Wanda’s first birthday after everything. Or if that’s too sad, Vision’s first birthday ever.
How about both?
This turned out a lot longer than I expected but HERE YOU GO M’DEAR
hope that Slovak works
“I don’t understand,” Said vision, looking down at the candle-bearing cupcake and wrapped packages lying on the table.
“It’s your birthday!” Clint smiled at him. “One year old, to the day,” He gave him a noogie, regretted it, and rubbed at his sore knuckles.
“Oh,” Said Vision, still a bit perplexed. He was aware that humans celebrated the anniversary of each others’ births, but he was unaware that his teammates would see his as worth celebrating. “I had lost track of the day,” which was actually true.
“They grow up so fast,” Natasha reminisced to Steve, who nodded in mock somberness.
“Gonna be walking and talking, soon,” The Captain shook his head fondly.
“Avengers, squish,” Tony shoved himself in front of Vision and held out his phone. The other avengers smashed into the frame with various faces and smiles, “You too, birthday boy,” Tony said, and Vision seemed to snap out of his thoughts, flashing a smile. (Everyone else noticed but said nothing when the sight made Wanda smile a bit wider, too). Tony took a few selfies and the group dissolved. While Sam quietly teased Wanda and Wanda smacked him away, Tony was tapping at his screen. “Hashtag one year old, hashtag baby of the fam, hashtag ain’t no party like a ‘venger’s party, hashtag the viz.” He put his phone away. “Congratulations, you are now instagram famous. My birthday gift to you,” He said, walking back behind Vision. “Just kidding, this is,” he tossed a box out onto the table.
*whispers* Think about the Avengers having to go to some fancy event and Wanda having to borrow high heels from Natasha or Pepper and feeling unsteady walking in them so Vision gallantly offers her his arm. Think about Wanda seeing Vision in a tux, and Vision seeing Wanda in a cocktail dress.
STOP IT ELJAY I AM MEANT TO BE WORKING RIGHT NOW
“This is ridiculous,” Hissed Scarlet Witch with a snarl. In any other setting, she would have been the picture of rage and danger. As it was, she was in baggy pajamas with the pant legs rolled up to her knees, unable to move, trying to convince Black Widow that she could walk in heels without breaking an ankle.
“I fight in wedges higher than those,” said Natasha teasingly, “Come on, Maximoff.”
“Well not all of us have the balance of a cat,” Wanda said, wobbling slightly and angry that she had to reach out for Natasha’s shoulder for balance. The bright red heels were unlike anything she’d owned before. She only ever fought in boots and opted for practical flats or low wedges when she had to dress up - but according to Natasha and Pepper, at a black-tie charity ball it was stilettos or nothing. Wanda thought she would rather walk a tightrope.
“Come on, walk the room again,” Said Pepper diplomatically.
“Why didn’t you say that you can’t walk in heels?” Asked Natasha. “If you can’t make it over here without tripping on the rug, you’ll never dance without making the front page.”
Wanda said an indistinct Sokovian curse. “Dancing?” She burst, eyes round. Pepper gave her an empathetic but befuddled look.
“It’s a ball. There will be dancing.”
Wanda wanted to curse again. Damn the English language and all its hidden meanings. “Oh,” She said smally, and took a hesitant step despite the growing numbness in her toes.
If Vision has learned one thing from the Internet, it is that small, impossibly cute creatures love being stroked or petted.
(He has learned two things at least from the aforementioned source; the more important is never to read the comments. After idly scrolling below a seemingly innocuous YouTube video, he must admit surprise that the casual, boundless vitriol of humankind has not torn the world to shreds long before now.)
(“Cat videos?” Tony Stark, peering over Vision’s shoulder, sounds aggrieved. “Where have I gone wrong? Bruce? Bruce, do you see what our son is—”
“Not our son, Tony.”
“Do you see what our son has been doing on the Internet? Looking at frolicking felines. It’s like he doesn’t even know what all is out there.” He claps a hand on Vision’s shoulder. “I’ll send you a link later, show you the true purpose of the Internet.” There is a leer in his voice, unseen eyebrows no doubt waggling.
“Don’t open any links Tony sends you.” Dr. Banner’s warning is entirely unnecessary, but Vision appreciates the thought. Appreciates being treated as something normal.)
There is correlation between offspring attractiveness and survival. Large eyes, uncoordinated limbs, a rounded face or head all bring out protective instincts in adults of most species, he knows, allowing the young the chance to survive until maturity. But there is also something satisfying about watching puppies at play, tripping over their own feet, or a lion cub chewing on her father’s ear. It is innocence, he supposes, and the knowledge that while these animals will one day be competent, efficient, even lethal, they are now harmless.
Just for a moment he pictures what he might have looked like, had he had a traditional biological infancy. The mental image is of dubious cuteness. He returns his attention to the screen.
Research has shown that pet ownership is beneficial to human health. Stroking an animal’s fur has a calming effect on both parties involved. It is something he would like to try—his health is perfect, his stress levels controlled and normal (for the time being), but he craves sensation. There are so many things that he has not felt yet; touch seems the most human of all the senses, while also the most socially circumscribed. It is a form of communication that he has little experience with, and the one he may never master. The others treat him cordially enough, with comradely pats on the back or firm handshakes coupled with a grasped arm, but he was never anyone’s baby to be cuddled and cosseted, was never led by the hand through childhood. He is something less than human, and something more, and his skin in every way proves it.
* * * * *
That night he hears a muffled scream. Nightmares are common here, though everyone reacts differently to them. The high keening that breaks into fractured sobs means that this nightmare is Wanda’s, and that she is again losing everything most dear to her.
Vision floats down the hallway toward the sound. It isn’t coming from her room, the expected source, but from a corner of the common room. She is curled up on the couch, a throw pillow clutched in her hands; in the dark he can see her fingers dimpling the cushion. Though her power is immense, even greater than she may realize, Wanda is the smallest of all of them, and now, her face tear-streaked and troubled, her hair a mess, she looks smaller than ever. Something within his abdomen tightens at the pitiful sight of her. It is a different feeling altogether than comes from watching cat videos.
He hovers for a moment, uncertainty rippling through him. He feels the impulse to act, but does not know how to proceed; wakefulness may not be any more welcome to her than sleep is. Better to leave, he thinks. Grief is often a private process, one upon which he does not want to intrude.
She mumbles something in Sokovian and her eyes flutter open. “You think so loud,” she says, voice ragged.
“I am sorry.” He turns to go. He feels heavy with sadness, for her and because of her.
Behind him he hears her shift. “Počkaj,” she says, just on the edge of pleading, and her hand brushes his cape before grasping his fingers. Hers are cool and fine, and he slides his hand further into her grip, reassuringly. She amends, more evenly, “I would not mind if you stayed.”
With his free hand he taps a finger to his temple. “I do not wish my loudness to keep you from sleeping.”
Almost infinitesimally, Wanda’s lips curl up at one corner. She tugs his hand. It seems a suggestion that he sit, so he arranges himself on the couch, near her head. “Not that loud,” she agrees as she drops his hand and adjusts her position. “Maybe just loud enough that I…cannot hear anything else.” Cannot hear her brother’s voice, perhaps, or her own screams, he thinks as her arms tighten around the pillow once again.
He nods and murmurs “Very well.”
For a few moments Vision thinks concertedly of vaguely pleasant things: of sunlight skirting the edges of a cloud, of the fresh smells of the farm, of subdued laughter from the next room. He fixes his thoughts on these things, and his eyes on the dark outside the window, until he hears a light snore next to him; only then does he look down. Though Wanda’s face is less troubled now, the tracks of her earlier tears are yet visible.
It is understandable that she still mourns. How many thousands of her fellow Sokovians still mourn? The death toll may have been kept to a minimum, the Avengers’ vigorous public relations machine may have considered the outcome a victory, but Wanda’s country suffered. Even now that she is far from it, it remains with her. Few are like Natasha Romanoff, able to shed every vestige of a previous life, to leave a home without regret; most remember who they have been, where they have come from. Wanda has every right to tears, and to anger, and to nightmares. She does not let them control her, though. She wars with them at every moment. He has not seen her fail, and suspects he never will.
Her spine stiffens; her shoulders hitch; he hears a tiny moan. He has let his thoughts grow too loud and too dark, but he makes no effort to shift them. Instead he looks down at her and lifts his hand to gently move a lock of hair from her cheek. It is soft, though somewhat tangled, and at the movement she gives her head a minute shake. The reaction gives him pause and he stills, hand in midair; after a quiet moment he lowers it and runs his fingertips through her hair, doing his best to avoid any snarls. This time there is a tiny puff of breath from her lips and a loosening of tension as she relaxes, so he repeats the motion. Her hair gives off the faintest fragrance as it slips through his fingers, its darkness an appealing contrast to the red of him, and merely watching the movement is soothing. In his opinion it is a highly satisfactory exercise. Besides, he thinks, Wanda is much more beautiful than a kitten, and when she smiles he wonders if that was loud enough for her to hear through her sleep, and decides that he does not care when it is true.
I don’t know how often I tell you this but man do I envy your writing ability. I don’t know, there is something so realistic and so conscientious and pretty about it, I wish I could match your skill. You make Vision think realistic things that he would, like, ‘what would I have been like as a child?’, you remember to include the whole of Sokovia in the grieving process rather than just Wanda. And it all flows together in an easy but complex sort of way. It has a lot of info but it feels so effortless. Ugh you’re too talented.
Your Scarlet Vision game is strong…. they are too cute. Head canon that Vision buys Wanda a kitten?
And Bruce and Tony, omg I’m dying. Tony no…. he forgets that Vision has seen his internet habits
Alrighty, so continuing off the last ask, I got Ode to Joy, and the only words in that are - never mind there are actual words in this, they’re just in German.
So now what came up is “A little less sixteen candles, a little more touch me” by fall out boy, which i haven’t heard in a really long time, and the two that stuck with me as I read the lyrics were I confess, I messed up/Dropping “I’m sorry” like you’re still around and I don’t blame you for being you/But you can’t blame me for hating it
The first lyric makes me think of myself, because I think that’s something I would think or say. The second makes me think of some of my interactions with other people, I don’t blame them for being them but can get annoyed anyway, which is something I’m overcoming
Although I was an MMFD fan from the start of the TV show, I didn’t discover the Tumblr fandom till halfway through S2. So I’ve got a few questions for those who were here much earlier… Thanks in advance - you are world class. I mean that.
1: When did you arrive in the fandom, and who was already here? (Was it all mainly still fields?)
2: Did the fans have a group name for themselves prior to ‘I’m an Emu’ popping up in s2 ep1? (And how exciting was it when you realised that Tom had remembered and used a fan’s jokey suggestion?!)
3. At what point did you lot start writing fanfiction, making gifsets and videos, and producing artwork?
🎧 💓 💡 💭 ✒ 📝 💻 ✂ 📺 ✏ 🎨
4.How long did you have to wait for a second series to be confirmed? (Was it as intense as the wait after S2?)
👂⌚⏳ 🔜 ⏰ ▶
5. Were there EVER any male emus? I can think of one lovely recent arrival, but prior to that, none. I hoped there’d be boys with crushes on Sharon. I’m gobsmacked that there aren’t boys crushing on Nico with us!
💕 😍 💑 👬 😻 💃 🏃
Tagging the folk I think were most active in the early days (if you’re not into MMFD anymore, please ignore):