Disclaimer: I do not own any of these people.

Again, I've only seen AoU once, so I'm not completely sure about a few of these characters and their voices. In this case it was either share this idea with Elfpen and make her write it, or write it myself; obviously I chose the latter. I also piggybacked on Elfy's use of Slovak for the Sokovian language, for reasons.

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.