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The world saw Wanda Maximoff shrouded in darkness. She didn’t exactly do much to disabuse them of that notion, choosing to dress herself in crimson and black when she would likely be seen with the team. She claimed it was easier to blend in if the world saw her that way; put on a cream-colored sweater and a pair of those trendy rose-colored sunglasses, and she could slip through a crowd without raising alarms. She always returned to her crimson and black, though, wearing the darkness like a suit of armor (the not-robotic kind).
Vision never saw just the darkness. He saw the full truth that was Wanda.
The darkness was there, maybe more than in most humans. Far too young, she had known heartache and fear, found the deepest pit of despair. She had let a blind need for vengeance control her, and it drove her into the arms of the worst humanity had to offer. Like almost all humans, she sometimes took solace in rage and grief, though she controlled those more and more easily as time distanced her from the death of her family.
He saw more than most would ever see. Where they saw a woman with terrifying psionic power, he saw the woman who laid on her bed and cried for her brother at night. The woman who overcame her hatred of Tony Stark (or, at least, put it aside), who recognized that what she thought most of her life was wrong. He watched as she sat quietly with her thoughts, gently picking apart the trauma the world had given her, healing the pain that circumstance had inflicted upon her.
The darkness that had once consumed her was fading, becoming just a swirl in her light. Where the world focused on that swirl, he saw all of it. Her warmth, her coldness, her strength, her weakness.
She was a rainbow of color, brilliant and terrifying and beautiful.