Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wanda Maximoff liked to make people stare. That was the thing about her — she understood the game. The way attention moved like currency, traded in glances and whispers. A flash of a smile could buy her an evening. A careless look could ruin one. Tonight, though, she wasn’t after destruction. Just indulgence.

The city glimmered around her, all chrome and exhaust and glass. The high-end shops on Madison hummed with low music and soft perfume, a playground for the beautiful and bored. Wanda fit right in — though she always carried an edge, something too sharp to belong entirely to this world.

Sharon Carter waited for her by the entrance of a boutique, already looking like sin dressed as an angel. Blonde hair tucked behind her ears, a trench coat in pale beige, one hand in her pocket and the other holding a coffee. She looked like she could shoot someone and then apologize beautifully for the inconvenience.

Wanda smiled, slow and lazy. “You’re early.”

Sharon’s eyes flicked over her — over the black velvet dress that hugged Wanda’s hips like a secret, the red lipstick, the coat draped over her shoulders just for show. “You’re worth being early for,” Sharon said.

The words weren’t new. Sharon always said things like that. Wanda always pretended not to melt at them.

They started in Valentino. Sharon picked out dresses with the cold precision of someone assembling a crime scene — methodical, unsentimental, and exacting. Wanda didn’t mind; she liked the way Sharon’s fingers brushed against her bare shoulder as she zipped her up, the way her gaze lingered too long on the curve of her thigh when she stepped out of the fitting room.

“I think this one,” Sharon said, running her hand over a backless red dress that looked painted onto Wanda’s body.

“You think?” Wanda teased, watching Sharon’s reflection behind her. “Or you know?”

Sharon leaned in close enough that Wanda could smell her perfume — something expensive, faintly citrus and smoke. “I know I’d like to take it off you later.”

Wanda bit back a smile. “You’ll have to buy it first.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sharon murmured, her voice brushing Wanda’s ear like silk. “You don’t buy what you already own.”

That was the thing about Sharon — she made everything sound like a promise and a threat at once. Wanda liked that. She liked people who could make her heart race without even raising their voice.

They bought the dress. Then another. Then a pair of shoes Wanda didn’t need but couldn’t resist. By the time they stepped back out onto the street, the sky had begun to fall — the golden edges of dusk bleeding into the dark.

“Where to next?” Sharon asked.

“Dinner?” Wanda suggested. “I’m starving.”

“Starving,” Sharon echoed, eyes flicking down to Wanda’s throat. “I bet.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, smirking. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

They walked arm in arm down the street, the city’s pulse moving beneath their feet. Wanda felt light, almost free. The kind of free that came only in stolen hours — when she could forget that her last name meant something whispered in fear. Pietro’s men were never far behind her, even when she couldn’t see them. There was always someone watching, shadowing her.

Tonight, she hadn’t seen them. It should have worried her. Instead, she felt reckless.

When Sharon stopped in front of a smaller boutique — all dark glass and gold lettering — Wanda frowned.

“Here?” she asked.

Sharon smiled, that particular smile that made Wanda want to both kiss and slap her. “You’ll like this one. Trust me.”

Wanda glanced at the sign, her stomach tightening. She recognized the name. The store was across the invisible line dividing her brother’s territory from Fisk’s. Kingpin’s territory. Pietro had made it very clear she was never to cross that line.

“Sharon,” she said quietly. “This is Fisk’s district.”

“So?”

“So my brother will kill me.”

Sharon tilted her head, amused. “You think Pietro will find out about a little lingerie shopping trip?”

“You don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand perfectly.” Sharon stepped closer, her voice dropping low, intimate. “You want to be good. You want to be loyal. But you also want to see how far you can go before someone stops you.” Her fingers trailed up Wanda’s arm. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Wanda swallowed hard. The air between them thickened, heavy with perfume and danger.

“I just want to shop,” Wanda said, but her voice wasn’t convincing even to herself.

“Then come on.” Sharon smiled, and Wanda followed her inside.

The boutique was dimly lit, warm light spilling over glass tables and velvet displays. Everything was silk and lace and whispers. It smelled like rosewater and sin. The kind of place where every mirror made you look like a secret.

Sharon wandered ahead, pulling a piece of lingerie from the rack — deep crimson, all lace and cutouts. “This,” she said, holding it up. “This is you.”

“It’s… expensive,” Wanda said, mostly for show.

“I’ll buy it,” Sharon replied.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” She met Wanda’s eyes. “Let me spoil you.”

Wanda hesitated. She liked gifts — especially the kind she shouldn’t accept. She liked the way Sharon’s generosity felt like power disguised as affection.

“Fine,” she said, plucking the hanger from Sharon’s hand. “But I’m not modeling for you.”

“Liar,” Sharon murmured, smiling as she followed her to the fitting rooms.

Inside, Wanda undressed slowly, teasing herself as much as she teased Sharon. The red lace fit like a dare — hugging every line of her body. She looked in the mirror and saw someone dangerous. Someone alive.

From outside the curtain, Sharon’s voice came, low and soft. “How does it look?”

Wanda smirked at her reflection. “Like trouble.”

“I like trouble.”

“Then you’ll love this,” Wanda said, drawing the curtain back slightly.

Sharon leaned against the wall, eyes dark, lips curved. “You’re going to get me arrested.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

They were laughing — low, wicked laughter — when something broke the rhythm.

A sound, distant but wrong. A shout. Then another.

Wanda froze, one stocking halfway up her thigh.

“Sharon?” she said, the playfulness draining from her voice.

Sharon didn’t answer immediately. There was movement outside — hurried, deliberate. A sound like metal against tile.

Then Sharon’s voice, sharp, commanding: “Wanda, stay where you are.”

The tone was different — the flirtation gone. This was the voice of someone trained for war.

“What’s going on?” Wanda whispered.

“Quiet.”

Wanda pressed against the fitting room wall, her heart slamming in her chest. She heard the boutique door crash open, glass shattering. Male voices, thick accents. The sound of panic.

Her mind raced — Fisk’s men.

“Sharon?”

“Don’t move,” Sharon hissed.

Then — a sound Wanda had only heard in nightmares. A single gunshot, close. Then a thump.

Everything went silent.

Wanda stood stocking-clad on the cold tile, her body shaking. Her fingers dug into the red lace at her thigh until the threads tore. She tried to listen, to breathe, but all she could hear was the ringing in her ears and the steady drip of water from somewhere behind her.

For the first time in years, Wanda Maximoff was afraid. And somewhere, deep inside, she knew that her life — the one she’d built on rebellion and charm and pretense — had just shattered, as surely as the glass on that boutique floor. Outside, a woman screamed. Wanda didn’t move.

For a long, unbearable moment, Wanda couldn’t move.

The silence that followed the gunshot felt stretched thin, like the world had forgotten how to breathe. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror — wide-eyed, half-dressed, trembling. The red lace that had seemed daring only minutes ago now looked obscene under the dim light. It clung to her skin like a wound.

Her heart hammered in her chest. She wanted to believe it had been a bottle dropping, a slammed door — anything ordinary. But somewhere deep inside, she knew better. She’d grown up in the shadow of guns and men who carried them. She knew what that sound meant.

“Sharon?” she whispered.

No answer.

Her breath came too fast, too shallow. She pressed a hand against her ribs, willing herself to stay still. Every instinct screamed at her to hide, but her body wouldn’t listen.

Another sound — a groan, faint, human.

“Sharon.” Louder this time.

Wanda’s fingers shook as she reached for her coat. She couldn’t find it. The black fabric had fallen somewhere on the floor, tangled with her dress and the velvet curtain. She wrapped her arms around herself instead, bare skin against the chill air. The perfume of the boutique — rosewater and leather — turned sour in her throat.

She crouched low, inching toward the edge of the fitting room. The carpet muffled her movements. Outside, something scraped against tile. Heavy footsteps. Voices — male, rough, foreign. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable: taunting, cruel.

*They’re still here.*

Her pulse spiked. She slid to the floor, crawling forward on her hands and knees. Her stocking caught on the corner of the bench, ripping down the side. The sound seemed deafening in the silence. She froze, holding her breath.

No one came.

She moved again, slower now, inch by inch, the carpet burning against her knees. The curtain swayed faintly behind her, the air cold against her back. Every step closer to the front of the boutique made her stomach twist tighter.

When she reached the doorway, she risked a glance around the corner.

The shop looked like a painting overturned. Racks of silk and lace had been torn down, glass shattered across the floor. One of the mannequins lay broken, its plastic face split in half. The smell of blood threaded through the perfume.

Then she saw her.

Sharon was on the floor, half-hidden behind a display table. Her coat was dark with blood, her hair matted. Her face was almost unrecognizable — one eye swollen shut, blood streaking down her cheek.

But she was breathing.

“Sharon,” Wanda whispered, the word catching in her throat. She crawled toward her, hands shaking, the carpet damp with spilled perfume and blood.

Sharon’s head turned slightly. Her lips parted, a wet sound escaping. “Wanda—”

“Shh.” Wanda pressed her fingers gently against her shoulder. “Don’t move. I’m— I’m going to get you out.”

Sharon’s fingers twitched, brushing against Wanda’s wrist. Her skin was cold.

“Stay with me,” Wanda whispered. “Please.”

From somewhere near the front of the store came a low laugh — male, harsh.

“Found something, boys!”

Wanda’s blood turned to ice. She ducked down, instinctively pulling Sharon closer, as if she could shield her.

Footsteps approached, heavy and unhurried. The sound of broken glass under boots.

“Pretty little store,” one of them said. “Shame to ruin it.”

Wanda pressed her forehead against the floor, heart hammering so loudly she was sure they’d hear it.

A hand grabbed her hair and yanked.

She gasped as her body was hauled upright, pain flaring through her scalp. A man stood before her — tall, broad, face half-shadowed under a cap. Tattoos snaked down his neck. His breath reeked of alcohol and smoke.

“Well, look what we got here,” he said, his accent thick. “The princess herself.”

Wanda’s heart dropped. He knew who she was.

“Let go of me,” she spat, even as he dragged her closer.

He laughed. “You Maximoffs think you own the whole city, eh? Not tonight.”

He shoved her forward. She stumbled, catching herself on the display counter, shards of glass cutting into her palms. The sting barely registered — she was too focused on the gun glinting in his other hand.

“Where’s your guard dog now, little girl?” he sneered. “Brother send you shopping alone?”

She said nothing. Her throat had closed up.

He grabbed her by the jaw, forcing her to look up. “You got his eyes,” he said. “Same arrogant look. Don’t worry. We’ll take that out of you.”

He shoved her again, harder this time, until she fell to her knees. Another man appeared near the door, his grin yellow under the flickering light. Behind them, two more. Five total, all armed, all watching her with the kind of hunger that made her skin crawl.

The first one — the leader — bent down. “You Maximoffs think you’re untouchable. But Kingpin wants to send a message.” He tilted her chin up with the barrel of his gun. “You’ll do nicely.”

Wanda’s body shook. She wanted to fight, to claw at him, to scream. But fear rooted her in place.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

He laughed and spat, the saliva hitting her cheek. “Begging already?”

“Please,” she said, hating the way her voice broke.

He stood, still holding her hair. “We’re gonna have fun first,” he said to the others. “Then we’ll take her for a little drive. Public send-off, yeah?”

The others laughed — harsh, echoing.

He yanked her toward the door. Her bare feet slipped on the broken glass, slicing open. She bit back a cry, stumbling as he dragged her across the floor. The boutique alarm blared as they crossed the threshold, the shrill sound mixing with the chaos of distant sirens and honking cars outside.

The cold air hit her like a slap. Night had fallen — the street slick with rain and neon reflections. People had already scattered. The city’s cruelty had many forms; indifference was one of them.

He pulled her toward a waiting car, a black van idling by the curb. The others followed, laughing, shouting things she didn’t hear. Her vision blurred, her ears ringing.

“Let me go!” she screamed, twisting in his grip.

He backhanded her. Her head snapped to the side, blood filling her mouth.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “Don’t ruin that pretty face yet.”

She tried to claw at his hand, but he only tightened his grip, dragging her by her hair. The world tilted, her knees hitting the pavement. Rain and blood mingled on her skin.

And then — headlights.

A dark sedan turned the corner fast, tires screeching. It stopped hard, blocking the street.

“What the hell—” one of the men began.

The driver’s door opened. A figure stepped out — tall, dressed in black, face masked. Another emerged from the passenger side, smaller, just as armed.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then the gunfire started.

It was fast — precise. The kind of shooting that spoke of training, not chaos. The first man dropped before he could lift his weapon. The second went down with a hole clean through his chest. Wanda hit the ground, instinctively covering her head as bullets tore through the air above her.

Glass shattered. Tires screeched. Someone screamed.

When the silence returned, it was worse than the noise.

Wanda lifted her head slowly. The rain had started again, fine and cold. The five men who had dragged her out were all down — sprawled across the pavement, blood pooling under them.

The masked figures approached. One of them lowered their weapon, crouching beside her.

“Maximoff?” a husky voice said. Distorted by the mask, but steady. Controlled.

Wanda nodded shakily.

“Can you walk?”

She tried to stand. Her knees buckled. The person caught her easily, one arm around her waist. Their gloved hand was firm but careful, steadying her.

“Wait,” she said, voice breaking. “Sharon— she’s inside—”

The other masked figure had already gone into the boutique. After a moment, they returned, carrying Sharon’s limp body in their arms. Her face was pale, but she was still breathing.

“She’s alive,” the figure said. “Barely.”

The one holding Wanda nodded. “Get her in the car.”

Wanda tried to speak — to ask who they were, to demand answers — but her throat refused. Her vision blurred as they guided her to the sedan, the rain mixing with the blood on her hands.

The car door opened. Warm air and the smell of leather enveloped her. She was pushed gently inside, Sharon laid across the backseat beside her.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The taller figure hesitated.

“Friends,” the distorted voice said finally. “For now.”

The door shut.

The sedan pulled away, fast and silent, disappearing into the rain-slicked streets. Wanda leaned back, her head spinning, the city’s lights smearing past the windows. Her fingers brushed against Sharon’s cold hand.

Outside, sirens wailed somewhere far away.

Inside the car, all she could hear was her own heartbeat — fast, uneven — and the quiet murmur of voices in the front seat.

One of them spoke Russian. Her mother tongue. And though she couldn’t make out the words, she recognized one name whispered between them — a name Pietro had mentioned only in warning, years ago. Widow. Wanda’s vision darkened. The last thing she saw before the world faded was the rain sliding down the glass like tears.

Wanda sat on the edge of the couch, the world still spinning in and out of focus. The room around her smelled of smoke, whiskey, and expensive leather. Her head throbbed, her lip stung where it had split, and she could still taste blood when she swallowed. The red lace clung to her skin like shame — torn, damp, a reminder of everything that had gone wrong.

Pietro stood across the room, pacing like a caged wolf. His shirt was half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, silver chain glinting under the low light. He was angry — not the cold, strategic kind of angry that made him dangerous, but the wild, unthinking kind that made him cruel.

“What were you thinking?” he roared, his voice sharp enough to slice through the silence. “You were told never to go into Fisk’s district. Never.”

Wanda didn’t look up. Her hands were clasped tightly between her knees, knuckles white.

“I just wanted to shop,” she said quietly.

He laughed — a bitter, humorless sound. “Shop? In their territory? Do you think they wouldn’t notice the Maximoff princess prancing into their backyard in heels and perfume?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever I damn well please!” He turned, slamming his palm down on the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. “Do you have any idea what they were going to do to you?”

Her throat tightened. The flashes came back — the gun, the laughter, the blood. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Pietro saw it. “You don’t even deny it,” he hissed. “You walk around like you’re untouchable, like the world owes you something. And now—”

He stopped in front of her, eyes blazing.

“Now I’m supposed to clean up after my whore of a sister again.”

The word landed like a slap before his hand even did. When it came, it wasn’t hard enough to knock her over, but it was enough to make her cheek burn.

Wanda’s eyes snapped open. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered.

He leaned in close, breath hot with anger. “Don’t what? Tell the truth? You open your legs for anyone who looks at you twice, and you think you can walk through life untouched? This could have been a fucking cop. I don't trust Sharon, that dyke is using you. You almost got yourself killed tonight, Wanda. And I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?”

Her chest heaved. “I didn’t ask for your pity.”

“No,” he spat. “You never ask. You just take. You take and you leave a mess for me to bury. You think because you have my last name you can do whatever you want?” he spat. “Parading around like some spoiled debutante, walking into Fisk’s territory wearing your brother’s blood on your back—”

“Sharon said—”

“Don’t you dare,” he roared, cutting her off. “Don’t you dare use the Dyke's name right now.”

Wanda’s fingers curled into her knees. “She was just—”

“She was a liability,” Pietro growled. “A stupid, careless distraction, and now she’s almost dead because of you.”

Something broke in Wanda then — a soundless crack deep in her chest. “She saved me.”

“She had to,” he said. “Because you were too busy opening your legs for anyone who looks at you twice!”

The slap came before she even saw his hand move. Her head snapped to the side, hair falling into her face, the second of the night. The sting, harsher than the first, blossomed hot across her cheek, the metallic taste of blood returning to her mouth.

She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t give him that. Pietro stared down at her, chest heaving. His voice dropped, low and venomous. “You’re lucky you’re my sister. Anyone else, I’d have put a bullet in their head for less. But you—” He stepped closer, his hand gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “You’re my burden. My responsibility. My whore of a sister.”

Wanda glared up at him through her hair, jaw tight. “Then maybe you should’ve let them kill me.”

For a second, she thought he might hit her again. Instead, he shoved her back against the couch and turned away, dragging a hand through his hair.

The door opened.

Wanda turned, her heart lurching.

A woman stepped inside.

She was short — Shorter than Wanda, but broader, more muscular, toned and lithe like something sculpted out of quiet violence. Her red hair was cropped just above her shoulders, curling slightly where it brushed her neck. Tattoos covered her arms, dark and intricate — spirals, Cyrillic, shapes Wanda couldn’t quite read — and one crept up the back of her neck like a shadow. Her face was calm, unreadable, the kind of stillness that came from knowing she could end a fight before it began.

She wore a dark tank top, black cargo pants, and boots that clicked softly against the marble floor. Her eyes were grey — cold and assessing, the kind that saw everything.

The air seemed to tighten around her.

“This,” Pietro said, gesturing toward the woman, “is the Widow.”

Wanda blinked. The name sounded like a threat more than a title.

“She’s been with us four years. Enforcer. Cleaner. She doesn’t miss.” Pietro’s tone softened only slightly, as if he were proud to parade his weapon. “She’ll be your bodyguard from now on.”

Wanda’s head snapped toward him. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke about family.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” she said, rising to her feet.

Pietro crossed his arms. “You’ll have one anyway. You’ll eat when she eats. Sleep when and where she sleeps. If she leaves a room, you leave with her. If she tells you to move, you move. She doesn’t answer to you. You answer to her.”

Wanda’s blood boiled. “I’m not a child, Pietro!”

“Then stop acting like one, you fucking useless bitch.”

She turned to the woman — the Widow — trying to find some softness, some hint of humanity in her expression. There was none. The Widow simply stood there, arms loose at her sides, gaze steady.

“I don’t need a sitter,” Wanda said coldly.

The Widow tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Good,” she said. Her voice was low, smooth, but with an edge that could cut glass. “Because I’m not here to babysit. I’m here to keep you alive,pet.”

The word landed like a slap.

Wanda froze. “What did you just call me?”

The Widow’s eyes flicked down, deliberately slow, tracing the lines of torn lace and bruised skin. “You heard me.”

Pietro watched the exchange, unimpressed. “You can test her all you want,” he said. “But if you push her, she’ll break you. She was one of the ones who pulled you out of that alley tonight. Maybe thank her before you start another tantrum.”

Wanda’s stomach twisted. “That was you?”

The Widow’s gaze didn’t waver. “It was.”

“You killed them.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

A pause. “Orders.”

Something in Wanda’s chest faltered. “So I’m just another job to you.”

“Exactly. You're making me rich, pet”

Wanda turned on Pietro. “You think this is helping me? Locking me up with your killer?”

“I think it’s keeping you alive,” he said flatly.

“I’d rather die.”

”Don’t tempt me,” Pietro muttered.

That was all it took. The air snapped between them.

“Go to hell,” Wanda hissed.

“I’m already there,” he snarled back. “Thanks to you.”

Her eyes burned. “You don’t get to blame me for your life, Pietro.”

“Oh, I do when you make it harder every damn day! When you let a cop crawl into your bed without realizing it!”

She froze. “What?”

Pietro’s expression turned cruel. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about your little girlfriend? Sharon Carter. Pretty name. Pretty face. Pity she was feeding information to the police the whole time.”

“Liar,” Wanda whispered.

He laughed, sharp and humorless. “I should’ve known. You always pick the ones who’ll destroy you.”

She lunged.

For one blind second, rage drowned everything. She wanted to hit him, to claw at him, to make him stop saying her name like it was dirt. But before she could even reach him, a hand clamped around her wrist.

The Widow moved faster than Wanda could see — spinning her effortlessly, pulling her back against her chest, one arm pinned behind her.

“Enough,” the Widow said softly.

“Let me go!” Wanda struggled, twisting in her grip.

”You’ll only hurt yourself.”

”Let me go!”

The Widow’s hold tightened — not cruel, but unyielding. Wanda could feel the strength in her arms, the controlled precision. She kicked, clawed, but the Widow barely moved.

“Stop,” Pietro ordered.

“Make me!” Wanda spat.

”Gladly,” the Widow muttered, lifting her clean off the floor.

”Put me down!” Wanda shouted, thrashing in her grip.

But the Widow didn’t. She carried her down the hallway as if she weighed nothing at all. The men stationed by the door stepped aside without a word.

”Where are you taking me?” Wanda demanded.

“To your room.”

“I can walk!”

“You weren’t.”

“I hate you!”

“Good,” the Widow said. “Makes it easier.”

When they reached Wanda’s room, the Widow kicked the door open and carried her inside. The lights were still on, the air faintly perfumed from the candles Wanda had lit earlier that evening — an echo of the life that felt a hundred years away.

The Widow set her down on the bed, firm but not rough.

Wanda immediately pushed herself up, glaring through her tears. “You don’t get to touch me!”

The Widow’s expression didn’t change. “Then stop needing to be saved.”

Wanda’s breath hitched.

The Widow turned toward the door, her tone final. “Sleep. You’ll need it.”

“Go to hell,” Wanda whispered.

The Widow paused, just long enough for Wanda to catch the faintest flicker of something — amusement, maybe.

“Already been,” she said softly. “Didn’t like it much.”

Then she left, the door closing behind her with a quiet click.

Wanda sat there, shaking, the sound of her own heartbeat filling the silence. The red lace clung to her like a secret she couldn’t take off, and in the back of her mind, she heard the Widow’s voice again — calm, cold, unbothered.

Pet.

Wanda wanted to scream, but the tears came first.

Chapter Text

The walls of Wanda’s room were painted in shades of grey that matched her mood—concrete dullness hiding something dangerous beneath. She hadn’t slept. The bed felt like a cage, too soft to hold her anger, too still to drown out the noise in her head. She stared up at the ceiling until it blurred, the memory of her brother’s voice replaying again and again, slicing through the dark like a knife.

Her cheek still stung faintly from where Pietro’s hand had connected. She could almost hear his words echoing off the walls. Whore. Disgrace. You think you’re untouchable because you’re pretty?

Wanda turned on her side, curling into herself. The window across from her bed showed the faintest glow of dawn—barely there, more smoke than light. Somewhere outside, a car rumbled down the street, and she imagined freedom humming in its engine.

The Widow had left her alone after locking the door from the outside. Wanda hadn’t seen her since, though she’d felt the woman’s presence everywhere—the phantom of her grip on Wanda’s arm, the quiet weight of her stare.

The air smelled faintly of gun oil and perfume, an intoxicating mix that Wanda hated for how it lingered. She didn’t know if it came from the Widow’s skin or her weapons, but it stayed. It stayed like a hand on her throat.

She pushed the sheets off and sat up. Her body ached—bruises forming like constellations across her hips and shoulders from the way she’d been dragged, shaken, thrown. She was alive, and Sharon was somewhere in a hospital bed, maybe dying, maybe already gone.

She couldn’t stay here.

Wanda rose quietly, crossing to the small dresser by the wall. Her reflection caught in the mirror—tired eyes, smeared mascara, hair tangled from hours of restless movement. She looked nothing like herself, and maybe that was good. Maybe she could disappear if she wanted to.

The plan formed easily enough: she’d tell the Widow she needed to shower. Then, while she was inside, she’d slip out through the window and run. She didn’t know where she’d go—maybe to the hospital, maybe nowhere—but anywhere was better than being locked under someone else’s orders.

She found a towel on the chair, wrapped it around herself, and crossed to the door. When she opened it, the Widow was there, sitting in a chair just outside, legs stretched out, cleaning the barrel of a pistol.

The woman looked up at her without surprise. “Shower?”

Wanda nodded, trying to sound casual. “Yeah. I need to wash off everything.”

The Widow’s mouth curved—barely a smile, more an understanding. “Go ahead. Don’t take too long.”

Wanda’s pulse thudded in her neck. She walked past the woman, feeling the eyes that followed her down the hallway. The bathroom door shut behind her, and she leaned against it, exhaling shakily.

The air was cold, the tile colder. She peeled off the towel, staring at the faint purple bruise blooming near her ribs. Then she turned to the small window over the sink.

It wasn’t big, but it was enough. She’d fit if she tried.

Her hands moved quickly—she dressed in a pair of old sweatpants and a hoodie she’d left on the counter last night, her fingers trembling as she tied her hair back. The sound of the shower running filled the air, steam curling upward like a promise.

Then she climbed.

The window squeaked as she lifted it. The noise made her freeze. No footsteps, no voice. She swung one leg through, then the other, balancing on the outer ledge. Her heart pounded hard enough she could hear it.

She was halfway down the drainpipe when she heard the door open behind her.

“Don’t,” came the Widow’s voice—low, calm, dangerous.

Wanda didn’t look up. “Leave me alone,” she hissed, gripping the pipe tighter.

The Widow was already there, one gloved hand catching her ankle with terrifying ease. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice?”

“Let me go!” Wanda kicked, but the woman’s grip only tightened. In a blink, she was hauled back up through the window, the towel falling somewhere below as she landed hard on the bathroom floor.

The Widow crouched beside her, eyes level with hers. “You’re going to get yourself killed,” she said quietly.

“I don’t care!” Wanda’s voice broke. “You don’t get it—Sharon’s out there, and I can’t just sit here while my brother decides what’s true!”

The Widow tilted her head slightly, studying her. “Your brother is trying to keep you alive. Whether you like it or not.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I don’t need to.”

Wanda’s hands shook as she pushed herself up, standing toe to toe with her. “Then stop pretending you care,” she spat. “You’re just another one of his soldiers. A weapon that smiles.”

Something flickered behind the Widow’s eyes—a faint glint of amusement, maybe pity. “You think that’s what I am?”

“You follow orders.”

“I follow purpose.” The Widow’s tone was soft but sharp. “And right now, your purpose is survival. Don’t make me tie you to the bed to make that clear.”

Wanda’s breath caught. “You wouldn’t.”

A ghost of a smile curved those scarlet lips. “Try me, pet.”

The word landed heavy in the air, burning in Wanda’s stomach. Her cheeks flushed, whether from anger or something she didn’t want to name. “Don’t call me that,” she whispered.

“You keep earning it.”

Wanda lunged before she thought it through, fury snapping her forward. The Widow moved faster—catching her wrist, twisting just enough to make her gasp, and in one motion, she had Wanda pinned against the wall.

“Combat training,” the Widow murmured near her ear. “You don’t have a chance.”

“Then fight fair.”

“I don’t fight fair.”

They stood there, close enough that Wanda could feel the heat of her skin, smell the faint mix of gunpowder and vanilla. The proximity made her dizzy. She wanted to hate her, but it was hard to hate someone who looked at you like that—like they could end you or save you, and both would feel the same.

Finally, the Widow released her. Wanda stumbled back, rubbing her wrist.

“I want to see Sharon,” she said hoarsely. “If she’s in the hospital—if she’s even alive—”

“She’s not your concern right now.”

“She’s my girlfriend!”

“She was part of the reason you were attacked.”

The words cut like ice. “What do you mean?”

The Widow’s expression didn’t change, but her silence said enough.

“No.” Wanda shook her head. “You’re lying.”

“There are police looking into your family,” the Widow said finally. “Your brother’s enemies are circling, and Fisk’s people want you dead. That’s all you need to know.”

Wanda backed away, her throat tightening. “I never asked for any of this,” she said softly. “I never wanted to be part of his world.”

“I know.” The Widow’s voice softened, just slightly. “But wanting doesn’t change what’s real.”

Wanda turned toward the door, her voice trembling. “You can’t keep me locked up.”

The Widow stepped in front of her, blocking the way. “I can. And I will.”

“Why?”

“Because Fisk put a hit on you. Because I was told to keep you breathing. Because—” The woman stopped herself, exhaling. “Because if I fail, we both die.”

Wanda looked at her—really looked at her. The faint scars near her collarbone, the tattoo curling along her arm, the way her eyes stayed unreadable but her jaw was tense. She wasn’t sure if it was threat or truth, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t leave. Not tonight.

The Widow turned away, crossing to the window. She locked it with a soft click. Then the door.

Wanda sat on the bed, pulling her knees to her chest. “So what now? You just… watch me sleep?”

“I’ll be here.”

“How comforting,” Wanda muttered.

A few minutes later, the door opened again. The Widow returned, carrying a rolled-up army mattress. She laid it down on the floor beside Wanda’s bed, straightening it with quiet efficiency.

“That’s where you’ll sleep?” Wanda asked.

“Unless you’d rather have me in the bed with you.”

Wanda scoffed, heat rising to her face. “You wish.”

“Maybe,” the Widow said, eyes glinting with something that made Wanda’s heart skip.

Silence filled the room after that—thick, tense, but not entirely hostile. Wanda lay down, staring at the ceiling again, aware of the woman’s steady movements as she settled on the floor.

Her mind wandered despite herself—brief flashes of skin, of strength, of hands that could break or hold. She hated that she thought about it. Hated that it felt safer to imagine that touch than her brother’s rage.

“Goodnight,” the Widow murmured quietly, her voice carrying through the dark.

Wanda hesitated. “Goodnight,” she said softly. “Can I at least get your name?”

There was a pause, then a low chuckle.

“No, pet,” came the answer, smooth and certain. “Don’t ruin your pretty head with thoughts.”

Wanda turned away, cheeks hot, staring at the shadows on the wall. She wanted to hate her for saying it. She wanted to laugh, or cry, or scream. But instead, she closed her eyes and tried to breathe.

The room was too quiet. Too close. And the sound of the Widow’s steady breathing in the dark was both her prison and her lullaby.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtered through the Maximoff penthouse windows, slicing through the shadows with cruel precision. Wanda sat at the breakfast bar, still in the oversized hoodie she’d stolen from her brother’s closet—one that smelled faintly of his cologne and cigarettes. Her hair was a wild mess, half-dried from a rushed shower, her bare feet cold against the marble floor.

Across from her stood the Widow.

Not sat—stood. Watching. Always watching.

She was leaning against the counter like she belonged there, arms folded, muscles shifting under the dark fabric of her tank top as her grey eyes tracked Wanda’s every move. It had been like this all morning—like a shadow that refused to detach itself.

Wanda poured cereal into a bowl with deliberate exaggeration, her movements slow and precise, the spoon clinking like a tiny act of rebellion. “You know,” she muttered, “most people at least pretend not to stare.”

The Widow raised an eyebrow. “You make it difficult not to.”

Wanda shot her a glare that lacked real venom. “Because I’m such a flight risk?”

“Because you’re unpredictable,” came the calm reply.

“Unpredictable is just another word for interesting.” Wanda smirked faintly, reaching for the milk carton. “I’d think you’d appreciate some excitement in your dull, professional life.”

The Widow tilted her head slightly, lips twitching—almost a smile. “You have no idea how much excitement I’ve seen.”

“Bet it’s nothing compared to babysitting me,” Wanda said, pouring milk into her cereal. “Must be thrilling watching me eat cornflakes.”

“I don’t mind quiet mornings,” the Widow said.

“You don’t mind me?”

That made the corner of the Widow’s mouth curve just slightly. “You talk too much, pet. But no—I don’t mind you.”

The word pet landed with that same weight as before, and Wanda tried not to let it show. She jabbed her spoon into the bowl, scowling even as her pulse betrayed her.

“Do you always have to call me that?” she muttered, cheeks warming.

“Would you prefer something else?”

“I’d prefer my name.”

The Widow didn’t answer, but her eyes softened, and Wanda could have sworn that, for just a moment, there was warmth there—something human.

Wanda huffed. “If you keep watching me eat, I’ll start charging admission.”

That earned her the faintest laugh. It was small, unexpected, and gone as quickly as it came—but it was real.

Wanda froze for a second, spoon halfway to her lips. “Did you just laugh?”

The Widow’s gaze flicked up, expression unreadable again. “Must’ve been the wind.”

“Right,” Wanda said, smiling despite herself. “A really sarcastic breeze.”

But the moment broke like glass when Pietro’s voice sliced through the air.

“What’s this?”

Wanda’s spine went rigid before she even turned. Pietro stood in the doorway, half-dressed in a white shirt and suspenders, hair slicked back, the faintest trace of a smirk cutting his features. His presence filled the room like smoke—cold and suffocating.

Wanda’s hand trembled, and the milk carton slipped from her fingers, crashing to the marble. The sound was sharp, followed by the white spill creeping across the floor like blood.

She flinched automatically, her body remembering faster than her mind.

Pietro’s eyes didn’t go to her first. They went to the Widow. For a moment, there was silence—the kind that made Wanda’s breath catch in her throat.

Then he looked back at her. “Clean it.”

Just that. Cold. Flat.

Wanda swallowed hard, bending down to gather the shards of the glass bottle, her fingers shaking. The milk soaked into her sleeves, chilling her skin. She focused on that instead of the sound of her brother’s shoes against the tile.

“You were supposed to keep her under control,” Pietro said quietly to the Widow.

“She’s eating breakfast,” the Widow replied, voice even. “Not running a gun trade.”

Pietro’s jaw flexed. “Watch your tone.”

Wanda didn’t dare look up. She knew that tone in her brother—it was the same one that came before the shouting, before the slap, before the bruises she’d learned to hide beneath long sleeves and sarcasm.

But this time, he didn’t hit her.

Instead, he looked down at her, milk pooling between them, and said, “You’re going to the market today.”

Her eyes flicked up in confusion. “What?”

“I want goulash tonight,” Pietro said, lighting a cigarette like it was a verdict. “Our mother’s recipe. You remember how she made it?”

Wanda nodded slowly, stomach tightening.

“Good,” he said, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Don’t ruin it this time. I don’t want another mess like last year.”

Her throat constricted. Last year. The paprika. The smell of burnt onions. The back of his hand.

“I remember,” she whispered.

He smiled—too sharp, too knowing—and turned to leave. “Then make it right.”

When he was gone, the room seemed to breathe again. Wanda stood, her knees weak, and stared at the mess she’d cleaned. The Widow was still there, watching her, silent as ever.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Wanda muttered. “I’m fine.”

The Widow didn’t respond, only handed her a towel. Wanda took it, wiping her hands.

“Let’s get this over with,” Wanda said, voice thin. “The sooner I go, the sooner I can come back and be your favorite pet again.”

“Don’t push it,” the Widow warned softly.

Wanda forced a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “Who’s pushing?”

They walked together down the hallway toward the garage. Wanda could feel the Widow’s gaze on her back, heavy and unrelenting. She didn’t want to talk—not about her brother, not about last night, not about the way her heart still raced from the sound of glass breaking.

When they reached the garage, Wanda stopped beside her car—a sleek black Mazda that had been her one indulgence, her one taste of freedom.

The Widow stepped closer. “Wanda.”

Wanda’s grip tightened on the keys. “Don’t.”

“You’re not going anywhere alone.”

“I need to think.”

“You can think in the car.”

“I said don’t.”

The Widow’s expression didn’t change, but her voice lowered—dangerously calm. “You’re not leaving me behind.”

Wanda turned, meeting her gaze fully for the first time that morning. “I wasn’t asking for permission.”

Then she opened the driver’s door.

The Widow’s hand shot out, catching her wrist, but Wanda twisted free, adrenaline burning through her. “I’m not a prisoner,” she spat.

“Then stop acting like one,” the Widow snapped.

For a heartbeat, they stared at each other—two storms about to collide. Then Wanda got in the car, slammed the door, and turned the key. The engine roared to life, echoing in the closed space.

The Widow moved to the front of the car, her eyes narrowing. “Wanda, don’t do this.”

But Wanda was already reversing, tires screeching. The Widow’s voice followed her, sharp and commanding—“Wanda!”—but the garage door lifted and she was gone.

The city opened before her in blinding light and noise.

She pressed the accelerator hard, weaving through traffic, the wind tangling her hair. For the first time in days, she felt something like control—reckless, fragile, but hers.

The light ahead turned red. She didn’t stop.

Freedom, even for a second, was worth every line she crossed.

Behind her, she knew the Widow would follow. She always did.

But for now, Wanda didn’t care.

She turned the music up, rolled the window down, and let the city swallow her whole.

The city unfolded in a blur of light and motion—Wanda’s reflection flashing across car windows, streetlamps, and the slick metal of passing vehicles. Her Mazda tore down the avenue like a heartbeat set loose, the roar of the engine echoing in her chest.

Her hands gripped the steering wheel tight enough for her knuckles to turn white. The speedometer climbed—80, 90, 100. She didn’t care. She wanted distance, not direction. The farther from the Maximoff penthouse, the better. The farther from him, the better.

The air rushing through the open window tangled her hair, sharp and cold against her face. Her pulse was wild, chaotic, and for the first time since that night at the lingerie shop, she felt alive.

Behind her, something thundered.

A low, mechanical growl—deep, rhythmic, relentless.

Wanda glanced into the mirror. Headlights. Closer. Too close.

Her jaw tightened. “No…”

A motorcycle burst through the traffic behind her, sleek and black, its chrome catching the morning light. The rider leaned low over the handlebars, cutting through cars with terrifying precision.

Even before the figure drew close enough for her to see, Wanda knew.

The Widow.

“Unbelievable,” Wanda hissed, slamming her foot down harder.

The Mazda leapt forward, tires screeching as she weaved through the cars ahead. Horns blared. A man shouted something obscene as she narrowly missed his mirror. The Widow didn’t slow down—if anything, she moved faster.

The motorcycle cut between lanes like it was nothing, a dark blur slipping through gaps that shouldn’t have existed. She rode like a ghost—unbothered by danger, precise as a blade.

“Get off my back!” Wanda shouted, knowing full well the woman couldn’t hear her.

She made a hard left turn onto 53rd Street, nearly clipping a taxi. The Mazda fishtailed slightly before regaining control, the smell of burnt rubber filling the car.

In the mirror, the Widow followed, smooth and unshaken.

It was maddening.

Every time Wanda tried to lose her, the Widow was there—an echo, a shadow, impossible to shake. When Wanda sped up, the motorcycle roared louder. When she darted through intersections, the Widow slipped through like the rules of traffic didn’t apply to her.

“Of course you ride a damn motorcycle,” Wanda muttered under her breath, swerving around a delivery truck. “Of course you’re the type.”

She slammed her palm against the steering wheel, frustration bubbling over. “Can’t you just let me breathe for five minutes?!”

The Widow, of course, didn’t respond—only closed the distance.

Wanda’s foot pressed the gas harder, and the Mazda screamed. Her vision tunneled. The world blurred—buildings, people, color—all smearing into streaks of speed. Her heart was pounding too loud, too fast. She didn’t realize how fast she was going until she hit the turn.

Too sharp. Too late.

The tires shrieked, the car spinning for half a heartbeat. Wanda’s stomach dropped as the world tilted—metal grinding, rubber burning—but she corrected just in time, skidding to a violent stop inches from a guardrail.

For a moment, everything went still. Her hands trembled. Her chest heaved.

The Widow stopped a few meters behind her, the motorcycle idling like an animal waiting for command.

Wanda sat there, gripping the wheel, the adrenaline still crashing through her veins. She could almost hear her mother’s voice—slow down, Wandyka, slow down before you hurt yourself.

Her throat tightened. She pressed a shaking hand to her face, trying to steady her breathing. The Widow didn’t move closer, didn’t shout, didn’t threaten—just waited.

The silence between them stretched.

Finally, Wanda started the car again, slower this time. She pulled back onto the road, the Mazda gliding forward at a more reasonable pace. She didn’t have to look behind her to know the Widow was following—she could feel it, like gravity.

They drove like that for several blocks, the city settling back into rhythm around them. Wanda’s anger simmered down to something quieter, heavier.

At a red light, she glanced in the mirror again. The Widow was right there—helmeted, composed, one hand resting casually on the handlebars.

Wanda sighed. “Fine,” she muttered. “You win.”

She turned down a smaller street, parking near an open market. The Mazda rolled to a stop beside the curb, engine humming down.

The motorcycle pulled up beside her and stilled.

Wanda sat there for a moment, refusing to look. She could feel her pulse in her throat, her wrists, her ears. Her palms were slick with sweat, her nerves frayed and sparking.

Finally, she glanced sideways.

The Widow killed the engine, the silence that followed deafening. Slowly, she reached up, unfastening her helmet.

Wanda didn’t mean to stare—but she did.

The red hair spilled out, shaking loose as the Widow removed the helmet with one smooth motion. It caught the sunlight like fire, framing a face that was far too calm for someone who had just chased her through half the city.

Her grey eyes found Wanda’s through the car window—cool, unreadable, but not unkind. The faint smirk at the corner of her lips didn’t help Wanda’s racing pulse.

Wanda tore her gaze away first, fumbling with the door handle.

She stepped out, trying to sound nonchalant even as her heart refused to slow. “You could’ve killed us both,” she said, brushing hair out of her face.

The Widow rested her helmet against her hip. “You’re the one who ran red lights.”

“I was escaping.”

The Widow tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. “From what?”

“From you.”

A faint pause. Then—“You didn’t escape.”

Wanda’s mouth opened, then closed. She hated that the woman was right. She hated even more that she looked so damn good saying it.

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You always this smug, or is it just for me?”

The Widow’s smirk deepened. “Only for you, pet.”

Wanda’s cheeks flushed, though she fought it with a glare. “Stop calling me that.”

The Widow didn’t answer—just turned, walking toward the market entrance, her boots echoing against the pavement.

Wanda watched her go for a second longer than she meant to, then muttered under her breath, “Yeah, sure. Let’s go get tomatoes like a perfectly normal, functional family.”

The market was alive with the hum of life — stalls lined with vegetables, the scent of herbs and roasted nuts, voices overlapping in quick, familiar rhythm. Wanda tried to let the noise drown out her thoughts, her fears, the echo of her brother’s cold tone that still clung to her bones.

She could feel the Widow’s presence behind her like a shadow, calm and heavy, unrelenting. Even without looking, she knew the woman watched her every move — the way she picked up each tomato as if testing its worth, the way her hands trembled when she reached for the next.

Wanda didn’t like it. She didn’t like her being there — following, breathing, observing. But there was no escaping her anymore.

“Nice choice,” the Widow murmured as Wanda inspected another tomato. “Firm, ripe, just the right color.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, setting it in the bag. “Thanks for the lecture, chef.”

A soft exhale — not quite a sigh. “You shouldn’t let him talk to you like that.”

Wanda froze, mid-motion, the words hitting her like cold water. She turned sharply, her voice low. “Excuse me?”

“This morning,” the Widow said evenly, keeping her tone calm, but her eyes sharp. “He shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Or made you flinch.”

Wanda’s lips thinned. “You don’t know him.”

“I know fear when I see it,” the Widow replied. “And I know what causes it.”

Wanda dropped another tomato into the bag with more force than necessary. “Well, congratulations. You must be very observant.”

“You don’t have to live like this,” the Widow pressed, taking a slow step closer, voice quieter now. “You’re not a prisoner.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Wanda muttered, turning away. “You follow me everywhere like I’m one.”

“I’m here to keep you safe, pet”

“Safe from what? My own family?”

The Widow’s silence stretched long enough that Wanda looked back at her — and instantly regretted it. The woman’s expression was soft, too soft, her eyes too knowing.

“You remind me of myself,” the Widow said finally. “When I was your age, my father—”

“Don’t.” Wanda’s voice cracked through the space between them like a whip. “Don’t start that.”

The Widow’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t stop. “He was cruel. Controlling. He used to—”

“I said don’t!”

A few heads turned nearby. Wanda turned away quickly, pretending to inspect a display of peppers. Her hands shook as she reached for one, forcing herself to breathe.

But the Widow didn’t raise her voice. She stepped closer, her tone low and measured. “He used to hurt me. Because he could. Because I was small and quiet and easy to break. And when physical hurting did nothing, and I started to become a woman, he tried a different tactic. I have had every type of abuse before I turned 18, Printsessa, I know the type.”

Wanda squeezed the pepper until it split beneath her fingers.

“I don’t care,” she said flatly, not turning around.

“You do,” the Widow said, softer now. “You just don’t want to.”

Wanda spun around, eyes flashing. “You think you understand me? You think because you had some sad story, that means you get to analyze mine? You don’t know anything about me, or my brother, or us!”

The Widow’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know what it looks like when someone’s afraid to breathe wrong.”

“Shut up!” Wanda’s voice rose again — then fell to a sharp whisper. “You think I need your pity? You’re just some broken weapon pretending to be human. Maybe you deserved whatever your father did to you — ever think of that?”

The words hit the air like glass shattering.

The Widow didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. But for one second — just one — Wanda saw something in her eyes crack.

It wasn’t anger. It was something far worse. Pain. Real, quiet pain.

And Wanda’s stomach twisted, guilt pricking at her chest even as a small, horrible part of her felt… satisfied. Because for once, the perfect, controlled, untouchable Widow looked human.

“Good,” Wanda whispered under her breath, though it didn’t feel good at all.

The Widow looked away first, picking up the ruined pepper from the ground and dropping it into a waste bin. “You shouldn’t waste food,” she said quietly, her voice stripped of any warmth.

Wanda couldn’t look at her. She turned back to the stalls, filling the last of the basket in silence. The noise of the market filled the spaces where their words had been — laughter, chatter, footsteps — but between them, there was only quiet.

When the groceries were paid for, they walked back to the parking lot without a word. The sun was lower now, painting the pavement gold, stretching their shadows long.

Wanda trailed a step behind. She didn’t know what to say — whether to apologize or stay quiet. The silence was easier.

At the edge of the lot, the Widow’s motorcycle waited — dark, sleek, gleaming. She set the bags down carefully, unlatched a small compartment at the back, and began placing the groceries inside. Everything she did was precise, methodical — even when her eyes looked tired.

Wanda crossed her arms, watching. “You really think I’m riding that thing?”

The Widow didn’t answer at first. She closed the compartment, turned, and pulled out two helmets from under the seat. She held one out. “You’re not driving alone again.”

Wanda blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll have someone pick up your car,” the Widow said simply. “You ride with me.”

Wanda’s mouth opened in disbelief. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” the Widow interrupted, her voice steady but firm. “You’re still shaking. You shouldn’t be behind a wheel.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“Stop—” Wanda’s voice cracked slightly, frustration bubbling over. “Stop trying to control everything! You’re not my—”

The Widow just looked at her, helmet still in hand. “Get on the bike, Wanda.”

For a heartbeat, Wanda thought about running. About slamming the door of her car and driving until she ran out of gas. But the Widow’s gaze — calm, unyielding — made her hesitate.

She stamped her foot, glaring at the pavement. “You’re impossible.”

The Widow didn’t reply. She just turned toward the motorcycle, settling into the seat, engine idling low. She offered the helmet again, a quiet invitation more than an order this time.

Wanda exhaled sharply through her nose. “You really think I’m going to hold onto you?”

A faint smirk touched the Widow’s lips. “Suit yourself.”

Wanda glared — but she climbed on anyway, muttering curses under her breath. She jammed the helmet on and grabbed the edge of the seat instead of the woman in front of her.

The motorcycle rumbled to life, the vibration humming up through her body.

Then, without warning, the Widow accelerated. The sudden jolt made Wanda yelp — and instinct took over before pride could stop her. Her hands shot forward, clutching the Widow’s waist tight.

The Widow didn’t say a word.

But Wanda could feel her smirk.

“Perv,” Wanda muttered under her breath, though her voice trembled slightly from the wind.

The Widow’s voice came through the rush of air — low, calm, faintly amused. “You’re the one holding on.”

Wanda scowled, tightening her grip anyway. The wind tore through her hair, the city flashing by in streaks of light and motion. And though she’d never admit it out loud — not even to herself — for the first time that day, she felt something almost like peace.

The Widow rode steady, strong, unflinching. And Wanda, pressed close against her, could feel the slow, solid rhythm of her breathing — steady where Wanda’s was not.

For a fleeting moment, the world wasn’t about fear or brothers or control. It was just motion. Just freedom.

Just two ghosts of broken childhoods, flying down a road that didn’t yet care who they were.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled of onions and paprika long before the first spoonful of sauce began to simmer. Steam curled up in gentle ribbons, fogging the cold light that poured in through the window. It should have been comforting. For Wanda, it wasn’t.

Her hands shook as she stirred the goulash, the ladle clinking faintly against the pot. The rhythm should have been familiar, a memory of her mother, humming softly as she cooked, moving with an ease Wanda could never quite mimic. But all she could see was him, her brother’s shadow towering over her, voice sharp, face flushed with fury, the sound of breaking glass, the weight of his boot against her ribs.

That night, she had overdone the paprika.

Now, every grain felt like a countdown.

The Widow leaned against the counter near the sink, arms crossed, eyes steady. She wasn’t interfering, not yet. But she was watching. Always watching. The weight of her gaze was its own kind of pressure; quiet, unyielding, like a blade resting against the back of Wanda’s neck.

“Breathe,” the Widow said finally, voice low. “You’re holding your breath again.”

Wanda startled slightly, almost spilling the sauce. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“It’s hot.”

“It’s fear,” the Widow corrected simply, stepping closer.

Wanda glared at her, though her voice came out too thin to carry real venom. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Widow didn’t respond, just reached past her to lower the flame a little. Her movements were calm, practiced. Wanda hated how easy she made everything look, even something as simple as turning a dial.

“Your mother’s recipe?” the Widow asked after a moment, not unkindly.

Wanda swallowed. “Yes.”

“Then do it for her,” the Widow said softly. “Not for him.”

Something in Wanda’s chest twisted; guilt, maybe, or the memory of love before it curdled. She turned back to the pot, her eyes stinging. “He wants it exactly like she made it.”

The Widow studied her quietly for a moment. Then, she rolled up her sleeves. “Then let’s make it together.”

Wanda blinked. “You cook?”

The Widow’s lips curved faintly, just barely. “Enough to survive.”

They worked in silence after that, side by side. The Widow chopped onions with precise, soldierly rhythm; Wanda measured spices with trembling hands. The air filled with the scent of roasted paprika and slow-cooked beef. The silence wasn’t comfortable, not exactly, but it wasn’t hostile either. It was… still. Careful.

At one point, the Widow reached over to adjust Wanda’s grip on the ladle. Her hand brushed against Wanda’s; calloused, steady, warmer than expected. Wanda froze, not daring to look up.

“Like this,” the Widow murmured. “You’re not stirring, you’re scraping. Gently.”

Wanda nodded, her breath catching for reasons she didn’t want to examine too closely.

When the dish was nearly done, the Widow leaned back slightly, arms crossing again, assessing the pot like a general inspecting troops. “Looks good,” she said.

Wanda’s voice was barely a whisper. “He’ll decide that.”

The Widow’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

They set the table in silence. The plates gleamed under the harsh light, silverware lined with military precision. Wanda’s stomach churned as she ladled the goulash into a serving dish. Every step; the weight of the ladle, the smell of paprika, the scrape of porcelain, made her pulse climb higher.

The door opened.

Pietro stepped in, his presence filling the room like smoke. He was sharp in his grey suit, pale hair slicked back, eyes glinting with the same restless cruelty that had haunted her since childhood.

“Smells like home,” he said, smiling without warmth.

Wanda’s hand trembled as she set the pot down. The Widow moved subtly, standing a little closer, not enough to be noticed, but enough to be there.

Pietro sat, tasting the goulash with deliberate slowness. The silence stretched unbearably. Wanda’s heart pounded so loudly she almost didn’t hear his next words.

“Adequate.”

Relief flooded her, not joy, but the fragile relief of survival. Her knees nearly gave way. She forced herself to nod, her voice small. “Would you… like more?”

He glanced up, considering. Then he extended his plate. “Yes. I’ll have another.”

Her hands shook as she reached for the ladle. She told herself to steady it, steady it, but her pulse betrayed her. The sauce spilled, a single splash at first, then more. It hit the pristine fabric of Pietro’s suit like blood.

For one second, there was silence.

Then came the scream.

“You stupid girl!”

Wanda froze, terror choking her breath. She barely had time to move before he was on his feet, the chair clattering behind him.

“I’m sorry—”

The apology didn’t matter. His hand shot out, shoving her backward. The pot tipped, its contents spilling across the floor and over her dress. The heat bit into her skin, a flash of burning pain that made her gasp.

She stumbled, slipping on the sauce, and hit the floor. Her palms slapped the tile.

“Look what you did!” Pietro’s voice rose, shrill with rage. “You can’t do anything right!”

He kicked her once, not hard enough to break, but enough to make her cry out. Her hair tangled in the spill, her skin stung, her eyes blurred. She barely saw him reach down and grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her up.

“Please—”

His arm drew back, fist tightening.

And then, it stopped.

A hand caught his wrist mid-swing. Pale fingers, unflinching, wrapped around his arm like a steel vice.

The Widow stood between them.

“You will not abuse your sister, boss.”

Her voice was low, calm, but there was something underneath it, something sharp, dangerous, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

Pietro’s expression flickered from shock to fury. “You bitch,” he spat, struggling to wrench his hand free. “You work for me. If anything, you should be helping me teach this whore a lesson!”

The Widow’s grip didn’t move. Her eyes were cold, cutting through him like glass.

“You hired me to protect your sister,” she said evenly. “I will do so. Even from you.”

Wanda’s breath hitched. She could barely comprehend what she was seeing. Pietro, her Pietro, was being defied, stopped, contained.

For a moment, it was as though the world had turned upside down.

“Let go of me!” Pietro snarled, swinging with his free hand.

The Widow moved before he finished the motion, a blur of precision. She sidestepped, his punch slicing through empty air, and pushed him. Not hard, but precise enough to send him stumbling backward. He hit the floor, breath leaving him in a sharp, indignant sound.

He tried to rise, but the Widow was already between him and Wanda, her stance loose but unreadable; every line of her body ready to strike if he moved again.

“Stay down,” she said.

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the kind of authority that made even Pietro freeze.

The only sound was Wanda’s shaking breath.

The goulash dripped from the table, pooling around her bare feet. The smell of paprika, once comforting, now felt suffocating.

Pietro stared up at them, eyes burning. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed.

“Maybe,” the Widow replied. “But not tonight.”

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she turned her back on him, the greatest insult she could have given.

Wanda barely realized what was happening until she felt herself lifted off the ground, the Widow’s arms slipping beneath her knees and shoulders. It was effortless, terrifyingly so. The woman held her as though she weighed nothing.

“Come,” the Widow said quietly, her voice soft but laced with steel. “I’ll run you a bath.”

Wanda didn’t fight. Couldn’t.

She was trembling too hard to speak, to move, to think.

The Widow’s shoulder was solid against her cheek, leather and warmth and something that smelled faintly of gunpowder and smoke. The cold menace that always clung to the Widow didn’t vanish, but beneath it, there was something else now, something quieter.

Tenderness, perhaps. Or pity. Or both.

As they passed the doorway, Wanda turned her head slightly, just enough to see her brother still on the floor, his jaw tight, his pride bleeding more than his body.

The bathroom was full of steam, curling along the tiled walls and blurring the edges of the mirror. Water hissed quietly from the showerhead, the sound soft but steady, like rain against glass. Wanda sat on the edge of the large clawfoot tub, trembling. Her hair clung to her face in sticky strands, the faint scent of paprika and smoke still clinging to her skin. Her ruined dress was plastered to her body, heavy with the remnants of goulash. The sauce had cooled, congealed in dark stains that made her shiver with every movement.

The Widow adjusted the shower’s temperature, testing it with her wrist before directing the gentle stream toward Wanda’s hands. The water trickled over her fingers, red-brown streaks running down the drain.

“Lift your arm,” the Widow said quietly. Her voice wasn’t sharp now. It was calm, almost patient.

Wanda didn’t move at first. She just stared at her lap, at the smudged streaks of sauce and dirt that seemed to have soaked into her very skin. Her chest rose and fell too quickly. Every sound; the drip of water, the quiet hum of pipes, felt too loud.

The Widow repeated herself, a little softer this time. “Lift your arm.”

Wanda obeyed. Slowly. The water ran down her elbow, then her shoulder, tracing paths along the bruises already forming beneath her skin. The Widow guided the showerhead across her arm, rinsing away what the earlier chaos had left. The warmth of the water didn’t chase the chill out of Wanda’s bones, though, it only made her shake harder.

Her voice was small when it came. “I can do it.”

The Widow didn’t argue, but she didn’t hand her the showerhead either. “You don’t need to.”

She crouched down so they were almost level, her red hair darkened by the mist, sticking to the side of her face. She looked different in the soft light, less like a weapon, more like a person.

When she reached for the hem of Wanda’s ruined clothes, Wanda flinched, hands flying instinctively to cover herself. The Widow stopped instantly, eyes meeting hers, unreadable.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said.

“I know,” Wanda whispered, though her voice shook.

But knowing and believing weren’t the same.

The Widow moved slowly, deliberately, as if every motion were an unspoken question. Bit by bit, she peeled away the soaked fabric, careful not to tug or pull too quickly. The ruined dress hit the floor with a damp sound, heavy and defeated.

Wanda’s arms crossed over her chest, trembling. Her body felt foreign, too exposed, too fragile. Bruises and scratches marked her skin like a map of someone else’s cruelty. She kept her gaze fixed on the tiles, unable to meet the Widow’s eyes.

The water shifted, now directed toward her legs. Warm. Steady. The Widow’s touch wasn’t harsh, just methodical, hosing down what remained of the mess, washing the sauce, the grime, the blood that had started to dry. It wasn’t gentle in the soft way of comfort, but gentle in the sense of control. Steady hands that didn’t falter, that knew how to deal with wounds.

When the worst of it was gone, the Widow turned off the shower and went to fill the tub. The sound of running water filled the air again, deeper now, echoing softly against the walls.

“Get in,” she said, her tone even, not quite an order but not a suggestion either.

Wanda hesitated, her arms still folded tightly over her chest. “Can you… stay?”

The question surprised even her. It came out small, fragile, almost childlike.

The Widow looked at her for a moment, unreadable as ever. Then she nodded once. “If you want me to.”

She took a seat on the floor beside the tub, close enough that her shadow stretched across the rippling surface of the water.

Wanda climbed in, the warmth enveloping her like a fragile cocoon. The water lapped against her bruises, stinging at first before softening into comfort. She sank down until it reached her collarbone. Her hands, still trembling, covered her breasts and stomach, protective and uncertain.

The Widow dipped a sponge into the tub, wrung it out, and began to clean the streaks of sauce and dirt that still clung to Wanda’s skin. Her movements were slow, efficient, but there was a softness there too; something unspoken, almost reverent. She wiped the scrapes on Wanda’s shoulders, her knees, the small cut at her collarbone.

Wanda didn’t speak. The sound of the sponge dipping in and out of water filled the space between them.

And then the Widow began to hum.

It was low and melodic, a tune without words, sung in a voice that was barely above a whisper. The sound wound through the room like smoke, foreign and familiar all at once. It was a lullaby, maybe. Or a memory from somewhere far colder, older.

The melody pulled at something inside Wanda’s chest. It was strange, being comforted by someone who looked like death made flesh. But in that moment, she didn’t feel fear. Just exhaustion. Just the slow, aching pull of breath as she let herself exist without flinching.

When the Widow spoke again, it was barely a murmur. “You’re safe for now.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Wanda didn’t realize she’d started crying until the tears mixed with the bathwater.

The Widow said nothing, only continued washing her, her humming growing softer until it faded altogether. When she finished, she reached for a towel, a thick, white one that looked impossibly soft, and held it open.

“Come on,” she said gently.

Wanda stood slowly, the water sliding down her body, steam rising in ghostly trails. The Widow wrapped the towel around her shoulders, then folded it tightly over her body, cocooning her in warmth.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The Widow’s hand rested lightly on Wanda’s back, steady and grounding.

Then she spoke, her voice so quiet Wanda almost didn’t hear. “Natalia.”

Wanda blinked, dazed. “What?”

“That’s my name,” the Widow said. “Natalia.”

The name hung in the air like something sacred. Wanda had asked for it before, mocked it, demanded it, but now it was given freely.

“Thank you,” Wanda murmured, her voice breaking around the edges.

Natalia didn’t reply. She simply slid one arm beneath Wanda’s knees and the other behind her shoulders, lifting her with the same effortless strength as before. Wanda’s towel stayed wrapped around her, her body pressed against the faint chill of Natalia’s arm.

Her head dropped to Natalia’s shoulder as the woman carried her from the bathroom, the rhythmic sound of her steps echoing softly against the tile. The scent of her hair, soap, steel, a trace of something floral, was oddly grounding.

Wanda’s eyes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. For the first time in what felt like years, she didn’t flinch when someone held her.

The last thing she remembered before her thoughts went hazy was the sound of Natalia’s voice, low and steady, humming that same Russian melody under her breath.

And for the first time that night, Wanda let herself breathe.

The room was dark, save for the faint orange glow spilling in from the hallway through the half-closed door. The hum of the heater was the only steady sound, low and broken, like a heart still learning how to beat after too much silence. Wanda lay beneath the blanket, her body drawn tight as a bowstring, the shivers refusing to leave her no matter how she shifted. The towel-warmth had long faded, and the chill of memory had returned, creeping through her skin and bones.

Across the room, Natalia sat cross-legged on the thin army mattress she had set up near the door. She was still awake, she always was. Her posture was that of someone pretending to rest but listening to every sound: the sighs, the uneven breathing, the rustle of fabric that betrayed unease.

When Wanda turned over, Natalia’s eyes opened instantly, gleaming faintly in the half-dark.

“You should try to sleep,” Natalia said. Her voice was soft, low enough to almost blend with the hum of the heater.

“I’m trying,” Wanda whispered, her voice small, half-broken. “It’s… hard.”

“I know.” Natalia exhaled through her nose, leaning back slightly, arms resting on her knees. “The body remembers too much.”

The words lingered in the air. Wanda clutched the blanket tighter, nodding without answering.

After a pause, Natalia said, “In two days, if you can stay here tonight and tomorrow, no trying to run, no disappearing, I’ll take you to the hospital.”

Wanda’s eyes lifted from the blanket. “Sharon?”

Natalia nodded once. “She’s been asking for you. She’s been there for several days now.”

Something flickered in Wanda’s chest—hope and guilt, tangled tightly. “You’d really take me?”

“If you give me your word,” Natalia said simply. “And keep it.”

Wanda hesitated. She wanted to say yes. But promises had become heavy things in her life—every one a chain, a weight that could be turned against her. “I’ll think about it,” she said quietly.

Natalia accepted the answer with a small nod. No threat, no pressure. She simply shifted her posture, pulling one leg in and resting her chin on her knee.

Silence stretched between them again, but not empty. It felt like a pause between breaths.

“You remind me of myself,” Natalia said suddenly.

Wanda blinked. “What do you mean?”

Natalia’s gaze stayed distant, somewhere in the dark beyond the walls. “When I was your age, I was in a place where people didn’t ask questions. You learned fast or you didn’t last.” Her voice was flat at first, then softened. “We were told we were weapons, not girls. That pain was a lesson, and obedience a virtue.”

Wanda swallowed hard. “They hurt you?”

Natalia’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Often. Bruises, broken bones. But the worst wasn’t what they did with their fists.” Her voice fell lower, quieter, almost careful. “It was what they took. What they made you give. And how they made you believe it was your fault for surviving.”

Wanda’s throat tightened. She didn’t ask more; she didn’t have to. She understood too much already. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was acknowledgment, shared without words.

For the first time, Wanda saw the outline of something softer beneath Natalia’s armor. Not pity. Not weakness. Just recognition.

“I’m sorry,” Wanda whispered.

Natalia shook her head. “Don’t be. We both lived.”

Wanda looked down again, her fingers gripping the edge of the blanket. She still couldn’t stop trembling.

After a long pause, she spoke, almost too quietly to hear. “Can I… get another blanket?”

Natalia’s gaze flicked toward her. “Are you cold?”

Wanda nodded, hesitating. “It’s not the air. I just—can’t stop shaking.”

Natalia stood. Her movements were silent, precise, like a shadow slipping across the room. She went to the small closet, rummaged for a moment, then returned with another folded blanket. She draped it over Wanda gently, careful not to startle her.

But the shivering didn’t stop. Wanda tried to hold still, tried to will her body into calm, but her breath came uneven, and the tremors only grew worse.

Natalia’s voice broke through the quiet. “Wanda.”

She looked up.

“Do you want me to do something else?”

Wanda hesitated, biting her lip. Her voice came out trembling. “Maybe if… if you could just… stay closer. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

Natalia tilted her head slightly. “You want me to stay with you?”

Wanda’s cheeks flushed, and she turned her face into the pillow. “It’s not, just… it feels safer. Warm. I just…” She trailed off, embarrassed by the childishness of it.

Natalia didn’t answer right away. Then she crossed the room and knelt beside the bed. “Move over a little.”

Wanda blinked, startled, but obeyed. Natalia lay down on top of the covers, not beneath them, her movements careful and deliberate. She positioned herself on her side, close enough that their warmth began to overlap but not so close as to touch without invitation.

For a moment, neither spoke. The heater hummed, the shadows shifted, and the world felt smaller, contained in the space between them.

Then Wanda whispered, “You can… hold me. If you want.”

Natalia hesitated, her breath catching faintly. Then, gently, she lifted the corner of the blanket and slipped an arm around Wanda’s shoulders. The contact was cautious at first, like touching a wound, but when Wanda didn’t flinch, Natalia drew her closer, until Wanda’s trembling body was pressed lightly against her.

It wasn’t the embrace of a lover, nor even quite a friend. It was something rawer, something stitched together from mutual hurt and fragile trust.

Wanda’s head rested against Natalia’s collarbone, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat anchoring her in the dark. The trembling slowed, little by little, replaced by small, shaky breaths.

“You’re warm,” Wanda murmured, voice muffled against her shoulder.

Natalia’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes stayed open, watching the ceiling as if it might fall. “So are you,” she said quietly.

They lay there in silence for a long time. Natalia’s hand moved once; slowly, rhythmically, up and down Wanda’s arm, a motion more protective than tender. When Wanda’s breathing finally steadied, Natalia whispered something in Russian, the words almost lost to the dark.

“What does that mean?” Wanda asked sleepily.

“It means,” Natalia said, “you can rest now.”

Chapter Text

The next morning arrived soft and gray, the kind of light that made the streets look washed clean but heavy with chill. Wanda pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, stepping out into the cool air. The city had begun to wake, the sound of clattering delivery trucks, the smell of fresh bread from a nearby bakery, the faint chatter of shopkeepers sweeping their thresholds.

And behind her, as always, came the shadow.

Natalia walked with her usual measured stride, half a step behind, hands tucked into the pockets of her leather jacket. No words at first. Just the rhythm of their steps against the pavement, the faint jingle of the keys at Natalia’s hip, the echo of boots following close but never too close.

Wanda tried to ignore her. She told herself that she didn’t care, that she didn’t need someone looming behind her like a silent warden, but after last night, the air between them had changed. It wasn’t exactly peace. But it wasn’t war, either.

“So,” Wanda said after a long silence, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You always this cheerful in the morning?”

Natalia’s tone was dry. “You haven’t seen me before coffee.”

Wanda smirked, glancing back. “That sounds like a threat.”

“Observation,” Natalia corrected.

They walked past a small fruit stand, the scent of ripe peaches in the cool air. Wanda slowed, eyeing the display, letting her fingers brush over the skin of a few apples before picking one up.

“Can I?” she asked, lifting it toward Natalia with a mock-innocent look.

“You can,” Natalia said, “if you’re paying for it.”

Wanda rolled her eyes. “So practical. You’d make a terrible date.”

“Good thing this isn’t one.”

That made Wanda laugh, a soft sound she hadn’t expected from herself. It came out unguarded, a real laugh, and it startled her almost as much as it seemed to surprise Natalia. The Widow’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile, before she looked away, pretending to study the street ahead.

Wanda caught it, though. She saw that flicker of warmth, brief but real, and it made something in her chest tighten in a way she didn’t like admitting to.

They continued down the street, the conversation light, wandering. Wanda found herself talking about the market, the people she used to visit here, the tiny coffee shop that made the best cakes in the district. Natalia didn’t say much, but she listened. She always did. Every word seemed to go somewhere, nothing escaped her.

When they reached a small boutique, Wanda paused. “Let’s go in here,” she said.

Natalia’s brow rose slightly. “Clothes?”

“Shopping,” Wanda corrected, flashing a sly smile. “Therapy.”

“You don’t need more clothes.”

“I don’t need a babysitter either,” Wanda said sweetly, then pushed open the door. The bell above it chimed as she stepped inside.

Natalia sighed but followed.

The shop was warm, faintly perfumed with lavender and fabric dye. Racks of dresses lined the walls, soft knits, silk, lace. Wanda moved between them with practiced ease, fingers grazing the fabrics, eyes sharp. Shopping had always been her way of reclaiming something, control, beauty, distraction.

She pulled a red dress from a rack, holding it against her body in the mirror. “What do you think?”

Natalia leaned against a nearby display, crossing her arms. “You’d stand out.”

“That’s the point,” Wanda said, turning slightly. “You don’t think red suits me?”

Natalia’s eyes flicked over her, not slow, not overt, but focused. Calculating, perhaps. “It suits you fine,” she said finally.

Wanda smiled, the corner of her mouth curling. “Fine? Not exactly high praise, Widow.”

“I’m not a poet.”

“No,” Wanda said lightly, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “But you do look.”

Natalia didn’t deny it. She said nothing, and that was enough.

Wanda hung the dress over her arm, wandering deeper into the shop. She found herself watching the Widow now, noticing the way Natalia’s gaze followed her, not constantly, not in the way men looked, but in sharp glances, brief and precise, like she was assessing more than admiring.

Still, Wanda could use that.

She bent down to pick up a scarf that had fallen to the floor, taking her time as she rose, the movement unhurried. When she glanced up, she caught it again, Natalia’s eyes flicking away a second too late.

Got you, Wanda thought.

She smirked, hiding it by pretending to examine a necklace on display.

They spent longer in the shop than she expected. Natalia didn’t complain. She even helped carry a few bags when they left, the plastic handles digging into her gloved hands without a word. It wasn’t what Wanda expected, the stoic soldier, quietly following her through aisles of dresses and perfume. It was strange, almost amusing.

“You looked bored back there,” Wanda said as they walked toward the car.

Natalia shrugged. “Not my kind of place.”

“And what is your kind of place?” Wanda asked.

Natalia’s mouth quirked faintly. “Somewhere quieter.”

“Or somewhere with danger.”

“That too.”

Wanda smiled, sidestepping a puddle. “You should loosen up. Shopping can be dangerous. Especially for wallets.”

Natalia gave a soft exhale that might have been a laugh. It was enough. They stopped near a café, the smell of coffee wafting through the air. Wanda glanced back at her, eyes playful. “You know, you almost smiled just now. Careful. People might think you’re human.”

Natalia raised an eyebrow. “You’re observant today.”

“I like seeing cracks in the armor,” Wanda teased. “Makes me feel less alone.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, and for a second, neither of them said anything. The air between them shifted, not awkward, just… heavier. Realer.

Then Natalia said quietly, “You’re not alone.”

Wanda blinked, surprised. She wanted to laugh it off, make another quip, but the look on Natalia’s face stopped her. It was steady, unreadable, yet strangely sincere.

So instead, Wanda said softly, “We’ll see.”

As they reached the car, she leaned over, deliberately close, tossing her bags into the backseat. She could feel Natalia’s gaze again, that steady, assessing stare and she smiled to herself as she straightened.

This might just become easier than I thought.

The morning sun caught in the Widow’s hair, turning it a copper flame. Wanda slipped into the driver’s seat, smirk tugging at her lips, the faintest tremor of warmth in her chest that she didn’t want to name.

For now, she decided, she’d let herself enjoy the game.

That night, Wanda’s place grew quiet, far too quiet. Silence pressed in through the hallways like fog, broken only by the dull tick of the clock in the corner of Wanda’s room. The storm of dinner had finally passed: Pietro’s voice still echoed in her head, sharp and cold, the sting of his words clinging like ash.

She had sat through it, eyes on her plate, nodding when he spoke, biting her tongue until she tasted blood. When he’d dismissed her, she’d walked away without a word, back straight, face blank, the practiced performance of a woman who refused to break in front of him.

But once the door closed behind her, her hands began to shake.

The bottle had been waiting. Hidden behind her wardrobe since the week before, a cheap Eastern European vodka that burned going down but numbed everything it touched. She poured a glass, then another, and before long, she stopped bothering with the glass at all.

By the time Natalia found her, the room smelled faintly of alcohol and smoke from the candle burning low on the table. Wanda sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet against the rug, her hair messy, her silk blouse unbuttoned at the top.

The Widow leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “That’s your fourth glass,” she said.

Wanda turned her head lazily, a faint smile curving her lips. “Counting now, are we?”

“Someone has to.” Natalia’s voice was even, but her eyes softened for just a moment. “He got to you again.”

Wanda scoffed, tipping the bottle slightly toward her. “He always gets to me. That’s his favorite pastime. Drink?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” She took another swallow, winced, then let the bottle dangle from her fingertips. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

Natalia stepped forward, boots quiet on the carpet. “Fun isn’t part of my job description.”

“What is your job description?” Wanda asked, tilting her head. “Protecting me from assassins or from myself?”

“Both, apparently.”

Wanda laughed a short, bitter laugh. “Then you’re failing. I’m very good at self-destruction.”

Natalia’s hand darted out, taking the bottle from her before Wanda could react. She didn’t yank it, she just took it, with a calm authority that made it seem pointless to resist. She unscrewed the cap and took a long drink herself.

Wanda blinked. “You do drink.”

“Sometimes,” Natalia said, lowering the bottle. “But not to forget.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes. “That’s the only reason to drink.”

Natalia didn’t answer. She moved toward the small window, looking out at the dim city lights below. Her profile was sharp in the glow of the candle — jaw set, eyes distant. Wanda watched her for a moment, the curve of her neck, the ink that traced her arm like dark vines under the sleeve of her tank top.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Wanda murmured.

Natalia turned her head slightly. “And you’re drunk.”

“Maybe,” Wanda said, shrugging, “but at least I’m honest when I am.”

“That’s not honesty,” Natalia replied. “It’s noise.”

Wanda pouted, leaning back on her hands. “You really know how to ruin a mood.”

“I’m not here to build one.”

“Right. You’re here to guard me. To watch me.” Wanda’s eyes flicked to her, half-lidded and teasing. “You do a lot of watching, don’t you?”

Natalia met her gaze evenly. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Wanda smirked. “Neither are you.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them — the soft hum of the city beyond the glass, the faint flicker of the candle. The air felt thick, charged with something Wanda didn’t have the courage to name.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You know,” she said quietly, “you could sit. I don’t bite.”

“I know.”

“So sit.”

Natalia hesitated, then finally crossed the room and lowered herself into the chair opposite Wanda’s bed. The bottle rested loosely in her hand.

Wanda smiled faintly. “Progress. The Widow does know how to relax.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Natalia said, but her tone was softer now.

Wanda studied her, the way the candlelight caught in the red strands of her hair, the line of her throat as she swallowed another small sip. She wondered what it would take to make this woman really laugh, to shatter that cool veneer for even a heartbeat.

“So,” Wanda said, voice slow and slightly slurred, “tell me something. Anything. You never talk.”

“I talk when I need to.”

“That’s boring.” Wanda’s lips curved in a crooked grin. “Tell me something real.”

Natalia’s gaze dropped to the floor. For a long time, she didn’t speak. Then she said quietly, “Real isn’t always safe.”

Wanda leaned closer, her breath warm with vodka. “Neither am I.”

Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the air felt dangerous again, not with violence, but something heavier. Natalia set the bottle down on the floor, the soft clink of glass breaking the tension. “You should sleep.”

“You didn’t answer me,” Wanda said, her voice soft now. “I asked for something real.”

Natalia exhaled slowly. “You wouldn’t want my real.”

Wanda tilted her head, watching her. “Try me.”

Natalia looked at her, really looked at her. Then she said, “When I was your age, I stopped believing people could be saved.”

It wasn’t said with bitterness. Just quiet certainty. Wanda frowned, trying to read her. “And now?”

“I still don’t.”

That silence again, sharp, but honest. Wanda smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re full of sunshine.”

Natalia’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Go to bed, Pet.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

Wanda huffed, leaning back and curling up against the headboard. Her eyelids were heavy, the alcohol pulling at her. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re drunk.”

“Then we’re even.” Natalia shook her head slightly, picking up the bottle once more and setting it on the dresser, well out of reach. She lingered there, watching until Wanda’s eyes began to flutter shut.

“Goodnight,” Natalia said quietly.

“Mm,” Wanda murmured, half-asleep already. “You’re still no fun…”

A faint smile ghosted over Natalia’s face — the kind only seen by the dark.

“Sleep, Wanda.”

Outside, the night deepened, pressing against the windows. Inside, the candle burned low, its light catching on the red strands of Natalia’s hair as she sat in the chair by the bed, watching, silent, steadfast.

And though Wanda would never admit it, she slept easier with the Widow in the room.