February 2020

Wanda x Vision

Summary: Sad event (semi-original, got some help out of comics online) of the beautiful ship of marvel that deserved better, The Vision And The Scarlet Witch

Ship: Wanda x Vision

Fandom: Marvel

Outline: 2014/2015

Written (Bad grammar): 2018

Rewritten (Better grammar): 2019

Edited: Feb 2020

Posted: February 8th 2020

Word Count: 2450 Words

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An armload of packages dropped to the icy sidewalk, the dull crunch of something inside them breaking suddenly painfully audible in the cold winter silence, and the Vision stood staring, unbreathing because he had no need to breathe, and unspeaking because he could find no words to say that had not already been ripped from his throat by the dull lump of shock and hurt and anger that had replaced them.

His house. His and Wanda's house. Their home. Gone.

Even as the thought crossed his mechanical mind, he knew how absurd the sentiment was. It was the same house, all right. Without really trying, he could pick out all of the features that had become so familiar to him over the scant two months they had lived there - all of the features that his eyes drank in eagerly each time he came up the walk, committing each and every detail to memory, the soul he never knew he had singing with joy and pride as he realized yet again that this place was his home. The shaded windows, rimmed with fresh new dark blue paint that he and Wanda had touched up barely a week before. The shallow overhang of the roof, lined with icicles of all different sizes. The cushioned swing that hung on the old porch. Yes, it was all there, all the same as he remembered it being, underneath what was new, underneath the words, spray-painted in ugly shades of red and blue, yellow and green - a mockery of America, a mockery of Christmas, a mockery of him all at once - that loudly declared the presence of mutant and synthezoid to be unwelcome. That morning, he had left a home. But in its place stood a sick and twisted shrine of hatred.

He didn't even realize that he had taken a step forward until he heard a soft crunch, and looked down to discover the piece of greenery, once so vibrant and cheerful, crushed beneath his foot. Briefly, his logical, orderly mind was confused by the sight of something so out of place on the sheet of ice that his sidewalk had become...until he looked around the pristine whiteness that had been his yard and saw the other small, withered curls of green scattered about, most lying crumpled at the bottom of heavy boot imprints, one still sporting the gay red bow that declared the mess to be the remains of the wreath that had once decorated the front door. Fake satin, blood red against the pure white of the snow, both soiled with dark, swirling mud left by the boots that had gleefully brought them low. When the snows had first come, Wanda had not wanted him to step out into the yard to clear the walk - she had begged him not to destroy the newly attained perfection of the yard, not to mar the unchanging sheet of whiteness with his footprints, and so he had respected her wishes, as he always did, and gone to great pains to clear only the walk while leaving the yard on either side untouched. The symbolism of the memory did not escape him, even in that moment: how ironic that those who had desecrated their home had also been the ones to spoil paradise.

Hatred, he knew, was something that Wanda was very well accustomed to dealing with, perhaps even more so than he. It was also something, however, that he was determined that she wouldn't have to deal with, not as long as he was there to shield her from it. If someone on the street seemed to be giving them odd looks, those looks that were characterized by not the usual double-take of surprise, but rather something more resembling an outraged frown, he attempted to insinuate himself between the offending party and his wife's line of sight. Whenever the doorbell rang, he always managed to get there first, even if he had to float down through the ceiling from upstairs to do it (Wanda didn't find this odd or disconcerting at all, though she often teased him about being in such a seeming hurry). Every morning, he kept an ear out for the mailman, and hurried to get to the door as soon as he heard him outside. Soon after they had first moved in, Wanda had come across a very nasty letter addressed to them - one that she had destroyed before giving him a chance to read but had fretted about for days - and ever since, he had done everything in his power to keep her from ever reading such things again.