow. “Mondays and Thursdays work,” he says, bemused at the way she immediately beams at him like he’s promised to walk on water or something equally miraculous. “My schedule is pretty open, if you ever need to change times or anything.” His schedule mostly consists of taking long walks and cuddling with his cat. It will be nice to actually have something to do again, instead of stewing away in his apartment and going mad. “You said something about the salary?”

Wanda nods. “I was thinking five hundred a week, and if you bring me the receipts from the stores, I can pay you back for the groceries, too, maybe every Thursday? Does that sound good?”

Unbelievable. Unbelievable. “That sounds good,” he manages. That sounds like rent and being able to afford his own food, he doesn’t say. Five hundred a week with compensation for groceries - that’s two thousand dollars a month, which should give him plenty of leftover cash after his rent his due. Definitely enough to get by on. “That sounds really good.”

Wanda tilts her head at him. “Sorry,” she says, and he has no fucking idea why, “I’ve never really - well, hiring someone for this kind of thing is pretty new for me, but my friends all tell me that I’m going to end up starving to death unless I have someone around to bring food and remind me to eat, so. Do you have any questions?”

So many. “No,” he says, “I think I’m all set.” 

Wanda has dimples, he notices vaguely. “Do you need me to show you out?”

“I remember,” he says softly. “I… Thank you, Miss Maximoff. Wanda.”

Her eyes are warm. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t see much of Wanda in those first few weeks as autumn tips into a blustery cold winter, fresh snow covering the ground in fluffy blankets every morning as he heads to the store for fresh groceries. The clerks there get used to seeing him everyday, wave and greet him by name, and it’s nice, really, to be social again, if this counts as social. He’d sort of forgotten the rest of the world existed after his life fell apart, had holed himself up in his new, Virginia-less apartment, nothing to do but mope around in his flannel pajamas and cry into Murphy’s fur. But now he has an excuse to go out into the world on a daily basis, and he chats with the butcher and learns the names of the supermarket workers who stock the shelves, and it’s not really anything approaching a life, really, but it. It feels nice. It feels good. It feels like hope, or at least something close to it. 

But he doesn’t see much of Wanda. It doesn’t bother him, really, because they email often enough to clarify menus and scheduling that he quickly gains a certain amount of on-the-job confidence, but it’s always a little bit strange to be inside a veritable stranger’s house, unloading food and putting it away for her. She’s always there to let him into the house, but then she’s usually off somewhere - her office, presumably - busy with whatever job that occupies so much of her time, so he’s mostly left to his own devices. He’s not sure whether she has faith in him to behave or that she’s really just really busy, but at least he doesn’t have to embarrass himself with his rusty social skills.

Thanksgiving, of course, falls on a Thursday, so he’s not surprised when Wanda emails him and asks if he wants to come over on Wednesday, instead.

“Any plans for Thanksgiving?” Wanda asks as she helps him unload a covered dish of stuffed mini pumpkins. For once, she hadn’t had to run off to her office, and he’s so used to being alone in her kitchen that her presence makes him a little nervous. 

“Some friends have invited me over,” he says, popping a vegetarian lasagna into her freezer. “I don’t really care much for Thanksgiving since I was raised in the UK, but I enjoy eating with my friends.”

“Mm, same,” Wanda says, around a mouthful of frittata. She’s eating it cold. He’s very nicely not judging that decision. “I’m from Sokovia, and I never really got the Thanksgiving thing, so I usually just end up going out for Thai food with my brother if he can swing by.”

“You’re from Sokovia?” Vision asks, surprised. He’d thought he detected an accent, but he could never make it out. 

Wanda nods. “Pietro and I moved here when we were kids, after… well, after our parents died.”

His stomach drops a little. “Oh. I’m really sorry.”

Wanda gives him a tight, closed mouth smile. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’m the one who brought it up. Why’d you move here?”

“College,” he says, and he turns away, busying himself with closing the fridge, trying not to let himself fall into the trap of thinking about college. College, and Virginia, and his life falling apart. “I decided to stay, after.”

“Well, I’m glad, since I’m clearly benefiting from that decision. What’s in this, by the way?”

Vision glances at the frittata he’d made the night before. “Spinach, artichoke, cherry tomatoes, and feta cheese.”

Wanda makes a noise, and Vision blushes at the sound of it. “It’s incredible.”

“Thank you,” he says, blushing a little harder. Again - he’s bad with compliments. Sam and Bucky never let him live it down. “I’m really glad that you’re enjoying it.”

“Are you kidding?” Wanda laughs, “Vision, your food is waaay more than enjoyable. I know I hired you because I can’t cook, but damn, even if I could I think I’d still prefer yours.”

“Oh,” he says, feeling like his face is on fire, “that’s… thank you.”

Wanda’s face crinkles with amusement. “Do you know how many people at my office are jealous because of the food I bring in for lunch? I let my boss try that cheeseburger soup you made and I think he cried.”

Vision squirms, torn between elation and crippling embarrassment. “That’s one of my favorites. I could, um, make it again if you ever need to bribe your boss.”

Wanda bursts out laughing, bright and unselfconscious, and it occurs to him belatedly that his boss is really beautiful. Vision doesn’t really feel attraction often, only once in a blue moon and only ever towards someone he knows and trusts and cares for deeply, but watching Wanda laugh - he can appreciate aesthetic beauty when he sees it. “I might take you up on that sometime,” Wanda snickers. “I’ve got a review coming up in January, think you can work it into your schedule?”

Vision smiles. “I’ll pencil you in.”

The next morning dawns bright and clear and cold, and Vision wakes up early to make his usual mashed potatoes to bring to Sam and Bucky’s. Sam always insists that Vision shouldn’t have to make a whole meal for them since he cooks for a living and it’s a holiday, and Vision always insists that he has to bring something, and about four years ago they came across a compromise that they could both live with: mashed potatoes. 

He cleans the six pounds of red potatoes he bought on the way home from Wanda’s yesterday, wiping them down and cutting them into manageable chunks before plunging them into a pot with some water with their skins still on, adding a pinch of salt to the water as it starts to boil. While the potatoes are boiling, he feeds a sleepy Murphy and makes himself a ham and egg croissant sandwich. He has to dodge Murphy when she tries to jump into his lap as he’s eating. “You just slept in my bed for eight hours straight,” he tells her, amused, as she gives up on trying to scramble up his legs and instead starts chewing on his house slippers. “You are such a needy little baby.” He gives her a piece of his ham, and she purrs so loud that he’s still laughing as he pulls the pot of potatoes off of the flame. 

He drains them and mashes them, then adds the butter, milk, salt, and pepper before whipping them on high until they’re as fluffy as a cloud, and as his final touch, he adds two whole scallions, chopped finely. ‘Potatoes and scallions,” he says to no one, “are a holy combination.” When he’s finally done with them, they’re beautiful, golden from the butter with clots of red from the skin and dashes of green scallions, all melded together for sinfully delicious indulgence. 

He picks up a couple of pies from his favorite bakery on the way to Sam and Bucky’s, and when Bucky opens the door he says, “Thank fuck, man, we’re starving.”

“Bucky! ” Sam calls from the next room. “Be nice!” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, reaching out to take the pies and potatoes from Vision’s hands, cradling them to his chest. “He wouldn’t let me eat anything until you got here,” Bucky stage whispers, and Alpine comes slinking down the hall as Vision steps out of the cold and into their apartment. 

“Hello, sweet girl,” Vision says, bending down to stroke her soft white fur. 

Sam appears in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing an apron, looking a little harried. When he spots the potatoes and pie in Bucky’s hands, he looks visibly relieved. “Thank god, you remembered the pies,” he says. “I forgot the pies. I so forgot the pies. I can't believe I forgot the pies.”

“I did not,” Vision laughs, and Sam swats him with a kitchen towel.

"Come on, assholes," Sam says, waving them into the kitchen. 

"I'm so glad I moved in with you," Bucky deadpans. 

“You love me!” Sam shouts back. 

“I’m fond of you, jackass!”

Vision loves his friends. 

“So,” Sam asks, halfway through the blueberry and pumpkin pies. “Vision. How’s your new job?”

Vision hums, swallowing before he speaks. “Good. So far, at least. Wanda’s nice, and the pay is great.”

Sam arches an eyebrow. “Wanda, is it? What happened to ‘Miss Maximoff?’”

“Is she cute?” Bucky asks. He’s done with his pies, curled up and halfway to a food coma, Alpine a fluffy white ball in his lap. 

Vision shrugs. “Yes, she’s very cute. And she asked me to call her Wanda, thank you.”

“Mhmm,” Sam says, eyeing him with a little, knowing smirk. 

“Sam,” Vision says. “You know I don’t work like that. I don’t just - attraction doesn’t work the same for me. Wanda’s nice, but she’s just my boss. I don’t even know her all that well.”

Sam just laughs. “I know, I’m sorry, we’re just teasing you.”

Bucky lifts his head, rubbing his face sleepily. “Correct me if I’m wrong here, but since when do you actually call people ‘cute’?”

“You asked!” Vision splutters. “Since when do you two interrogate me over my nonexistent love life?”

“That’s what Thanksgivings are for,” Sam says sagely, “for the couple folk to make the single folk feel bad. But really,” he adds, softening, “we’re a little worried about you, Viz. You’ve just shut yourself away from the whole world.”

Vision shifts in his seat. “I don’t…”

“It’s been almost a year,” Sam says softly. 

Vision clenches his jaw. “I’m aware,” he says coolly. “Since I was actually there when she left me.”

Bucky leans over and puts his non-prosthetic arm around Vision’s shoulders. “Have you had a date since then?”

“I don’t like dating,” Vision says. “And it’s - it wasn’t just a break-up, you know that, Virginia… we were together for over six years. We were going to get married.”

Until she met someone else. Until he walked in on her with that someone else in their bedroom. Until six and a half years of his life had been washed down the drain in less than ten minutes, and she’d broken his heart, his lease, and his spirit all in one horrible conversation that he’d spent the last year replaying over and over and over in his head, wondering if there had been something else he could have done. It’s finally been long enough that he doesn’t miss her like he used to, and he doesn’t hate her like he had, but the idea of actually trying to start a new relationship makes him feel a little sick still. Virginia lingers like a bad taste in his mouth. 

“I’m just not ready,” Vision adds quietly. “And you know how rare it is for me to like someone in the first place anyways, so it’s just. I’m not there yet.”

“Have you tried?” Sam asks, not unkindly. 

Vision frowns. “I can’t try to like someone -”

“No, no,” Sam says, “I know that, I know you have to get to know someone really well first to be interested, but I mean, have you tried to get to know anyone?”

Vision rubs his hands along his slacks, the brush of the material against his palms distracting him from the static-filled mess that is his head. “No,” he admits eventually. “I guess not.”

“Maybe you should,” Sam says. 

Vision looks down at the last crumbs of his pie, the melted pool of vanilla ice cream. Alpine has shifted so that she’s now curled up on the couch, stuffed between his leg and Bucky’s, her tail curled over her eyes. He strokes her, and she mrrps sleepily, curling into a tighter ball. “Can we talk about something else?” he asks eventually. 

“Sure,” Sam says easily, always knowing when to back off and when to press, one of the many reasons that Vision loves having him as his best friend. “Have you watched the new season of Outlander yet?”

He thinks about it. What Sam said. That he isn’t looking, that he could be looking. 

He supposes that he sort of stopped thinking about relationships all together after Virginia; it’s so rare that he feels interested in someone, and Virginia had been the first person who ever really felt right to him after years of wondering if there was something wrong with him as he watched his friends fall in and out of love as easily as breathing and he just - didn’t. It hadn’t been until Virginia that he’d even been able to define why he feels different, why he needs an emotional connection before he can even begin to feel romantically or sexually attracted to someone. He’d been twenty-two when he’d learned the word demisexual, and it had pretty much changed his life. 

Virginia had never minded that part. She’d never been anything but supportive, had been perfectly content with taking it slow while he figured himself out. Sometimes he still thinks back to those early days of their relationship and is unbelievably grateful for that, for her - and sometimes he looks back and wonders if he hadn’t accidentally tied her to his sense of self, and that it’s why he’d sort of unraveled when she’d left him. 

I’m sorry, she’d sobbed, I’m sorry, but I love him. 

But Sam is right. He can’t just be miserable forever. He doesn’t want to be miserable forever. He’s sick of being lonely, if he’s completely honest. 

So Vision starts to lift his head a little. Maybe he’s not ready for a lot, but Sam was right when he’d said he’d shut himself away. He starts talking to people again, starts initiating conversations, starts leaving the house more often when the weather isn’t too terrible. He starts really looking at people; he looks at the sweet cashier at the supermarket, and the guy in the biography aisle at the bookstore, and the vet tech with the beautiful eyes that he meets when he takes Murphy in for her shots. He looks, and he wonders, but nothing ever sparks for him. He’s okay with that, with taking it slow. 

But it’s nice, he supposes. Being open to possibility again. Maybe someday he’ll look up and see the right person waiting for him. 

December rolls in with record-breaking low temperatures, and he’s painfully grateful for Wanda’s excellent heater as he starts unloading his newest batch of meals. He sets down his armload on the countertop as always and goes to sorting it; he sticks the English muffins in her bread box and the mushroom chicken in the fridge, and he’s about to set out the breakfast quiche for Wanda’s breakfast when he opens it the Tupperware and discovers with a heart-pounding panic that the center isn’t cooked all the way. 

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself. There’s no way he has time to run home and pop this back in his stove for twenty more minutes and race back here and drop it off before Wanda has to leave for work. Panic rises in his chest; he’s only been working for Wanda for two months, and while they’ve established a fairly easy-going repertoire over emails and their brief bi-weekly interactions, there’s no way he’s going to ask if he can let himself into her place while she’s gone. 

He’s about to start assembling a parfait - he’d brought all the ingredients for it, having intended for Wanda to be able to make her own over the weekend, but he’s pretty sure there’s enough to add an extra breakfast in - when Wanda walks in and stops in her tracks. “Vision? You okay? You look a little flustered.”

Vision bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grimacing. “I think I undercooked the breakfast quiche I made for today,” he says. “Do you want me to make you a parfait, or -?”

Wanda cocks her head. “Does it just need to be cooked more? Because you can use my oven if you want, I literally never use that thing.”

Vision blinks. “Are you - are you sure? It’ll need about twenty more minutes. I can put it in and leave, if you want?”

“You don’t have to rush off,” Wanda says easily, walking further into the kitchen, and Vision takes her in; her hair is in long waves, her navy blouse is tucked into cream pants, her make-up is immaculate. Her feet are bare, and he can’t help but think they look cold. “Why don’t I make you some coffee, or some tea? You always cook everything for me, it’s the least I can do.”

“You don’t need to work?”

Wanda bites her lip, somehow managing to not smear her lipstick as she sets turns on an electric kettle, the only appliance he’s ever seen her actually use. “I don’t actually have that much work in the mornings,” she confesses. “I usually go to my office because, well, I don’t know. I don’t want to bother you, I guess.”

Vision shakes his head, a little horrified. “Wanda, I mean, ma’am, this is your home, I don’t want you to think you can’t come out just because I’m here. I’m so sorry, I had no idea -”

“No, no, no,” Wanda says, putting up a hand, blushing. “No, it’s not you, you didn’t do anything, it’s me. I think that, well, I think I’m just not used to having someone else in my house. It’s usually just me here alone.” She wrinkles her nose. “And please don’t call me ma’am, I really prefer Wanda.”

“I don’t mind if you’re out here,” Vision says gently, unsure why he feels the need to reassure her. “Wanda.”

She presses her lips together, nodding slowly. “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind,” she says. “Do you want some coffee or tea?”

Vision glances at her oven. She doesn’t have to leave for work for an hour, which is plenty of time for the quiche to finish cooking. “Tea?” he says hesitantly. “Black, if you have it.”

Wanda smiles. “I do. What temperature does the oven need to be at?”

“Four hundred.”

Wanda turns on the oven, and Vision grabs them a couple of mugs; he knows his way pretty well around Wanda’s kitchen by now. He sits down in one of the stools situated in front of the island, watching as Wanda pours them both a generous amount of steaming tea after the kettle screams. “Sugar?”

“Milk, if you don’t mind.”

Wanda laughs. “I’m pretty sure you brought me that milk, of course I don’t mind.”

This feels so strange, Vision thinks wildly. So domestic. He hasn’t cohabitated with anyone in nearly a year, but he finds himself slipping back into the rhythm of shared space easily. They move around each other as Vision puts the quiche in the oven and Wanda sinks into the chair beside his, dragging over a bowl of grapes to munch on in between sips of her tea. He’d expected her presence to make him more uncomfortable - he’s never liked the feeling of being watched - but Wanda is a friendly force, it seems, amicably eating her grapes as she watches him finish putting the last of the pre-cooked meals away. 

“So,” she asks, after a minute, “what’s in the quiche today?”

“Oh, um. Mushrooms, bacon, Italian sausage, and cheese, mostly.” 

Wanda lets out a happy little sigh. “You spoil me, Vision. I love mushrooms.”

Vision smiles. “Yes, I’ve noticed from your emails. There’s mushroom chicken in the fridge for dinner.”

Wanda beams. “I seriously don’t know how I ever survived before your food. I think I’ve gained like ten pounds since we met.” When he looks at her uncertainly, she laughs. “That’s a compliment. My friends always tell me I’m too skinny, anyways.”

“Oh, well, you’re very welcome. I’m honestly just really happy that you enjoy what I cook. I know not everyone has the same taste as me.”

Wanda hums. “I’m pretty open-minded about food, or at least I like to think so. I had to get used to American cuisine after my brother and I moved here from Sokovia, and that really broadened my horizons. And y’know, living in New York, there’s every kind of food here you can think of, so I’ve enjoyed that. That’s probably how I became so dependent on take-out.”

He leans back against the back counter, warming his hands on his still-full mug. “I know what you mean,” he says thoughtfully. “It was quite an adjustment when I moved here from London, getting used to the food and all. I know people say that the English can’t cook, and maybe they have a point. I didn’t really know how much variety there was until I started NYU and let myself start trying new things.”

“You didn’t try new things in London?” Wanda asks, popping a grape into her mouth. 

Vision shakes his head. “Not really. In London, I spent most of my time cooking for my mom. She’s a neurosurgeon, so she was busy, but she taught me to cook and when I got older, I was the one in charge of cooking while she was working late shifts. I’d have meals ready for her when she came home. That’s probably why I was drawn to this sort of job, I guess.”

Wanda smiles, something soft in her eyes. “That’s sweet,” she says. “I remember… I remember the way my mom used to bake. Me and Pietro would come home from school and there would always be a fresh loaf in the oven. I miss that, the smell, every time I walk by a bakery I think of her. Sometimes I think about growing up with my mom and I just feel horrible that I never learned to cook anything more advanced than toast.”

“Not everyone is drawn to cooking,” Vision says gently. “I’m sure - well, I can’t say but - I’m sure you mom would just be happy that those memories bring you joy.”

Wanda’s smile is wistful. “Thank you,” she says. “That’s… thank you.”

Vision clears his throat, trying to dislodge the lump there. This is a surprisingly emotional conversation to be having at not quite seven-thirty in the morning. “So,” he says, “what’s food like in Sokovia?”

They chat while the quiche finishes baking, and when the timer on his phone goes off, Vision finds that he’s actually disappointed. It’s surprisingly nice, talking to Wanda. She’s not half as intimidating as he thought; well, she is, but now he suspects that’s mostly his anxiety-muddled brain talking, and not Wanda’s personality. She’s a very engaging conversationalist. 

When he’s finished pulling the quiche out of the oven and is getting ready to leave, Wanda grabs him by the arm gently, and he turns to her in surprise. She’s close, nearly flush up against him where she’s accidentally pinned him in the corner; she smells like strawberry shampoo. She has more green than brown in her eyes. Vision feels abruptly warmed by her presence. “Sorry,” she says, blushing, letting go of his bicep and taking a step back. He feels a little colder, and shakes himself mentally. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to like, scare you. I just wanted to say - if you ever need, or want, to use my kitchen, please feel free.”

“I couldn’t do that -”

“You can,” she insists. “Really. There’s never anyone over here in the mornings, and I don’t mind the company. Besides, what’s the point of having a kitchen this big when I never, ever use it? This way you don’t always have to rush over here or cram all your cooking into one night.”

It would be easier, Vision admits. “One condition,” he says, after a moment. 

Wanda raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide in your office if I’m here,” he says firmly. “I’m not going to chase you out of your own home, Wanda.”

Wanda laughs, her cheeks still tinted pink. “Okay, okay, I promise. Deal?”

Vision smiles. “Deal.”

They start spending more time together, after that. It’s never planned, and it’s only because Vision is there to do the job she pays him for, but it’s still nice to have someone to talk to while he’s throwing her breakfast together or finishing some last minute food prep that he didn’t get to the night before. Wanda isn’t always there, of course; she does work a little in the mornings, as he learns, and sometimes she has to make a phone call or type… something up. (He still doesn’t actually know what she does for a living, and at this point he’s too scared to ask.) But regardless, whenever Wanda has a free moment in the morning, she’ll usually come down to the kitchen, and he’ll set something out for her to eat while he cooks, and they’ll chat. 

“Wait,” Wanda says, as he turns on the KitchenAid and blends in the molasses and eggs with the butter and sugars. He’s already finished with Wanda’s food, and since he has the time and she has the giant oven, he’s trying to get ahead on his Christmas baking. “Wait a minute. Are you really telling me that you’ve never seen A Quiet Place?”

“No,” Vision says, “I’m not a big fan of suspenseful films, or anything scary. Besides, I prefer oldies.”

Wanda splutters, looking outraged where she’s sitting on the island, swinging her feet, a bowl of candied persimmons in her lap. “But A Quiet Place is so good! It’s practically a modern classic!”

Vision huffs as he adds the ginger, cinnamon, allspice, salt, and baking powder to the flour before he mixes it all together with the wet ingredients. The entire kitchen smells like ginger and molasses, and it’s so Christmassy that it warms his soul. “Anything that came out after 1965 cannot be called a classic,” he says.

“Oh, come on!” Wanda laughs. “What about Ghostbusters? What about Alien? Or The Shining? Or Labyrinth?”

Vision glances over at her, holding back a laugh. “Do you exclusively watch horror and sci-fi?”

Wanda huffs, chewing on a candy. “What about Titanic?” she challenges. “Or, oh! The Princess Bride! You’ve got to give me The Princess Bride!”

Vision shrugs. “As you wish.”

Wanda bursts out laughing. “See! See! That’s the best movie ever and you can’t change my mind.”

“I love it,” he says, mixing the gingerbread dough together with his hands. “But it’s not a classic.”

Wanda throws a permission at him. “You’re wrong,” she declares soundly. “You’re the wrongest person who’s ever been wrong. Admit it!”

“As you wi- stop throwing persimmons at me!”

He starts looking forward to Mondays and Thursdays, more than ever before, and this time it’s not because it means that it’s payday. It’s just that talking to Wanda is so much fun. He’s been so used to being alone this past year, and his friends are so busy with their own lives that Vision has sort of gotten used to having no one to talk to but Murphy. He’s completely forgotten how much he enjoys debating with someone; Sam used to be his favorite person to debate with, but now Sam has Bucky, and they’re not college kids with nothing left to do but procrastinate on their latest essays anymore - they both have their own lives, and Vision doesn’t begrudge the fact that Sam would rather spend his limited free time with Bucky than with anyone else. And of course there had been Virginia, but -

He doesn’t spend as much time thinking about Virginia these days. He has something else to think about now. 

“Math is literally the worst subject ever,” Wanda says. “Do you know how many times I had a breakdown over my Statistics homework? And of course I naturally had to pick a career where I make charts and shit for a living.”

“Math isn’t the worst at all,” Vision says. “Math has rules, and as long as you know them, you can do anything. The numbers never lie, and I find that comforting.” He looks at her where she’s surfing the internet on her iPad. “Wait, you make charts for a living?”

“Mhmm,” she says, typing something. “I mean, I do other stuff, but you’d be surprised how many charts are involved.” She shudders exaggeratedly for effect.

He chews the inside of his cheek for a minute as he squeezes the lemons he’d brought over to make lemon poppy seed muffins. “Okay,” he says, “I have to admit that I don’t... actually know what you do for a living.”

Wanda looks up at him in surprise. “Oh, did I never tell you that?” She shakes her head, laughing. “I work for Stark Consulting.”

Vision freezes, his hands covered in lemon juice as he gapes. “Wait,” he says. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you - are you telling me that the boss who liked my cheeseburger soup is Tony Stark?”

Wanda grins. “Yup.”

“Holy shit,” he squeaks. Tony Stark is one of the richest men in the entire world, and he owns the biggest consulting firm in the country, and he likes Vision’s mom’s cheeseburger soup. “Holy shit.”

Wanda smirks. “He keeps begging me for the recipe for that, by the way. He thinks I made it.”

“Well he can take it up with my mother,” Vision says soundly. “Because she would literally kill me if I gave her recipe away, even to Tony Stark. Maybe especially Tony Stark, actually, she’s not a fan of rich white men.”

“Ha, I like your mother already.”

Vision goes back to mixing his muffin mix, gently stirring in the lemon zest. “What’s he like?”

“Tony?”

“Yeah.”

Wanda tilts her head to the side, considering. “Exactly how you probably imagine him,” she says. “But definitely, infinitely weirder. He doesn’t do anything by halves, and I mean anything. I was there when he bought his wife a giant stuffed rabbit as an apology. They had to fly it in with a helicopter. I wish I’d had a camera.”

It’s probably the weirdest boss-employee relationship he’s ever had, and Vision once worked as a personal chef to a reclusive science professor that never left his house (Dr. Banner had been a perfectly polite boss, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’d also been even worse at socializing than Vision). Maybe it’s because she’s two years younger than him - as he discovers at some point during their conversations - or maybe it’s because she doesn’t strive to maintain strict professionalism or shove in his face the fact that she’s both rich and his boss. Talking with Wanda feels like talking to a friend he’s had all of his life. Sometimes it feels like that’s how Wanda treats him - not as an employee, not as a coworker, but as a friend. Someone she enjoys spending time with, regardless of the fact that he’s there to do a job. 

“Of course you’re a cat person,” Wanda laughs.

Vision narrows his eyes. “What does that mean?” They’ve been discussing pets today; Wanda’s never had one, though she grew up with dogs on her adoptive family’s farm. 

She grins. “Nothing. You just kind of scream ‘crazy cat lady.’ In a good way.”

“I do not!” he says, placing the chicken pot pie in the oven. It’s late December now, and he’s been making a lot of hot meals to ward off the below freezing temperatures. Wanda certainly seems to enjoy having something warm to come home to. 

“Viz,” Wanda snickers, “I don’t know how to break this to you, but I can see your socks, and they have little cats on them.”

Vision looks down. Sure enough, he’d forgotten he’d put on his extra thick cat socks today. “... In my defense,” he says, blushing, “my friend Sam got these for me for my birthday because the little calicos look just like my cat.” He’s not going to mention the fact that Sam’s Christmas card had been addressed to the crazy cat guy. He’s just not. 

Wanda smiles. “Murphy, right?”

Vision looks at her in surprise. He’d only mentioned Murphy once or twice by name. He’s startled that Wanda remembers, and also strangely pleased. “Yeah,” he says. “She’s my baby. I don’t care if that makes me a crazy cat person.”

Wanda snorts into her hot chocolate. Ever since he brought her his homemade hot chocolate a few weeks ago, she’s begged him to make it every time he visits. It’s gotten to the point where he can’t smell chocolate without thinking of Wanda. “How long have you had her?” she asks, touching a finger to the rim of her Stark Consulting mug, licking a droplet of chocolate off of her fingertip. 

“Um,” he says, a little distracted. He starts sorting out the ingredients for Belgian waffles. Eggs, he thinks, not looking at Wanda. No, egg whites. And cinnamon. And - what else again? “A year and a half, almost.”

“Aw,” Wanda says. “She’s just a little baby. Is she a rescue?”

Vision falters as he measures out the flour. “Um. No. She was… she was an engagement gift.”

Wanda draws back where she’s sitting, eyes going wide. “You’re - you’re engaged?” There’s something a little strangled in her voice. 

He studies the flour. The sugar. He runs the recipe over in his head, turning it this way and that, trying very hard not to think of anything else. He’s very purposefully never brought up Virginia in their conversations. “I was,” he says softly. “We - broke up. In January.” Only five months after they’d gotten engaged. He’d thought they were so happy; Virginia had brought home a kitten for him the day after he’d proposed, and they’d kissed as Murphy attacked Vision’s shoelaces, and he’d thought everything was perfect. Now he sees Murphy as what she is - a manifestation of Virginia’s guilt, that she’d agreed to marry him even as she was with someone else. 

“Oh,” Wanda says, very quiet. Almost inaudible. “I’m sorry, Vision.”

He shouldn’t be talking about this, he thinks. Whatever their working relationship may be, Wanda is his boss. Still, the words come out without his permission. “There was someone else for her, while we were…”

Wanda’s mouth tightens. “She was seeing someone else and she still said she’d marry you?”

Vision laughs tightly. “Yeah. Pretty sure she was actually going to marry me, too, until I caught her in our bed with the other guy.”

“That bitch,” Wanda says, and Vision jumps a little at the pure vitriol in her voice. 

Vision starts to stir the egg whites. “That was Sam’s reaction, too,” he says. And Bucky’s. And Darcy’s. And Natasha’s. And - pretty much everyone he knows, actually. His mother hadn’t said bitch exactly, but there’d been some pretty inventive Korean insults. At the time, he’d been too heartsick to listen, still in love with her, still defending her. Now he just feels tired whenever he thinks about it. Not sad, anymore, at least not in the same way. He’s aware that he dodged a bullet. But. It doesn’t exactly make him feel better. 

Wanda sets her empty mug down in the sink. They’re standing side by side now, not quite touching, not looking at each other. The room feels tender and fragile. “Did I ever tell you that I’m divorced?”

It’s Vision’s turn to be surprised. “Really?” he blurts out, head snapping up to look at her. 

Wanda nods, mouth pressed into a bitter smile. “Yeah. His name was Simon. We met in college, and got married right after we graduated. It lasted about, oh, six months? It didn’t take us long to realize we made a mistake. It was a quickie marriage and an even more quickie divorce.” Despite her nonchalance, he can hear the strain in her voice. A strain he knows all too well. 

“I’m sorry,” Vision says, meaning it. 

Wanda blows out a breath. “Yeah, well. It was for the better, really, it just took me a while to see that. But right after, he moved to London, and it’s just been me here alone in this house by myself ever since.”

Oh, he thinks. You’ve been lonely, too. 

Wanda reaches out and touches his arm, and he sets down the whisk. Her eyes meet his. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m glad I hired you, Vision. It’s… it’s nice to have someone here again.”

Vision swallows. “I’m glad you hired me, too.” More than I can say, he thinks. 

Wanda smiles. “Really?”

He blushes. “It’s nice to cook for someone again,” he admits. 

She bumps him with her hip. “Well, I think I’m benefitting from that more than you are.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” he says, smiling and bumping her back.

Wanda goes out of town for Christmas to visit her adoptive family upstate. Somehow - and Vision’s not entirely sure how they got from point A to point B here - they end up exchanging phone numbers before she leaves. 

“It’s faster than email,” Wanda says, typing on his phone, and he can see from here that she’s added her contact as Wanda :D. “This way I don’t have to check my email while I’m off work, and we can talk more often. Um. If you want.”

“That sounds good,” he says, rubbing his face to disguise his weird, stupid blush. 

“Awesome,” Wanda says, also blushing. “You can, y’know, text me whenever.”

“Right, okay,” he says. “You can text me, too. Whenever.”

“Right,” she says. Neither of them are looking at each other. Vision’s face is hot. His chest feels tight when he thinks about the fact that he won’t see her again until after the new year. “I’ll… I’ll see you around, Viz.”

He nods. “See you,” he says softly. 

He spends three days staring at his phone, wondering if he should text her. Because he wants to. He really wants to. Except - they’ve never spoken outside of his Monday/Thursday visits other than emailing to discuss schedules and menus, and he’s not sure to what extent Wanda views him as a friend. Is it inappropriate to send a good morning text? A meme? A picture of Murphy? He oscillates wildly between the fierce urge to just send a simple hello text to break the tension and ignoring the fact that he has her number altogether lest he embarrass himself. 

He can’t help but think that he didn’t do this when he and Sam first became friends. 

In the end, it’s Wanda who puts him out of her misery when she texts him first, on the third day of her vacation. It’s two days before Christmas, and he’s trying to finish his baking; he’s mixing the frosting for the sugar cookies when he gets the ping of her text. 

He unlocks his phone, hands shaking for some reason. 

Wanda (2:45pm): I went window shopping with my sister today, and I saw this and thought of you. 

It’s a picture of a little calico cat piggy bank. Vision unironically adores it. It also gives him a weird and wonderful thrill to know that Wanda has been thinking about him while away on vacation. 

Me (2:45pm): I love her. 

Wanda (2:46pm): does she look like Murphy?

In response, he sends her a picture of Murphy where she’s curled up beneath his Christmas tree, the lights reflecting off her fur as she dozes. 

Wanda (2:47pm): OMG she’s adorable! A star! A treasure! 

Me (2:47pm): She certainly thinks she is. 

Wanda (2:47pm): I have to know, does she ever try to attack the tree?

Me (2:48pm): Yes. That’s why there are lights, but no ornaments. That’s also why I keep the actual presents hidden in my closet so she can’t find them and destroy them. I learned that the hard way last year after she shredded the shirt I got for Sam. 

Me (2:48pm): She’s tried to attack the lights three times since I put them up. I keep telling her that she’s only going to electrocute herself, but she won’t listen. 

Wanda (2:48pm): look i’m not a cat person per se but i would die for your cat

Me (2:49pm): She wouldn’t let you. 

Wanda (2:50pm): <3

Wanda (2:50pm) : hey do you always text like this

Me (2:50pm): Like what?

Wanda (2:51pm): y’know

Wanda (2:51pm): proper punctuation, capitalization, the whole jazz

Me (2:51pm): I guess? I wasn’t aware of it until now. 

Wanda (2:53pm): it’s cute. you text exactly how you talk in real life.

Me (2:53pm): I thought everyone did. 

Wanda (2:54pm): nope. i think that’s a you thing.

Wanda (2:54pm): (which is not a bad thing, fyi)

Me (2:55pm): Thank you. I think. 

Wanda (2:55pm): ;D

Me (2:56pm): Are you having a good vacation?

Wanda (2:56pm): yeah!!! more than i expected really. it’s been a while since i’ve seen most of my family besides pietro when he visits. my brother cooper won’t be here until tomorrow so mostly it’s been me, lila, pietro and nate hanging around and bugging our mom while she cooks. 

Me (2:57pm): That sounds lovely. It was only ever me and my mom growing up, it must be wonderful to have so many siblings. 

Wanda (2:57pm): i’d say it’s wonderful 80% time, annoying 20% of the time. i forgot how much i hate sharing a bathroom with lila, she always hogs the damn hot water. 

Me (2:58pm): Oh dear. 

Wanda (2:59pm): so, what are YOU doing this fine and lovely and cold as balls afternoon?

He sends her a picture of the perfectly golden sugar cookies as he takes the tray out of the oven. They’re shaped like Santa hats. 

Wanda (3:00pm): UGH those are ADORABLE viz, and oh man i miss your cooking. I love my mom to death, but let’s just say that there’s a reason I don’t know how to cook for myself. Save some for me? :)

Me (3:00pm): Of course. I always do. 

Wanda (3:00pm): :D

They text every day, after that. On Christmas morning, he wakes up to a message and about a thousand festive emojis, and that night she sends him a picture of herself and who he assumes to be her sister sitting on a couch, drinking eggnog from cups shaped like reindeer and wearing Santa hats. In response, he sends her back a picture of himself in his favorite Grinch pajamas, and she spends the rest of the day calling him Cindy Lou Who. 

Wanda (7:58pm): okay i took a poll with my family and i’m afraid you’ve lost

Me (7:58pm): Lost?

Wanda (7:59pm): we all agree that the princess bride IS a classic

Me (7:59pm): You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means. 

Wanda (8:00pm): hey. hey hey hey hey. we should watch it. right now. 

Me (8:00pm): But we’re not in the same house. 

Wanda (8:00pm): right. fuck. too much leftover eggnog. 

Wanda (8:01pm): think i’d rather be watching that with you than helping cooper clean out his old bedroom lmao

Vision feels a lump in his throat. Me (8:02pm): Maybe we could watch it sometime, then. 

Wanda (8:02pm): yay!

He’s shocked by how much he misses talking to her in person. They talked less before, only twice a week, but he finds that he misses her voice, and her laugh, and the way she talks with her hands. It’s not quite the same, texting. He really misses having someone to cook for, too. It just isn’t the same, having an empty kitchen, no matter how much he enjoys Murphy’s company. 

Wanda (12:39am): i’m so sad christmas is over

He squints at his phone, laying in bed. It’s late, and he can barely keep his eyes open. He’s pretty sure they’ve been talking for hours. 

Wanda (12:39am): i don’t even really celebrate christmas except for with my family but i still like it

Me (12:40am): Only 359 days left until Christmas comes around again. 

Wanda (12:40am): :( that’s too long, viz 

Me (12:40am) : Sorry. I don’t make the rules. If I did, we would have at least three Christmasses. Although I suppose it would lose its magic if we had it more than once a year.

Wanda (12:41am): lies and slander. magic is forever!

Wanda (12:41am): but really, if you had three wishes, would you really pick more christmases?

Wanda (12:41am): oh wait. you’re one of those who’d pick three more wishes, right?

Wanda (12:41am): or no. world peace. you’d pick world peace.

Me (12:42am): You wouldn’t?

Wanda (12:42am): would anyone actually pick world peace or are we just expected to say that so we sound like a good person?

Me (12:43am): Wouldn’t world peace solve most people’s problems?

Wanda (12:43am): it’s not gonna give me a lifetime supply of chocolate though, is it? But i guess if i had three whole wishes I could use one for world peace. 

Me (12:44am): Chocolate and world peace. What’s your third?

Wanda (12:44am): a second season of firefly, obviously

Wanda (12:44am): what about you?

Me (12:45am): Well, world peace, obviously. Good health for my friends and family. And maybe the ability to fly so I could travel and visit my mother more, but that seems selfish. Would world peace also include ending world hunger, do you think?

Wanda (12:46am): oh vision. I think you might be the most perfect person i’ve ever met. 

Me (12:46am): I’m not perfect, Wanda.

Wanda (12:46am): you are, though. I hope you never change.   

He spends New Year’s Eve at Sam and Bucky’s like he always does, playing drinking games and losing terribly at Twister to Natasha and Darcy, who laugh until they cry when he falls on his face. The champagne makes him feel dizzy and floaty and free, and he enjoys himself immensely; parties like these are one of the few times when all of his friends are gathered together. 

Well. Not all of his friends.

Wanda (11:12pm): Having fun?

“Who’s that?” Sam asks. 

Vision looks up from where he’s sprawled on the couch, flushed and drunk and happy. “Um. Wanda.” For some reason he can’t say her name without blushing.

Sam, who has a much higher tolerance than him and has been busy hosting to let himself get too sloshed, slants an odd, curious look at him. “Wanda your boss Wanda?"

Vision nods. 

“I didn’t know you two were that close.”

“I,” Vision stutters, still clutching his phone to his chest. “We’re not.”

Sam snorts. “You’re texting on New Year’s Eve, Viz. That’s pretty close in my book.”

Vision glances down at his phone. He still hasn’t answered Wanda’s text. “I’m gonna get some air.”

Sam’s mouth twitches. “It’s freezing cold. Have fun.”

Vision slips out of the house, shivering as he pulls up Wanda’s conversation thread, his gloved hands slipping over the keys. 

Me (11:31pm): i migt have had to much to drink.

Wanda (11:31pm): omg how MUCH did you drink, you’re actually typing in typos now like the rest of us plebeians 

Me (11:32pm): its sam’s fault

Me (11:32pm): and nat’s

Me (11:32pm): and darcys

Me (11:32pm): i dont have a very high tolrance

Wanda (11:33pm): i gathered that

Wanda (11:33pm): but are you having FUN though?

Me (11:34pm): yes. I love my friends

Wanda (11:34pm): lucky. Nothing fun ever happens up here. I love my siblings and my parents and everything, but I think I’d rather be at your party right now. 

He types it without thinking. 

Me (11:35pm): you should come next year.

Wanda doesn’t answer immediately, and a frisson of panic shoots through him, clearing his head a little. It’s dark, and freezing, and his sweat is frozen to his body. What the fuck is he doing, asking his boss to come to a party where he gets drunk?

Wanda (11:37pm): you think your friends would like me?

His heart beats faster. That’s not a no. 

Me (11:37pm): of course they would wanda

Me (11:38pm): you’re lovely

Wanda (11:38pm): oh

Wanda (11:39pm): thank you

Wanda (11:39pm): you’re very lovely yourself

Vision swallows. He misses her so sharply for a moment that he feels a little breathless. Right now all he wants is to be in her kitchen, having persimmons thrown at his head while they argue about who the best Bond is. 

Me (11:41pm): i neede to go insde before i freeze

Wanda (11:41pm): please do, i’d miss you if you froze to death. who else would make me cheeseburger soup?

He feels shaky when he steps back into the warm house. Bucky’s already asleep, curled up with his head in Sam’s lap, his prosthetic resting on the back of the couch and a blanket thrown over him. Some people have already left, drifting to other, more lively parties, but most of his friends are here somewhere, warm and cozy, curled up together like kittens. He wanders over to sit in the empty armchair by Sam, picking up a platter of pigs in a blanket and hoping it will calm his rolling, drunken stomach. 

“How’s Wanda?” Sam asks softly. On the TV, the ball is getting ready to drop, and people are starting to gather in front of it. Vision tucks his legs beneath himself, listening to Bucky snore. 

“She’s fine,” Vision says. 

“Vision…”

“Don’t, Sam,” he says. 

Sam shakes his head. “I should have noticed before.”

Despite himself, he leans closer to Sam. “Noticed?”

Sam smiles. “You haven’t even noticed it, have you? Vision, I haven’t seen you smile as much as you do when you talk about Wanda in a really, really long time.”

Vision sighs. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Of course it does,” Sam says. “You’ve been so miserable this past year, and now you’re finally happy again! How can that not mean anything? You like Wanda.”

Vision grips a pig in a blanket. “You know I don’t - I don’t feel attraction or romance the way other people do.”

Sam nods. “I know. Only with people you know and trust and care about. But Vision… do you care about Wanda? Do you trust her?”

“We’re friends.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Vision feels the distinct urge to flee the room. “I… yes, I care about her. And I trust her. But she’s - Sam, she’s my boss.”

“She hired you off of Craigslist to cook for her,” Sam points out logically. “This isn’t an office romance. Unless Wanda’s secretly running an HR department from her house, I think you’re in the clear.” He pauses. “Does she like you like that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Vision says hoarsely. 

Sam tips his head. “You’re right,” he says easily. “All that matters is how you feel.”

And that’s the problem, Vision thinks. Because he does feel things about Wanda. He feels…

He feels like she’s the best and fastest friend he’s ever made. He feels like he loves to cook for her, that he loves to bicker with her, that he’d marathon a hundred scary movies with her just to witness her enthusiasm. He feels like he likes her long legs and her bare feet on the cold tile, the way she cradles her mug to her chest, the way she talks with her hands, the way she fiddles with her rings and perches on the edge of the counter. He feels like he loves her smile, and her laugh, and her eyes. He feels like he knows her, her loneliness and her happiness and her sadness and her humor. He feels like her words keep him tethered to the earth; you’re very lovely yourself. He feels like he’s the truest version of himself whenever he’s around her. 

He feels like he could love her so easily, and it scares him to death. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says again. “I’m not… after Virginia, I’m not really…”

Sam touches his arm. “Vision,” he says kindly. “You can’t let one horrible thing stop you from living the rest of your life. You didn’t deserve what Virginia did to you, but it doesn’t define you. I think that with how rare it is for you to like someone like this, you can’t let this opportunity pass you. You should talk to Wanda.”

Vision heaves out a deep sigh. “What if it’s just in my head?”

“Would you rather never know?”

“I don’t know,” he admits.

Sam pats his arm. “Well, buddy. It looks like you need to figure that one out on your own.”

When the ball drops, he gets a ping. 

Wanda (12:00am): Happy New Year’s, Vision!

Wanda (12:00am): (See, I can use Proper Punctuation, too! :P)

He goes home a little after midnight and lays in bed, Murphy curled up on his chest, purring like a little engine. He feels wide awake, wild, wired, so he grabs This Side Of Paradise off of his nightstand, flipping to where he left off. He’s always loved F. Scott Fitzgerald, and this book in particular, even more so because he knows the story of how it was the way Fitzgerald asked Zelda to marry him. He’d always felt he understood Fitzgerald, the way he used the things he created as a sign of love, the same way Vision did with food. 

He looks down at the page he left off at, rubbing his thumb beneath the last line on the page:

They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered. 

His eyes burn, and he shuts the book again. Murphy settles back against him, her head resting into the hollow of his throat, her cold little nose pressed into his skin. He strokes her fur, fighting back the urge to cry. He’s not ready for this. He’s not ready to be in love again. 

He thinks it might be too late to stop it. 

At four in the morning, he texts Wanda back. 

Me (4:12am): Happy New Year’s, Wanda. 

Wanda (9:13am): i’m starting to regret taking off three whole weeks from work

Wanda (9:13am): do you think there’s a polite way to tell your mom that you love her but that you hate her cooking

Wanda (9:14am): i love my mom

Wanda (9:15am): but i’m also remembering why kids move out when they turn 18

Wanda (9:15am): i miss having a whole bathroom to myself

Wanda (9:16am): and not having to fight over the freaking remote

Wanda (9:17am): hey, you okay?

Vision rubs his face. He’s sort of been avoiding Wanda - or, text-avoiding, he supposes - since New Year’s. It doesn’t help though. It just makes him miss her worse, like pressing on a fresh bruise. His stupid heart keeps getting in the way of him, blaring like a foghorn every time he thinks about Wanda, and he’s started to see all of their interactions in a different light; god, how could he not have seen that he was falling in love this whole time? 

He thumbs open his phone. It’s not Wanda’s fault, he thinks wearily. And I can’t just ignore her. 

Me (9:19am): I’m fine, I just slept in later than I expected. How is everything upstate?

Wanda (9:19am): cold. really really freaking cold, viz

Me (9:20am): I hope you’re staying warm.

Wanda (9:20am): I’m trying! 

Wanda (9:21am): hey

Wanda (9:21am): can I call you?

Vision blinks. He’s curled up on his sofa, Murphy starfished across the blanket in his lap. He chews the inside of his cheek nervously. 

Me (9:22am): Is something wrong?

Wanda (9:23am): No not at all

Wanda (9:23am): i just miss talking to you is all

He hesitates. This is - this is dangerous territory. 

But he misses talking to her, too. 

Me (9:24am): You can call me.

A minute later his cell phone rings, waking Murphy from her sleep, and he answers it, heart thundering wildly in his chest when he brings it to his ear. “Hello?”

There’s a brief burst of static and the sound of something moving, then: “Viz?”

He blows out a breath. “Hello, Wanda.”

“Viz! Hi! Wow, you sound different on the phone.”

Vision can’t help but smile. “Do I?”

“A little, yeah.” There’s a pause. “I’m sorry, is this weird? I missed your voice.”

There’s something painful and sharp blossoming in his chest. He abruptly feels bad for avoiding her texts. “I missed yours, too,” he says, a little uneven.

He can hear the smile in her voice. “You’re too sweet. What have you been up to today?”

He glances down at Murphy, now laying across his legs and cutting off the circulation to his feet. “Nothing, really. Cuddling with Murphy. Eating breakfast. What about you?”

“Avoiding my mom’s breakfast. I don’t know how many people can screw up scrambled eggs.” He can feel her affection radiating out of the words. "Not that I have any room to judge, of course."

“Do you want me to tell you what I had today?”

“God. Please. Give me something to dream about here, Viz.”

He laughs. “Homemade cinnamon rolls.”

Wanda makes a sound that has him squirming where he sits, feeling like his face is burning up. “Please,” she begs, “please, please tell me that you’re going to save some for me.”

“I finished them, actually, but I can make some more.”

Wanda sighs. “You’re the best, Vision. I’m glad I’m coming home tomorrow. I’ll be seeing you bright and early on Thursday, right?”

Vision lays back, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”

I’m in love with you, he doesn’t add. He lets the words dissolve somewhere in his ribcage. He lets himself fall apart at the unmistakable truth. 

When Wanda opens her door on Thursday, she’s already beaming, and it knocks the breath he’d been holding right out of his lungs. 

“Viz!” she cries, and a helpless smile spreads across Vision’s face. He almost goes to hug her before he remembers that they don’t do that. 

She doesn’t go back to work until tomorrow, and today she’s wearing soft, worn jeans and oversized green sweatshirt that brings out the green of her eyes; she’s not wearing her shoes, and the sight of her panda-patterned socks makes a rush of tenderness rise through him like a tidal wave. “Wanda,” he says, trying not to disintegrate on the spot. It’s only been three weeks, and she’s even more beautiful than he remembered. 

“Here,” Wanda says, and before he can protest, she’s sweeping the armful of food from his arms, “you go get the rest, and I’ll bring this inside, it’s too cold to stay out here.”

Well, he can’t argue with that. 

He brings in the second load, and stepping back into Wanda’s house makes something settle inside of his stomach, like the opposite of nausea, if such a thing exists. It’s only been three weeks, he reminds himself. This is ridiculous. 

He can’t help but remember how cold it had felt to step into her house the first time, how impersonal. It’s so different now that he doesn’t have the words to accurately convey it, even though the house itself hasn’t changed. 

“This smells so good,” Wanda says dreamily as he sets down the last of the groceries. When she looks at him from beneath her bangs, he feels the sharp urge to hug her, to inhale the scent of her strawberry shampoo, to tell her how much he’s missed her even though they’ve spoken nearly every day. “I’ve missed your food so damn much, Vision.”

“I’m glad,” he says.

Her eyes are warm. “I’ve missed you, too, y’know.”

He blushes. “I’ve missed you, too, Wanda” he says, probably too honestly. 

Wanda beams again. Vision feels gutted. Lacerated. Seasick with love. He shouldn’t have come back. “I have something for you,” Wanda says. 

Vision frowns. “You do?”

Wanda grabs her purse from the counter, a curtain of hair shielding her face, and when she lifts her head she’s blushing softly when she reaches out and opens her hands. 

Vision breathes out slowly. “Oh,” he says. 

It’s the calico cat piggy bank. 

His throat tightens. “Wanda -”

Wanda grins, so warm and soft and open that he falters. “Merry Christmas, Vision.”

Vision shakes his head. “I can’t take it,” he says helplessly, “I didn’t get you anything -”

“Did you bring me cinnamon rolls?” Wanda asks, head cocked, eyes bright with teasing mirth that just does terrible things to Vision’s emotional well-being. 

He bites his lower lip, and jerks his chin towards the pink paper box on the top of the food stash. “Of course. I made them this morning,” he says.

Wanda’s eyes crinkle. “Then you did give me something. Besides, I already bought it, and as we’ve established, you’re the crazy cat person in this relationship, Vision.” She thrusts out her hand, and Vision tentatively reaches out and takes the tiny figurine from her grasp, touching one fingertip to the little coin slot along the arch of the cat’s spine. He studies it, passing it back and forth between his hands. It feels like something irreparably precious, like a heart, or a diamond ring. And it really does look like Murphy.

“Thank you,” he says, gut-wrenchingly in love. 

Wanda laughs, already digging into the cinnamon rolls with a gleeful expression. “You’re welcome! Honestly though, I should be thanking you for keeping me sane with your texts while I was upstate. I love my family to absolute pieces, but if I had to spend one more hour snowed inside one very small house with all of them, something very, very bad would have happened. Especially if Cooper left the toilet seat up again.”

She makes such a disgusted expression when she says her brother’s name that Vision can’t help but laugh, and Wanda laughs with him, frosting on her chin, and something in his chest eases just a little bit, just enough for him to breathe. This is - this is familiar, he thinks. This laughing, this teasing, this easy conversation. This is so much easier than the texts and the calls where he can’t see her face, where he reads too much into every little thing she says. Here, now, he knows what he’s doing. He knows his way around this kitchen. 

He can do this, he thinks. Maybe he just needed to see her again to unravel whatever mess his head’s become since she left. 

Maybe it really is all in his head.

“If it helps,” he says lightly, “I promise that I will never leave the toilet seat up whenever I come over.”

She snorts. “I know, you never do. You’re a perfect gentleman, that‘s why I hired you. Your manners and your muffins.”

Wanda smiles, and Vision falls in love. 

“Either way, the 1995 version stays more true to the book,” Vision says as he sautés the onions and garlic in olive oil and butter, the heat on low as the onions caramelize. 

“You can’t say ‘either way,’” Wanda says, curled up at the table with a plate of Vision’s homemade croissants. “Either you like the 1995 version better, or you like the 2005 version better, and that’s that.”

Vision smiles. Wanda’s been back for just over a month, and whatever weirdness he’d created inside of his head is finally starting to go away as he slides more comfortably back into their usual routine; he cooks, she eats, they bicker cheerfully, hopefully without the tossing of persimmons. “Why can’t I like both?” he asks, turning the heat back up and adding the chicken stock to deglaze the pan. He’s finished most of the cooking for the next few days, so he’d decided to make tonight’s dinner for her fresh - chicken in a creamy garlic parmesan sauce, served with roasted broccoli and fried rice. “They’re both equally enjoyable.”

“You’re so wrong and you don’t even know it,” Wanda sniffs. “The 2005 version is and always will be superior.”

Vision looks at her. “But less like the book than the 1995 version,” he says, because he likes to watch her narrow her eyes with friendly ire. 

“If the overall message of the book remains, it shouldn’t matter if one is more like -”

“No, no, no, that’s not true, look at all the movies that are completely divorced from their original context -”

“It’s Jane Austen! It doesn’t need context! Pride and Prejudice is one of the most famous books of all time, everyone knows the story, that’s why there’re so many adaptations and rip-offs -”

“That doesn’t mean that screenplays shouldn’t try and stick closely to the original, and if that’s what we’re judging by, than the 1995 version -”

“Who says we’re judging by that?”

“You did!” Vision says, and they both start laughing as Wanda butters another croissant. Vision adds the cream to the sauce, then the cheese and the salt and the pepper, and finally he adds the pan-seared chicken back in to let the flour from the batter thicken the dish. “I loved the 1995 version first, but I do love the 2005 version, too. Keira Knightly is a queen amongst Elizabeth Bennets.”

“Well, that we can agree on,” Wanda says easily, licking melted butter from her fingertips. Vision studiously keeps his eyes on the pan as he sprinkles parsley over the top. “God,” Wanda adds, a hint of mirth in her voice, “this all reminds me of the one time I was staying in a hotel room in Jamaica for a conference. I was trying to watch Pride and Prejudice, but I could barely hear it over the sound of the couple in the next room having sex. It was the 2005 version by the way, you nerd.”

Vision coughs a little into his sleeve as he turns off the stove and slides the lid over the pot to keep it hot. They don’t - sex is one of those things they don’t talk about, whether they’re texting or in person. “At least there was a good movie available to watch.”

“Still, it’s kind of hard to take it seriously when every pause in the music means you can hear the moaning and the thumping next door. I felt like I was watching a Regency Era porno.”

“Staying true to Jane Austen’s romance theme, at least,” Vision says without thinking, as he takes the broccoli out of the oven and sprinkles parmesan over the greens. 

Wanda bursts out laughing. “I mean yeah, and y’know Mr. Darcy wants it bad.”

Vision really needs to stop talking. “I feel like hate sex could work for them.”

“Nah, Mr. Darcy’s probably the loving missionary type.”

He pauses. “Are we talking about Colin Firth Darcy or MacFadyen Darcy?”

“MacFayden.”

He nods, suppressing a grin. “Tender missionary it is.”

Wanda raises an eyebrow. “Are you implying that Colin Firth Darcy is secretly a freak in bed?”

“Are you saying he’s not?”

Wanda considers that, eating the last few bites of her croissant. “Y’know what, I can see it. And you know Jennifer Ehle’s Elizabeth is like the secretly freaky type, too. Girl’s got that gleam in her eye.”

“I guess I wouldn’t know,” he says, entirely without thinking. 

Wanda tilts her head to the side curiously. "What do you mean?"

Here's the part where he should remember that he's talking to his boss and exit the conversation gracefully. Instead, his stupid mouth says, "I don't… really have a lot of experience in the matter."

"Oh," Wanda says, looking a little startled. "Were you and your ex high school sweethearts or something?"

Vision starts getting out the ingredients for the fried rice, turning on the stove again and scrambling the eggs as he collects his thoughts. "No," he says eventually, "I met her in college, but she was the only really serious relationship I've ever had. The only relationship I've ever had. I don't… I don't feel attracted to people very often, only after I get to know them, after I trust them and care about them." He sets the eggs aside before adding the garlic, onions, carrots and peas to the pan, carefully keeping his back to Wanda. 

"You're demisexual?" she asks, surprising him. He turns to look at her, and there's no judgement on her face, no disbelief or confusion. Just warmth. 

He wets his lips. "I've never really felt the need for labels," he says, "but demisexual is the closest name for how I feel, yes."

Wanda nods seriously. "I - sorry, ignore me and my questions, I'm not trying to interrogate you."

Vision can't help but smile. "You can ask me, Wanda. I'm not uncomfortable," he says softly.

She bites her lip. "I don't know much about demisexuality, I guess, but - you don't feel attraction at all? Does that mean you don't like sex, or -?"

"I do feel sexual attraction," he says patiently, turning back to the stove. He adds the chilled rice and soy sauce to the pan, stirring it in with the vegetables and drizzling in a nice portion of melted butter. "And I like sex, it just has to be with the right person. I need to have an emotional attachment to someone before I feel anything like romantic or sexual desire." For some reason, he feels the compelling urge to turn to face her and add, face burning only a little, "But I do feel it."

"With the right person," Wanda says softly. 

"With the right person," he agrees. He takes the pan off of the heat and adds the green onions, sesame oil, and scrambled eggs, wiping his hands on his apron afterwards before starting to clean up. Wanda gets up from her seat and starts helping him. "You don't -"

"I don't mind," she says, smiling. “Vision?”

His heart thunders noisily in his chest. “Yes?”

She bites her lip, looking up at him as they stand at the sink. “I’m glad… I’m glad that you feel comfortable enough with me to tell me that. I know how hard it was when I came out to my family that I’m bisexual.”

He blinks. “Oh,” he says. Wanda smiles knowingly, a little bit of vulnerability in her eyes, and he melts inside. He understands the gesture for what it is; you trusted me, I trust you. Or maybe, I understand you, will you understand me? “Well,” he says, blushing. “The demisexual thing was kind of a surprise, really, but my friends and family were all very understanding. They’d known that I’m pan for years before that, so. I guess it wasn’t quite as surprising.”

Wanda grins, bright and effusive. “I guess we’re both pretty lucky to both have amazing, supportive families and friends, huh?”

Vision turns on the faucet, love rattling around in his chest like marbles in a junk drawer, or loose coins in a piggy bank. “We’re very lucky, yes.”

That night Vision lays in bed, and he can’t sleep. His conversation with Wanda keeps rolling around his head. 

“What was I thinking, Murph?” he asks, scratching behind her ears where she’s curled up on his chest. She purrs, twisting so he can rub her belly, her little paws in the air. “I shouldn’t have said all of that to Wanda, I mean… God, I might as well have told her how I felt, ugh. I don’t think I could have been more obvious about my big, stupid crush.”

Murphy doesn’t respond, just flops over and puts her tail over her eyes. 

“God,” he says under his breath. “Wanda’s right, I am a crazy cat person who talks to my cat more than actual people.”

His phone goes off suddenly, startling him and Murphy both, and he reaches for it in confusion that anyone would be texting him at this hour. 

Wanda (2:35am): hey I know you’re probably asleep right now, but I wanted to check in and apologize for asking you all of that today, or yesterday I guess. It wasn’t any of my business, and I realize that you might have felt like you had to answer me because you were on the job, and if I made you uncomfortable at all, I sincerely apologize. 

Vision rereads the message twice before answering. 

Me (2:39am): You didn’t make me uncomfortable, Wanda. If I didn’t want to answer you, I wouldn’t have. I’m very comfortable with who I am, and I’m not ashamed to share that with people I trust. You have nothing to apologize for. 

Wanda (2:40am): okay. okay. Thank god. 

Wanda (2:40am): I still shouldn’t have asked, but i meant what i said about being glad that you felt okay with sharing that with me

Me (2:41am): I’m glad, too.

Wanda (2:42am) did i wake you?

Me (2:43am): No, I can’t sleep.

Wanda (2:43am): me either

Wanda (2:44am): okay, this might sound weird, and feel free to turn me down but

Wanda (2:44am): can I invite you over to dinner sometime?

Vision sits upright in bed, eyes wide. His heart starts racing. This is - don’t read into it, he tells himself. 

Me (2:45am): Dinner?

Wanda (2:46am): yeah

Wanda (2:46am): it’s occurred to me that we’re friends but we’ve never hung out outside of work, and since you always cook for me i thought i could return the favor. 

Wanda (2:47am): and by that i mean i could order us a pizza or something, i won’t subject you to my cooking

Wanda (2:48am): is that…. weird? 

Wanda (2:48am): we’re friends, right viz?

Wanda (2:49am): feel free to tell me to shove if i’m not and this is making you uncomfortable

Wanda (2:49am): i’m the worst boss ever aren’t i

His heart might actually be on fire. He glances over to his bookshelf, where he’d placed the cat piggy bank.

Me (2:51am): You’re a wonderful boss, Wanda. I’d love to have dinner with you as friends.

Wanda (2:51am): :)

Wanda (2:51am): awesome, okay

Wanda (2:52am): are you free on saturday?

Me (2:52am): Yes. What time should I be there?

Wanda (2:53am): is 7 good?

Me (2:53am): Yes. Would you like me to bring anything?

Wanda (2:54am): no!!!! that would totally defeat the purpose of you NOT having to cook or do anything

Wanda (2:55am): just bring yourself!

Me (2:55am): That sounds good. I’ll see on Saturday, then.

Wanda (2:56am): see you saturday :D 

Wanda (3:01am): oh and hey

Wanda (3:01am) goodnight vision

Me (3:01am) Goodnight, Wanda. Sleep well. 

Vision doesn’t end up falling asleep for hours. 

Showing up to Wanda’s without food feels distinctly strange. 

He shows up at precisely seven o’clock on Saturday, sweaty hands tucked into his pants, his heart beating right out of his chest when Wanda opens the door.

“Hey, stranger,” she says, eyes sparkling. “You’re a lot more punctual than the DoorDash guy.”

A laugh spills out of him. “Punctuality is important,” he says. Had that really only been six months ago that they first met? It feels like a lifetime ago. 

Wanda beams and beckons him inside. He can’t believe he ever thought this place was cold. It might be the warmest house he’s ever stepped into.

He follows her into the kitchen on autopilot. “It smells good,” he says, a little bit surprised despite himself. 

Wanda throws him an amused look over her shoulder. “Don’t be so surprised, I have good taste in take-out.”

She’s ordered pizza from The Pie Place down the street, the one where you take home your pizza and make it yourself; olives and green peppers for herself, garlic chicken for Vision, plus a plate of garlic knots, and they share a plate of the knots while the pizzas bake in the oven. Despite being in this same exact room in just about the same exact circumstances - food related, that is - a few dozen times by now, there’s a strange and nervous energy between them, and Vision feels excruciatingly aware of how awkward every single thing he ever does is. They don’t say much as Vision slides the second pizza into the oven and starts slicing the first while Wanda opens a bottle of red wine. 

“So,” Wanda says after a painfully long pause, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and smiling gently. “I was thinking we could watch a movie.”

Vision smiles back. “A dangerous suggestion, with our tastes.”

Wanda snickers. “Actually, I think I know what I want to watch. Don’t worry, it’s something we can both agree on for once.”

“Oh?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“The Princess Bride,” Wanda says.

Vision can’t help it. He just can’t. “As you wish.”

Wanda rolls her eyes fondly, mumbling something about persimmons as she carries the wine glasses into the living room. Vision follows with plates of pizza balanced in each hand. 

He’s not very familiar with the rest of Wanda’s house like he is with her kitchen. It’s clear that the living room is one where she spends a lot of time, because it looks much more lived in than the rest of the house, decorated in soft creams and warm hints of burgundy here and there instead of the cold white and silver-blues of the other rooms. There’s a huge L-shaped sofa in front of a gleaming, probably fifty-inch television, and Vision curls up on the couch beside Wanda, stifling a groan when he sinks into the cushions. Maybe there are some benefits to being rich. 

He hands Wanda her pizza as she queues up The Princess Bride. 

“Are you sure this movie is okay? I was joking before, we can watch whatever you want.”

“Wanda,” Vision says seriously, “The Princess Bride is always a good choice.”

She offers him a crooked grin, pizza grease shining on her lips. “As you wish,” she chirps, and he laughs. 

They settle in as the music starts, eating pizza in comfortable silence, and Vision smiles when he hears Wanda softly whisper the script under her breath in time with the characters on screen. She’s as engaging with the movie as she is with everything else, laughing with her whole body and mimicking the sword fights, and Vision finds himself watching her more than the movie itself. 

He hardly ever sees her out of her business clothes. Today she’s wearing black yoga pants and an old, faded Coney Island t-shirt, and of course her feet are bare where they’re tucked up beneath her thighs. Vision doesn’t understand how she doesn’t get cold. She doesn’t look cold, though, she looks… soft. He wonders, suddenly, what it might be like to touch her; to put his arm around her shoulders, to feel her curl up against his side, to brush his fingers through her auburn curls. She laughs around a bite of pizza and he wants to kiss her. More terrifying, he thinks, is that he wants to do more than kissing. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. 

Virginia, probably. 

God. This crush of his isn’t going to go away anytime soon, is it? 

She shifts closer and their thighs touch, perfectly innocent through two layers of clothing, but Vision can feel every cubic inch of contact like she’s lit him on fire. Her hand is resting on top of her leg, and he wants to hold it so badly it hurts.

“Hey,” Wanda says, startling him back into the present. On screen, Westley is battling the R.O.U.S, and Wanda turns to smile at him, leaning her cheek against the back of the couch. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He offers a weak smile. “Me, too.”

Her smile grows. “I can’t remember the last time I had a friend over. I forgot how nice it is.”

“You don’t ever invite other friends over?” Vision asks, frowning a little. 

Wanda presses her lips together. “Not really. I guess my colleagues are sort of my friends, and I have a few outside of work, but none that… well, none that I’d watch The Princess Bride with in my pajamas.” She shifts, and their hands brush, making Vision’s skin tingle. He’s so aware of her that he can hardly breathe. “After Simon left, I think I got too used to being alone. It felt safer, y’know? I think I forgot how to enjoy my life.” She looks at him, smile slipping into something more serious. “Until I met you,” she adds, softly, and the words hit his heart like a cannonball. 

He can’t quite inhale all the way through the sudden tightness in his chest. “I feel the same,” he admits very quietly, because it’s painfully true and he’s never been good at lying. “After Virginia, I shut myself off to the world, but then you hired me, and everything changed.”

Wanda looks at him for a long, aching moment. “Is it,” she whispers, “is it terrible of me to say that I think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had?”

Vision shakes his head, throat tightening. “It’s not terrible,” he manages. “Not terrible at all. I think you’re my best friend, too.” Which is why I can’t be in love with you. Because I can’t lose this. 

Wanda reaches out suddenly and takes his hand, squeezing it, and he feels like he’s about to fall out of his own body. “Thanks for letting me buy you dinner,” she says, and Vision breathes a little easier at the change of subject. 

“You’re welcome,” he says. “It’s… it’s good pizza.”

Wanda nods. “I love The Pie Place. It reminds me of the pizza my mom used to make from scratch as a kid.” She looks down at her empty plate, sighing a little, something sad twisting across her face and making his heart throb. “I wish I could remember how she did it.”

“I could teach you,” he says stupidly, without thinking. 

Wanda looks back up, blinking in surprise. “What?”

Fuck. What is he doing? He decides to blame the wine, even though he only had one glass. “I could teach you,” he says hopelessly, because he’s already in this. “How to make pizza from scratch. It’s not all that hard, actually, if… if you want.”

Wanda tilts her head to one side, grinning. “You really wouldn’t mind?”

Vision shrugs. “Of course not. Are you, um, free tomorrow?”

“I am,” Wanda says softly. 

Vision swallows, turning back to the television as Fezzik and Inigo rescue Westley. He’s already drowning out his feelings tonight. He can do it for another. He’s starting to get good at it, he thinks. “Okay, then. Pizza lessons it is.”

Wanda hesitates, and then leans her head on his shoulder lightly, and all the air leaves his body like a balloon leaking air. “You’re too good to me, Viz.”

He can smell the strawberry of her shampoo. “Of course I’m not,” he says. 

That night he dreams of Wanda; they’re watching The Princess Bride on her couch, and halfway through it Wanda throws the remote aside and takes his face in her hands, kissing him. He gasps into her mouth, tasting the sweet red wine on her tongue and winding his fingers into her loose curls as she slides into his lap, warm and sweet and certain. She scrapes her nails along his scalp and he whines, and when she tips her weight forward to rub right over the aching length of his erection he shudders, slipping his hands beneath her shirt to cup her breasts through her bra as she starts to kiss his neck. The smell of strawberry shampoo fills his senses. 

“Wanda,” he says, the only word he knows, and she laughs against his skin. 

“Vision,” she says, warm and lovely, nipping at his throat. “Vision, baby, touch me.”

He moans, rocking up against her lightly before sliding one hand down her stomach and into her yoga pants, brushing against her where she’s already slick and so hot, and when he presses against her Wanda throws her head back and cries out, and -

Vision wakes up gasping, his cock so hard it hurts. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He never has sex dreams. He almost never even touches himself - he just never really feels the need to, his libido usually hovering pretty low now that he’s single, and he can’t remember the last time he felt like this. He closes his eyes and tries - he tries not to think about it, because if he does he won’t be able to stop - he tries - he tries - and he -

He slides a hand beneath the sheets and moans. 

He spends the next day trying really hard not to think about his dream, and succeeds in thinking about it only every thirty seconds or so. 

It’s just. 

He doesn’t have sex dreams. He still can’t believe he did. 

He can’t believe he fucked his own hand while thinking about Wanda. As if he needed any further confirmation that every single part of his brain, not to mention body, is in love with her. 

God. How is he going to face her tonight?

He spends most of Sunday morning on the knife’s edge of a panic attack, and by the afternoon he decides that the only way he’s going to make it through the rest of the day is by taking his mind off of tonight, and the best way Vision knows how to take his mind off of something is through baking. 

“Dessert,” he says, walking around his apartment, talking to himself like a mad man; he probably looks like a mad man with how many times he’s ran his fingers through his hair, which is now sticking straight up. “Dessert. That’s what we need tonight. But what dessert?”

He debates back and forth for an eternity, but eventually decides to stick with a favorite: snickerdoodle cupcakes. His mother’s favorite dessert. 

He sifts the flour, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon together, miraculously only managing to make a small mess instead of his usual huge mess - something about cinnamon and its desire to spread itself like dust in the wind every time he uses it - and sets it aside before creaming together the butter and sugar, the familiar smell soothing his frayed edges. He beats in the eggs, milk, and vanilla before adding the dry ingredients to the mix, blending it thoroughly until everything smelled like cinnamon and heaven. 

While the cupcakes cool, he takes a long hot shower, staring at the light blue tile of his bathroom wall. “What am I going to do?” he whispers, blinking shampoo out of his eyes. 

This can’t keep going on, he knows. He can’t keep putting himself through the torture of seeing Wanda without being able to tell her. But he can’t just quit, either. For one, he both loves and needs this job. For another - romantic feelings aside, Wanda is his friend. He can’t. He can’t do that to her any more than he can do that to himself. He values her being in his life too much to just - break it off because he had to go and fall in love. 

He’s just going to have to suck it up, he supposes, heart stinging at the miserable thought. He’s going to have to pretend he never realized how he feels. He can do that, right? Probably. Maybe. 

He gets out of the shower and makes the cinnamon buttercream, frosting the cool cupcakes delicately as the clock ticks closer and his anxiety grows. At six-thirty, he collects the finished cupcakes in a bakery box and throws the pizza ingredients in bags and heads towards his doom. 

“Here,” Vision says, tipping the yeast into the warm water, “like this.”

Wanda watches curiously. “I’ve never used yeast before,” she muses. “Is it supposed to look like that?”

Vision laughs. “Yes.”

Wanda looks up from where she’s stirring the flour, salt, and canola oil. “Thank you again,” she says. “For coming over and humoring me.”

He looks at her, frowning. “I’m not humoring you, Wanda. I’m happy to be here.” And he is, really. Annoying heart issues aside, there’s no one else he would rather be around than Wanda. There’s no other way he’d prefer to spend his Sundays than teaching her how to make pizza. “Really,” he insists. 

She smiles softly. “I’m happy you’re here, too.”

He swallows around the lump in his throat. Please stop saying stuff like that, he thinks painfully, even as his heart insists that she should never stop saying stuff like that. 

“Do you want me to show you how to make the pizza sauce?” he asks, smiling weakly. 

Wanda grins. “Sure!”

They finish the dough first, and then start mincing and chopping the garlic and tomatoes. The kitchen is huge, but Vision finds that they can’t quite seem to stop bumping into each other; he reaches for the oregano and she reaches for the basil, and their hands brush; he rolls out the dough and she’s right next to him, hips touching, as she ladles out the sauce on top. He’s never felt more aware of his body; his dream keeps coming back to him in flashes and daydreams, and Vision finds himself flustered and overly warm as they dance around together. 

“Is that it?” Wanda asks, as they stand over their unbaked creation; dough, sauce, cheese, mushrooms, bell peppers, sausage, more cheese. She cranes her head to look at him where he’s standing right behind her, and he realizes that she’s practically trapped against the counter by his body. 

He steps back, face burning. “Y-yes,” he says, “we just, um, we just have to bake it now.” With shaky hands, he slides the pizza into the oven and sets the timer, feeling Wanda’s eyes on him the entire time. God. She probably thinks he’s crazy with the way he’s been acting. He wouldn’t blame her if she did. He fiddles with the stove, triple checking he’d turned off the saucepan’s burner, breathing a little shaky. 

When Wanda touches his elbow suddenly, he jumps and turns around. “Wanda?” 

Wanda looks unusually nervous, scanning his face. “Can I,” she asks, hushed and swift, “can I ask you something?”

He swallows, nervousness fluttering in his belly. “Of course, Wanda.”

She nods, taking a step back, wringing her hands. “Okay,” she says, letting out a nervous laugh, and Vision tenses a little. “Okay. I’m just going to say it. Vision, do you - do you like me?”

His heart sputters like an out of tune engine. “What?”

Wanda laughs again, shuffling her feet and tucking her hair behind her ears, eyes wide and earnest and nervous. “Do you like me?” she whispers. “I mean. As more than a friend. Because, see, I’ve been wracking my brain and I can’t figure out if I’m just seeing what I want to see or if there’s actually something here, and I’m just. I’m going to go crazy if I don’t ask you. And I know, fuck, I know I shouldn’t be asking you this and that there’s all kinds of morally dubious stuff here since you’re technically my employee, and God, please feel free to tell me to fuck off if I’m wrong, but - I have to know. I have to know. Because I -” she falters, mouth pressed together so tightly her lips turn white, and Vision realizes with a start that there are tears in her eyes. She fiddles with the too-long sleeves of her blue flannel shirt. “Because I like you,” she says hoarsely. “I like you. So much, and I just - I have to know.”

Vision barely hears her over the ringing in his ears. “Wanda,” he says helplessly, choking on all the things he wants to say. “I…”

Wanda takes a deep breath. “I’ve had friends before, y’know, and this isn’t how friendship feels, to me. And I thought, before, well I thought there would never be any way that you would ever look at me like that, but then… then you told me about being demisexual, and you called me your friend, and you keep coming over and you watched The Princess Bride with me and laughed at all my terrible jokes and offered to teach me how to cook, and sometimes when you look at me I feel like I know what you’re thinking.” She smiles faintly. “But maybe that’s just wishful thinking.”

Vision searches for the right words and finds nothing. “I don’t know how to do this,” he says faintly. “I don’t…”

Wanda looks at him solemnly, taking a step forward and tentatively reaching for his hand, and Vision reaches back automatically. Their fingers lace together like they were created for each other; a perfect fit. He looks at their hands. “Vision,” Wanda whispers, and tears burn in the back of his eyes. “Vision. Please. Talk to me.”

He takes a deep, shaky breath and looks in her eyes. “I like you,” he says haltingly, and Wanda makes a soft noise, “I do. It’s just I -” he can barely breathe - “I’m afraid,” he manages. 

Wanda touches his cheek with tremulous fingertips, brushing down his face and holding his chin so he can’t escape her gaze. “Afraid?” she whispers. “Of what?”

He thinks about Virginia. He thinks about This Side of Paradise - of slipping into an intimacy from which he’ll never recover. “That if I lose you, it will kill me.”

Wanda’s eyes widen a little. “Vision -”

“Virginia was the first person I ever loved,” he says, all in a rush, the words coming to him finally, words he hadn’t even really realized were there, but now he knows and he can’t unknow them, the painful truth that’s been sitting inside of his bones for over a year, since Virginia broke his heart. “She was the first person I ever loved, and when she left, everything fell apart, my whole life, and when it happened I thought I was never going to recover.” He puts his hand over Wanda’s, holding her touch against his face. “But then I met you,” he continues, “and I found myself falling in love again with the most wonderful, amazing person I’ve ever met, the best friend I’ve ever had, and I just…. you mean the world to me, Wanda, and I can’t do this again, I can’t lose this again. Losing Virginia nearly killed me, and you’re… you’re so much more to me than she ever was.”

Tears spill down her face. “Vision,” she chokes out, “I love you.”

His heart splinters. “I love you, too,” he whispers, “but I - I can’t.”

Wanda shakes her head. “You can. Because you’re not going to lose me, Vision, okay? Even if - even if something happens, you’ll never lose me as a friend. Who else is going to watch The Princess Bride with me, or let me throw persimmons at their head, or teach me how to cook? I love you, and that’s not going to change, whether we’re together for five minutes or fifty years. I want you in my life, Viz, however you’ll have me.”

Vision chokes on a sob, heart squeezing like a vice, his soul on fire. “Wanda.”

She cups his face. “Vision,” she whispers. “Vision, Vision, Vision. My Vision. I was so alone before you came into my life. After Simon, I never wanted to fall in love again, I never wanted to open myself up to being hurt again, and then you answered my damn Craigslist ad and tore my life apart with your smile. I don’t think I even knew how lonely I was until you came along.”

“It’s the best thing that ever happened to me, answering that ad,” Vision manages through his tears, and Wanda lets out a watery laugh. 

“Me, too,” she says, beaming up at him. They’re so close he can feel his breath on her face. “Vision,” she breathes out, and he’s never going to get tired of the way she says his name. “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” he says, the word punched right out of him, the truth of it like a lance to the heart, and then Wanda is kissing him, and he’s catching fire again, everything burning, everything turning to smoke except for the feel of her lips against his own, the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her hair running through his fingers, and he’s laughing and he’s crying and he can’t stop kissing her or he’ll die. When she pulls back, they’re both breathing hard, like they’ve been running a marathon. He cups her face, feeling the fine bones of her cheeks beneath the sweep of his thumb, aching all over when she shuts her eyes and leans into his touch. “Wanda,” he says, marveling at her. He leans down and kisses her on each eyelid, on her nose, on her cheeks. “My Wanda.”

Wanda shivers. “I love you,” she whispers. 

“I love you, too,” he whispers back. 

She smiles, opening her eyes. “Hey,” she says, “y’know what? I’m scared, too. I don’t want to lose you either, Viz.”

He leans down and touches their foreheads together, her hands on his waist. “I guess we’ll have to be scared together, then.”

They have to stop kissing long enough to take the pizza out of the oven, of course, and they don’t want to waste it, so they decide to take a break and eat. Well. Mostly break. 

They curl up together on the couch with their slices. “This is really good,” Wanda says, taking another bite. Vision watches her mouth, not quite believing that he might actually be allowed to do that now. “Best thing I’ve ever made.”

“It is good,” he agrees. “See, you only need a little practice.”

Wanda snorts. “Yeah, well, you’ve never seen me burn water before. Seriously, I shouldn’t even be allowed anywhere near a kitchen.”

He touches her leg, and she smiles, stretching out until her leg is across his lap and he can wrap his fingers around her dainty ankle, stroking the little bit of skin poking out between her pants and socks. “It’s a good thing you were supervised, then,” he says mildly, and she throws her head back and laughs. 

“Hey,” she says, once she’s taken another bite. “Can I ask you something?”

Vision smiles. “I still like you, darling.”

Wanda bats at him. “Smartass,” she says. But her eyes are soft. “When did you realize how you felt?”

“Oh,” he says. He exhales, considering it. “New Year’s, I think. When we were texting during my party.” He bites his lip. “What about you?”

Wanda nudges closer to him. “Same time,” she says. “Well, mostly. Remember when I sent you the picture of the cat figurine?”

“Of course.”

She nods. “Well. I didn’t buy it that day, actually, but I kept… I kept thinking about it, and thinking about you, and all I could think about was how you’d look if I bought it for you, and then, well, I guess it occurred to me that I wanted to make you happy because I love you. I missed you so much when I was gone. So I went back and bought it the day before I came home, after our phone call, and it was like all of a sudden I could actually see myself, how much I love you.”

Vision squeezes her leg softly. “Same epiphany, different day,” he muses. 

Wanda laughs softly. “I should’ve realized sooner, really. All those mornings we spent in the kitchen, they were the highlight of my whole week.”

“Mine, too,” he admits. 

“When you first started to come around, I thought it would be weird to have someone else in my house, but it wasn’t. I guess I liked you even then. And then I got to know you and god, I didn’t want to stop getting to know you.” Wanda smiles sheepishly. “Do you know how many nights I spent coming up with things to talk about that might interest you? I kept thinking that if I could be interesting enough then you might want to come around and stay around, as my friend instead of my employee. God. I had it bad, I guess. I thought it was because I was lonely, and maybe it started that way, but. It was more than just being happy that someone else was around to hang out with. It was because it was you.”

“Wanda,” he says. “I’ve always found you interesting. I just never thought you’d find me interesting.”

Wanda splutters. “How could you not be interesting? Vision! You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met, cat enthusiasm and all.”

Vision laughs, tenderness blossoming inside of his chest, and he pulls her into a kiss, abandoning the last few bites of his pizza in favor of licking the taste from Wanda’s mouth, chasing the little moans and hitches of her breath as she curls in closer, sliding into his lap as natural as breathing and pressing him against the couch. She’s a warm weight on his thighs, her body height sending licks of flame dancing across his skin, and he wraps his arms around her waist to pull her even closer, biting her bottom lip to hear her moan, her chest heaving where it’s pressed against his. 

“Fuck,” she breathes out, when she pulls back, and Vision kisses her neck as she gasps for breath, tasting the salt and sweat of her skin. “Vision,” she moans, and he chuckles. “Fuck. What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he murmurs, finding the tender spot behind her ear and nipping at it, his stomach clenching at the sound she makes, the way she rocks her hips just a little. “I just - I had a dream just like this.”

Wanda gets her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging just a little, and he throws his head back with a gasp, arching into the touch. She leans down and licks into his mouth. “Oh?” she mumbles. He nods, too scrambled for words. “What happens next?”

He moans when she scrapes her nails lightly down the back of his neck, and when she grinds down against him at the same time his vision goes a little blurry around the edges. “Um,” he pants, “I don’t remember, I think I woke up too soon.”

Wanda hums, and he moves to kiss her but she pulls away, scooting back on his thighs so they’re not quite grinding anymore. She puts her hands on his shoulders. “Hey,” she says, eyes warm and soft, “I know that sex means something different to you than most people, and if you want to stop, or take it slower, please tell me. I don’t want to ever make you feel uncomfortable, or like we have to do this, or like I expect it, because I don’t, I’m just - I’m just happy you’re here. We can take this as slow as you want.”

Vision wets his lips, love burning inside of him like a goddamn wildfire. “Sex does mean something different to me,” he says tenderly, then takes Wanda’s hands and puts it over his cock where it’s straining at his fly, and her pupils blow wide as her lips part into a little o. “But we don’t need to take this any slower than we have already. I want this, if you do.”

Wanda groans. “Are you sure?”

Vision smiles. “Yes, darling.”

She slides closer again, rubbing them together, and they moan through their kisses. “Baby,” she sighs against his mouth, wrecking his insides completely. She pulls back, eyes gleaming and dark with want. “Can I take you to bed?”

He shivers happily. “Please.”

He’s never been inside Wanda’s bedroom before, and to be honest, he couldn’t really tell you what it looks like; he’s too focused on Wanda, on pulling her shirt over her head and fitting his palms over the cups of her bra, squeezing, swallowing her moans and hissing out a cry when she pushes him up against the wall of her bedroom and grinds against his leg, her thigh pressed right over his cock, making him see stars. 

“Off,” she mumbles, sighing with pleasure as she rubs against his thigh, “take your pants off, please.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he says, too shaky to be a real tease, and they part long enough to scramble out of their pants, socks, and in Vision’s case, his shirt. 

Wanda hums, putting her hands on his hips, and Vision can’t take his eyes off of her where she stands in her bra and underwear; they don’t match, and he finds that he loves that. She looks up at him with dark eyes, pushing him a little, and Vision sits down at the edge of the bed, widening his legs so she can slot between them. When he cups her ass and squeezes, she makes an approving sound and kisses him with absolutely devastating skill, tangling her fingers in his hair and tugging just right. “God,” she whispers, when they part enough to breathe, “I want you so much.”

Vision groans. “I want you, too.”

Wanda pulls back and bites her lip, looking down at him thoughtfully. “Will you… stay here for a second? I have an idea.”

Vision is very interested in any and all ideas she might have right now. “Okay,” he says, and Wanda sighs and kisses him and disappears from the room for a few minutes. Vision takes the time to wiggle out of his underwear, dropping them to the side and moving back on the bed, covers pushed out of the way. Her bed is huge, and so soft, and he’s so turned on he feels dizzy. 

When Wanda reappears, she’s holding something in her hands, her face bright red as she shows it to him. It’s chocolate sauce. “I just,” she says, blushing brighter, and affection wars with lust inside of him, “I keep thinking about you and food, and, um.”

Vision burns. It’s a nice feeling for a change. “Okay,” he says, a little dreamy, and Wanda beams at him, practically throwing herself across the room in her haste to join him on the bed. She crawls on top of him, her eyes falling to his naked cock. 

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmurs, stroking a hand down his stomach, not quite touching his cock. 

He cups her breasts again, and she pushes into the touch. “So are you,” he says, “God, you’re so beautiful, darling.”

Wanda smiles, holding up the chocolate. “May I?”

Vision thinks he might actually die with how madly he wants her. “As you wish,” he says, and Wanda sputters out a laugh even as she uncaps the bottle and tips it over, spilling a little of the chocolate across his stomach. Vision hisses, twitching at the cold stickiness, but the cold is instantly replaced when Wanda slides her hot mouth over his skin, and Vision’s thoughts dribble right out of his brain as he lays there, panting and moaning as she licks every drop of chocolate from his skin with glee, her hands warm where they’re settled over his hips. When she dips down further and licks at the head of his cock, Vision yelps, locking his knees together to keep from thrusting up into her touch. “Wanda!”

Wanda only smirks, leaning down and taking him in her mouth, and Vision’s head thumps back onto the pillow as he heaves for breath, scrambling for purchase on her silk sheets as she hollows her cheeks and takes him halfway down before bobbing her head slow and sinful. His thighs shake, and he pulls at the sheets so hard that one corner comes off where it was tucked under the mattress. 

“Wanda,” he chokes, “Wanda, darling, if y-you keep doing that, oh, we won’t be able to - fuck!”

She pulls off of him with a popping sound so obscene that he nearly begs her to keep going. 

“Come here,” he begs, and Wanda smiles, scooching up to lay on top of him, and he moans at the taste of chocolate and himself on her lips. Her legs hug his hips, and he arches his back, rubbing his cock against the damp swatch of underwear between her legs. “Do you,” he pants, trying to remember what words are, “do you have a condom?”

Wanda kisses him. “Mm, yes, hold on.” She crawls to the side of the bed to rifle through her drawer, and Vision takes the opportunity to sit up and undo the clasp of her bra. Wanda laughs, letting it slide down her arms so she can toss it aside before returning to his lap, but her laugh cuts off into a moan when Vision cups her bare breasts in his hands, thumbing at her nipples where they pebble beneath his touch. “Fuck, that feels good,” she breathes out, and Vision can’t resist bending down to suck one nipple into his mouth, moaning along with Wanda as he plucks and rolls the other one between his fingers while grazing his teeth along the one in his mouth. Wanda whimpers, holding his head, and Vision rubs his tongue across the hard bud until she’s shaking. 

He pulls away only reluctantly, hooking his thumbs into Wanda’s underwear. “May I?”

She pecks a shaky kiss to his nose. “As you wish,” she says, and he laughs as he tugs them off of her. They have to resituate themselves to pull them all the way off of her legs, but then she’s kneeling over his thighs bare and glorious, and he slides one hand between her legs and finds her soaked. “Oh god,” she says, rocking into his touch as he finds her clit and starts circling, “Oh god, Vision, fuck.”

He puts his free hand on her shoulder and tugs her upper body closer so he can kiss her at the same time he sinks one finger inside the hot clench of her body. “There you go,” he says as she pushes down urgently, “there you go, darling.”

Wanda trembles, pressing her sweaty face into the curve of his neck as she pants, and Vision strokes through her folds before sliding two fingers back inside of her while she whimpers and clenches down. “Like that,” she gasps out. “Please,” she begs, so sweetly that he can’t resist, so he starts fucking her slowly with two fingers as she rolls her hips into his touch. “Baby,” she whimpers, “oh god.”

He moves his hand faster as she drips down his wrist, kissing her bare shoulder as she starts to shake and tremble, thighs clenching around his forearm. “Come on, Wanda,” he says, licking at her clavicle while she keens softly, “come for me, darling.”

She breaks apart with a cry, writhing, and he hooks an arm around her waist to keep her still enough that he can work her through it with a thumb on her clit. “Fuck,” she sobs out, when she finally comes down from it, breathing harshly and swaying in his grasp. She moans and twitches when he pulls his hand away from her, sagging against him, and he rolls them over until she’s sprawled out beneath him, red-faced and sweaty and so incredibly beautiful. 

She holds his face. “Vision,” she mumbles, and kisses him languidly, pliant beneath his wandering hands. He tweaks her nipples and makes her moan, rubs circles into her hips and thighs. “Here,” she says, and presses the condom into his hand. “I want you in me.”

The words make him shudder. He tears open the condom packet and rolls it on carefully before moving to settle back between her thighs, and she wraps her long, lovely legs around his waist to urge him even closer until his cock is pressed up right against her entrance. He kisses her. “Are you sure?” he asks. 

She smiles, eyelids fluttering, and he kisses her chin. “In me,” she says again.

“In you,” Vision says, and pushes in. 

“Oh god,” Wanda gasps, her nails biting into his shoulders, “oh my god.”

“Is it too much?” he manages through clenched teeth. “Do you need me to -”

“Don’t you dare stop!” Wanda gasps, and Vision moans helplessly and starts to move, pulling out slowly before sinking back in, and they both curse at the feeling. “Fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

“So good,” he gasps out in agreement, kissing her messily as he moves a little faster, and he nearly chokes on his own tongue when Wanda moves her own hips to meet his thrusts, the feeling of her clenching down on his cock the best thing he’s ever felt in his life. “Fuck, I’m not g-going to last very long.”

“Me either,” Wanda breathes out, and Vision moans again. 

They kiss, and he moves, and it’s so sweet that it’s almost too much, except of course it isn’t, it’s fucking perfect. But he really, really, isn’t going to last. “Touch yourself,” Vision begs, “please, I need -”

She slides one hand between their bodies and rubs at her clit, her eyes squeezing shut as she whimpers again, and Vision holds her by the thighs as he moves even faster. “Oh god,” she says, “oh god, I’m - I’m -”

“There you go,” he gasps, “Wanda, darling - ”

Wanda comes with a jagged cry, going rigid beneath him, and he makes only a few more sloppy thrusts before his orgasm sweeps through him in shock-bright waves. He kisses her neck, breathing against her skin as his heart beat finally starts to slow, and she only unwraps her legs from around his waist once he’s completely soft inside of her. There’s no real romantic way to do this, so he just rolls aside and carefully ties off the condom before rolling back to her, kissing her elbow where she has one arm flung over her eyes. 

She moves her hand, turning to look at him, and when she grins he starts to laugh. “Well, that was something,” she says, and he laughs harder, muffling it into her chest as he presses closer, and she loops her arms around his neck and presses a sloppy kiss against his temple. 

“Yeah,” Vision says, “yeah it was.”

Wanda strokes his back softly. “You don’t have to go home, do you? You already fed Murphy and everything?”

“Murphy will be fine until morning,” Vision confirms, and Wanda makes a happy sound, twisting around until he pulls her close so she can starfish across his chest. He runs his fingers through her now-knotted hair, eyes slipping closed. “I love you,” he says, mostly because he can. 

Wanda tilts her head up, her sharp chin pressing into his chest as she beams. “I love you, too,” she says. 

They don’t sleep for a while. They just breathe each other in. 

In the morning, they have snickerdoodle cupcakes for breakfast, lounging on the couch in their underwear and smudging cinnamon frosting on each other’s faces with every kiss. “So,” Wanda says, “what happens now?”

“Well,” Vision says, laying his head on her stomach, her hands warm where they rest over his shoulder blades, drawing absent designs into his skin as she plays connect the dots with the freckles on his back. “I find a new job, I think.”

Wanda makes a concerned noise. “Fuck. I guess I didn’t think about that part. Will you be okay? If you need money -”

Vision laughs, kissing up her sternum and swallowing the question with his lips. He feels so happy he could die. “I’ll be fine,” he promises, and Wanda grins up at him, touching his face with frosting-smudged fingers. “I mean, I found this job by accident. I’m sure I can find another.”

Wanda brushes her fingers across his lower lip, shivering when he licks at her fingertips. “Just don’t go falling in love with your new boss, okay? Even if they’re just as awesome as me.”

Vision smirks. “Don’t worry, darling,” he says. “I don’t think there’s anyone else like you.”

She laughs and pulls him down into a kiss.