The Psychology of Love and Serial Killers

by thewitchandtheassassin

Summary:

When psychologist, Dr. Wanda Maximoff, is handed a case involving a prolific serial killer and an unknown number of victims, she takes it as a challenge... but is the good doctor in over her head when she realizes they might not be so different after all?

Notes:

This is part one of god knows how many. We're gonna have a good time. Every chapter after should be longer. This is just a starter.

I decided to make this its own story because it's gonna be some parts.

Chapter 1

The room was dimly lit, the bluish flicker of the projector and a single, softly glowing lamp the only sources of light in the room, their glow casting shadows that danced across Wanda’s face as she stared at the ever-changing images on the screen. She was sat forward in an old, worn chair—hers, or at least the one she’d often claimed for herself when she was contacted for situations like this. Hands steepled beneath her chin, she glanced at the file on the table in front of her; the same one she’d been staring at for the last three days.

Case file: (Y/L/N), (Y/N). Suspect Age: 20s to 30s. Gender: Female. Body Count: 10 (Confirmed), more suspected. All male. Preferred Method: Knife.

The projector whirred. On screen, a grainy black-and-white image showed you—cuffed, expression unreadable, leaning back in a chair like you were lounging at a party instead of being processed at Quantico. The agents were visibly furious by your lack of cooperation as you stared through them, like they were invisible—or not worth your time.

You never spoke a word during intake. Face impassive… cold. Like it was beneath you. Not reacting when one of the agents threw a pen after twenty minutes of silence and stormed out of the room. Not a single flicker of recognition, even as Agent Rumlow’s face was mere inches from yours as he screamed.

Wanda hit rewind, then play.

There it was again—the look. That flicker in your eye. Not defiance. Not boredom. Something… performative. Calculated. Like you were playing a role no one else had quite caught on to. An unspoken taunt as you waited for the next person to give up and storm away.

Another screen showed crime scene photographs. A man—early 40s, priest collar still intact—slumped in front of a marble altar. His eyes had been closed post-mortem. Peaceful, almost reverent… if not for the clean line across his neck, ear to ear, and a black rose petal stuffed into the bloodied line.

Wanda’s throat tightened.

Victim #6: Father Donovan. Location: St. Cecilia’s Cathedral. Means of Death: Single slice across the throat. Time of Death: 3:14 AM.

Wanda reached for the evidence photo again. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she let it out through her nose, eyes scanning every piece of information documented from the crime scenes—all with one common theme.

“Why?” she whispered into the silence of the room. “Why only men?”

Flipping through the photos once more, she chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully as she took in the scenes surrounding the body. Not the men—where they were placed. How clean the scenes had been left. The lack of fury… only showmanship.

“She's not psychotic,” she murmured, more to herself than the recorder on the table. “Not delusional. Too precise. Too... theatrical.”

She clicked open the audio logs next—

[Audio Interview—Day 2]

Agent Barton: “Is there a reason you chose public spaces for the bodies, Ms. (Y/N)? Do they hold some significant meaning to you?

You: silence .

Agent Barton: “Some of them had children. One had a wife.”

You: silence, quiet exhale.

Agent Barton: “You’re not going to talk to me, are you?”

You: silence .

Agent Barton: “Let the record show the suspect has been staring at the same point behind me on the wall for the last thirty minutes… I don’t know what fucking else to do.”

[Audio Interview—Day 10]

Agent Romanoff: “You’ve been here for ten days and not a single person has heard you speak… it’s time to give us something, (Y/N). You don’t want to see what happens when people like you get stuck in general population. We’ve been nice, keeping you separate. That can change.”

You: silence.

Agent Romanoff: “Do you think this is funny, (Y/L/N)? That this is all just one big game?

You: “…are you afraid I think this is a game? Or are you afraid that I’m winning, agent?”

Wanda’s breath hitched at the sound of your voice for the first time, pausing the audio tape. Low. Calm. Confident. Not mocking—a simple question and yet, it made Wanda’s heart pound in her chest for a moment. Like every inflection was handpicked from a dark romance book she’d read in the dark and swear she’d never heard of come morning.

Exhaling softly, she flipped the projector off and stared at the now-darkened screen for a moment. Tomorrow… tomorrow would be her first moments with you. Acting as the bureau’s psychologist in hopes of cracking you open. To learn your secrets and uncover the bodies you’d hidden beneath the bones of your choices. She was meant to profile you—learn every twisted, fucked-up inch of your soul—so she could present it to the agents and lawyers who wanted nothing more than to see you in the chair.

But all she could think was:

“…I want to understand you.”

-X-

The interview room smelled like old paint and disinfectant. It was small—deliberately so. The kind of space designed to strip down defenses. One table, two chairs. A single camera already recording in the corner of the room, the little red light blinking as it pointed at you. You were alone in the room, hands cuffed to the table, feet chained to your chair, but you didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a word, even as the door swung open.

Wanda stepped in slowly, a manila folder clutched loosely in one hand, the other sliding the door shut with a soft click. She was alone, but you both knew there were at least four agents on the other side of the two-way mirror just waiting for you to fuck up.

Her heels were simple and understated, a matte black that seemed befit a psychologist and not a federal liaison meant to pick you apart. Her blouse was a matching black, sleeves rolled up just below the elbows. Professional enough, but meant to be casual in hopes of putting you at ease. But her eyes gave her away—the kind of too-long stare that didn’t come from curiosity, but fixation. She wasn’t just studying you…

She was absorbing you. Every micro-expression, every tick of your jaw and twitch of your mouth.

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N)… I think I’ve watched you on tape more than I’ve watched my own family’s home videos.” She smiled, but it was cool. Brittle. Like she wanted you at ease but couldn’t quite bring herself to smile at a murderer with the same kindness she would a stranger. “I’m Doctor Maximoff, psychologist for the bureau.”

Settling into the chair across from you, she placed the folder on the table but didn’t open it, choosing to keep her eyes trained on you. “You don’t speak to men… and you’ve only said a few words to Agent Romanoff. Staying quiet even when someone is inches from your face screaming… I’ve seen people break from less.”

She folded her hands together, looking at you thoughtfully. “You’ve kept quiet for a long time but… I’d like it if you spoke to me.”

Your head tilted, the tip of your tongue peeking out from behind your teeth as you slowly ran it along your bottom lip and for a moment, she didn’t expect you to speak—even as her eyes followed the slow movement of your tongue—before you asked quietly, “That so, doctor?”

And Wanda’s grin deepened into something genuine as she watched you. “Yes. Because I don’t want to ask why. That’s too easy…”

She leaned forward slightly, letting her eyes trail over you slowly. “No, (Y/N)… I want to understand everything. From the beginning. Why you chose the victims, why you sit here acting like this is all an inconvenience… I want to know the woman beneath the blood.”

Locking eyes with her, an eerie smile passed over your lips and both of you knew, in that moment—

Nothing was ever going to be the same.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Dr. Maximoff wants to understand you--and understands some things about herself in return.

Notes:

Warnings: Language, mentions of death, vague allusions to child abuse, violence, murder

A/N: Part two of our lovely psychologist we all love and adore and god, I love this story so much already.

The next time you had the pleasure of seeing Dr. Maximoff was a few days later. You thought it might be Monday? Maybe Tuesday? Time was a blur behind those walls and you had grown tired of counting the days.

But it wasn’t in the way you had expected.

When Agent Rumlow had come to collect you from your cell, it hadn’t been to escort you further into the maximum security facility again—shoving you in Interview Room A—but instead, he tossed you a pair of flip flops before dragging you outside by your cuffs. Tossing you into a van, he glared at you silently as two other agents joined you—Agent Ward and Agent Barton, if you remembered correctly—like he was waiting for you to flinch. To give him a reason to put a bullet in your skull and call it justice.

The ride was long and quiet, the agents in the van keeping watch for a single twitch. Like they expected you to lash out and murder them in cold blood…

Clearly your message was lost on them.

Eventually, the van doors creaked open, and cool morning air rushed in, mixing the sharp scent of rusted metal and early spring rain. It had poured last night and now the world looked freshly washed—clean—even among the shattered glass and faded graffiti of the abandoned church on Monroe Street.

Agent Ward and Barton flanked you, both tense despite the restraints on your wrists. Wanda stood a few steps ahead of you, staring at the decrepit house of worship like it was a puzzle piece for an image only you and her seemed to understand.

“This one,” she said quietly, barely turning her head toward you, “was left kneeling in front of the altar, wasn’t he?”

She had no file in her hand, no notepad to document your response. She must’ve looked over this crime scene half a dozen times in the photos, studying the case notes like they were biblical. It was clear, whatever was happening here, wasn’t meant for her analysis. She wanted to feel the moment for what it was—a peek into your mind.

The agents exchanged wary glances, hands still lingering near their weapons, but Wanda ignored them, her attention solely on you.

She finally turned, eyes sweeping over you thoughtfully. “I want you to show me. All of it. Walk me through what happened here. What you saw. What you felt. What he felt.”

You looked at her for a moment, lifting your hands with a chuckle. “Does that require these to stay on? I promise I’ll be good, doctor,” you purred, flexing your fingers pointedly.

Wanda smirked, tugging at your cuffs slightly as she looked you over thoughtfully. “They believe you’re less dangerous in those… but you’re not. You could kill a man in seconds with or without these, couldn’t you?”

“Yes,” you admitted with a shrug. As if this were a normal admittance to make in front of armed agents who were already itching to put a bullet between your eyes.

Agent Barton’s hand twitched around his gun but Wanda waved him off, gesturing at your cuffs, “Take them off her.”

Stunned, Barton’s head tilted in confusion. “Dr. Maximoff, that’s—”

“She won’t hurt me,” Wanda said with certainty, studying you. “Take them off and give us some space.”

Agent Barton hesitated for a moment before he warily reached out and grabbed your cuffs, popping them open. He didn’t speak as you rubbed the raw skin left visible to the naked eye—or the way Wanda reached out to grasp your arm as she led you into the church. Her grip wasn’t harsh—wasn’t as if she was expecting you to make a run for it. No, there was something almost… gentle about her touch.

It was the first real kindness you’d been presented with since your capture.

“Did you ever look into the “victims”, Dr. Maximoff, or did you decide my actions were damnable without due diligence like your colleagues?” you asked curiously, following her inside. “When I asked Agent Romanoff, she told me this wasn’t about them—it was about my actions.”

You smirked, tilting your head as you wandered towards the sanctuary.

“But isn’t it about them too? Why I chose them and not some random asshole on the street?”

Stepping into the grand—albeit crumbling—cathedral of the old church, you peered around at the old blood smears on the faded carpet and the tapestry hanging above the baptismal.

“So your victims weren’t random,” Wanda hummed, as though she’d suspected as much but you’d confirmed it for her. “Interesting.”

You glanced over your shoulder at her. “You don’t seem surprised, doctor.”

“I’m not,” she admitted with a breathy noise that almost could’ve been considered a laugh, though it was evident she was attempting to remain somewhat professional. “I read about what was done to Father Lundy. Left at his pulpit for morning mass to find him—but his wounds were clean. Very little blood, almost no rage. Just a simple execution. Why is that?”

“His congregation—the ones who protected him, called him a good man—needed to see what the fruits of their labor brought.”

Wanda paused, watching you thoughtfully as you strolled over to the pulpit, dragging your fingers languidly over the wood. “Protected him? From what?”

“Consequences, doctor,” you smirked, arching a brow. “Ooh, you really haven’t done much research yet. That’s truly a shame. It’s amazing what you’d find out about those men. All their nasty little secrets that somehow just…” you spread your fingers like an explosion, a pop escaping your mouth. “Disappeared.”

Stepping closer, Wanda stared at the stains of crimson that had long turned dark on the floor. “All of your victims were all trusted men. Beloved. Men who were supposed to protect the innocent. And yet you left them like offerings. Parks, churches, one outside of the library…”

Her brows furrowed in consideration, like she needed to believe you weren't killing for the thrill of it all—but for a deeper reason. For something far more righteous. Or maybe profane.

She hadn’t decided yet.

“They didn’t die for nothing, did they?”

You snapped your fingers with a grin. “Bingo, doctor. Now you’re catching on. Every single one of them did unforgivable things. And I… simply corrected what the system didn’t. I just… unmasked them for the world to see the truth. No one is exempt from consequences.”

Pressing her tongue against the back of her teeth for a moment, Wanda studied you. “Did you enjoy it? Killing them?”

Tapping your finger against your chin almost mockingly, you chuckled. “That, my dear doctor, is a loaded question. Do I enjoy the act of murder? No. Was it satisfying to see them on their knees, begging for mercy? Confessing their sins? You have no idea.”

Wanda’s eyes darkened fractionally. Like your words had anchored deep into her chest, even if she refused to acknowledge it. That your conviction left something within her soul…

Shifting.

“Show me how you did it,” she instructed, voice wavering just slightly. “Walk me through it. Every action. Every word. I want the picture of what happened here. Of what he looked like when he realized you weren’t here to confess your own sins.”

Exhaling softly, you strolled around the room like you were stepping back in time, dragging your fingers along the pews languidly. “He was my third. I’d heard rumors—whispers about what he’d done to the people in his congregation—so I planned. Watched. Joined the Sunday morning crowd a few times just to watch him.”

You sneered in disgust.

“And what I saw were dozens of people covering up his indiscretions. So I came back one evening, joined him for confession. But when I started asking about the rumors, well… turns out Father Lundy didn’t appreciate my questions.”

Wandering back to the pulpit, you stared up at the cracked stain glass window on the back wall.

“People often run when they’re confronted with what they’ve done if they’re guilty. And he certainly tried to run.”

You remembered the way his feet pounded against the carpeted floor as he’d run, the way he begged for your mercy—

“I’m not the one you should be asking for forgiveness,” you’d muttered, standing behind him as he kneeled in front of the pulpit, a knife pressed between his shoulders. “You hurt all of those innocent lives and yet you stood at your podium and spoke of sins and righteousness.”

The blade slipped a little farther into his skin—just enough to sting—as you leaned down and whispered, “Wasn’t one of your sermons about ‘actions having consequences’? Well, sir… I’m your consequence.”

You stood tall. “Beg Him for forgiveness… confess to your crimes. There’s no one here to save you now… and there’s no one to lie to.”

And he had.

Confessed to every vile, impure thing he’d done. Every act he and his congregation had covered up while sniveling like a pathetic child. It had been cathartic—but not enough. It wasn’t enough until his blood was spilt across the floor and left slumped in front of his pulpit, hands clasped in a long-silenced prayer.

“And they were all like him?” Wanda asked curiously, running her hand along the wooden top where notes once rested. “Monsters in plain sight?”

You hummed in affirmation. “Mhm. I always found it amusing they closed the church after they found his body. I wondered how many of them expected they’d be next.”

“Agent Barton and Romanoff believe you’re a narcissist—killing for your own pleasure because it gives you a thrill—but that’s not the case, is it?” Wanda stepped closer, hand almost grazing your back as she really looked at you. “When’s the last time you slept through the night, (Y/N)? When was the last time you slept without seeing their faces behind your eyes?”

Smiling bitterly, you glanced at Wanda and shrugged. “Years, I suppose. That’s the thing about this, Dr. Maximoff… if one becomes a monster to fight other monsters, are they truly evil? If one monster kills five… ten… twenty… aren’t there technically less monsters in the world? I lose sleep to do what must be done because no one else will. I give their victims the justice no one else did. I dragged their monsters into the light so they’d be able to stop worrying about the creatures in the closet.”

In that moment, she hated that she understood you. Understood the rage of watching horrid people do despicable things without fear of judgment because they knew the world would never stop them. Hated that some piece of her wanted to let you continue what you’d started—wanted to know what their blood felt like in her own hands.

She’d seen it in Sokovia, long ago, when the leaders of their country watched their country burn and did nothing to stop it. That her parents died for a war they never wanted to be a part of.

Swallowing, Wanda forced words she didn’t quite believe from her mouth, the usual script playing in her head even as she mentally watched the papers begin to catch fire, “It’s not your place to decide what’s a death sentence. You don’t get to become judge, jury and executioner, even—”

“Even when the courts won’t? Doctor, every single man I killed got away with his crimes because someone was easily bribed or too stupid to see a repeated pattern but I’m the one who’s wrong for stopping them? They break the rules and they’re still considered heroes. I do it and I become a monster. Hardly seems fair.”

You stepped away from Wanda, your expression twisting into something emotionless and cold. Whatever connection that had been forming severed in an instant and fuck, did Wanda feel the band snap like a slap to the face.

“I believe we’re done here, doctor. I’d like to go back to my cell now.”

She opened her mouth, but you turned away, heading for the front door of the church. Frustrated and thoroughly done with your walk down memory lane. The first time someone seemed to understand and yet—

She didn’t… not now, anyways.

But she would. You’d make sure she did. One way or another. Because the darkness that lingered in your bones had long settled in hers…

She just hadn’t acknowledged it.

Yet.

Chapter 3

Summary:

Wanda's falling further and further down the rabbit hole and can't seem to find the bottom.

That night, Wanda found herself sitting on the floor in front of her coffee table, files spread across every inch of the wood as she studied your case. Not how you’d killed them but the “victims” themselves.

Father Roger Lundy—53, male, throat slit, left in front of pulpit.

Christopher Allen—48, male, throat slit, left on merry-go-round.

Bronson Trent—31, male, throat slit, left at library.

Father Eric Donovan—62, male, throat slit, left in confessional box.

She typed the names into her laptop, searching. Not for their deaths but for their lives. Their redacted or expunged records. The reasons as to why they’d found themselves in your hands.

And what she found disgusted her.

Dozens of accusations against Father Lundy from the youth of his church that the congregation hid. Christopher was no better, having nearly thirty charges against him that were mysteriously wiped away and redacted but it didn’t take much skill to unearth the truth.

Fuck, she wasn’t lying, Wanda mused, skimming through the stacks of paperwork she’d uncovered over the last few hours. It would have been easier if you had been. If she could blame it on narcissism or lies or…

“Fuck, what am I doing?” she whispered to herself, rubbing circles along her temples as she tried to force the images from her mind. Tried to replace their crimes with yours, if only to make her professionalism easier.

Her next interview with you had already been approved. Friday morning—

“Keep your distance,” Maria had warned when she approved the request after you’d been returned from your excursion to the church. “She’s not your friend, Maximoff.”

“I know that,” Wanda had said, though she wasn’t sure what she truly believed anymore. And now, staring at the paperwork…

She wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have done the same damn things if she’d been in your shoes.

-X-

Two days later, the walk to your usual interrogation room seemed longer than usual. Maybe because some part of her was aching to see you again. Maybe because she could feel the tension permeating the halls, like an itch between her shoulder blades.

She bypassed the front desk with a flash of her ID, heels clicking softly against polished tile.

Interview Room 6.

Outside the door, Agent Rumlow leaned against the wall with all the smug assurance of a man who’d already decided he knew exactly how this was going to end and that Wanda’s services wouldn’t be required today. Across from him, Agent Ward paced slowly, flipping through a notepad like he gave a damn about subtlety.

“Maximoff,” Rumlow greeted, drawling her name like it was a joke. “You’re early. Or maybe… optimistic?”

Wanda’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I have a session scheduled.”

“Had,” Ward corrected, not looking up from his notes. “Director changed the plan.”

Wanda’s jaw tensed.

“Why?”

Rumlow pushed off the wall, folding his arms with exaggerated calm.

“Let’s just say we’re curious. You got her talking the last few times you were here—good for you. Now we’re wondering if she’s warmed up enough for real questions. Especially if she thinks she’ll see you after.”

Wanda’s eyes narrowed in silent infuriation. “You think she talked to me because I pushed her? She gave me something because she chose to.”

Ward finally looked up, smirking. “Exactly. Which is why we want to see if that door’s open for anyone now. You soften her up, we crack her open.”

Wanda’s silence was louder than any comeback. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, hidden by the hem of her coat. From behind the one-way glass, the light in the interrogation room flickered faintly.

She could see you. Hands cuffed to the table again. Looking utterly amused and unfazed by the inevitable mayhem.

Ward stepped inside first, with Brock hot on his heels, and the door sealed behind them with a firm click.

And Wanda was left standing in front of the one-way window, heart thudding against her ribs like a caged animal. Watching. Waiting.

As something sharp and ugly began to coil in her gut. Because you had spoken to her—

And now they were going to ruin that.

You didn’t say a word as they strolled into the room, staring through them like they were made of glass. Beneath you; not worth your time or effort.

The silence in the room was thick with disdain on both sides, Rumlow snagging the chair reserved for Wanda, legs splayed wide in a way that could only be described as ‘manspreading’, as if he meant to intimidate you or throw his proverbial power around like it was earned.

Ward, more refined but just as smirking, folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

“We know you can talk,” he said lightly, like it was some inside joke. “You’ve had such nice conversations with the good doctor.”

Rumlow grinned.

“Don’t be shy now. She already cracked the ice, sweetheart. Why not let us take it from here?”

You didn’t flinch; didn’t move. You just watched them as if they were ants you were considering crushing beneath your boot.

Wanda, on the other side of the mirror, barely breathed. Her hands were balled at her sides, nails biting into her palm.

They’re going to ruin everything.

Rumlow’s smile faltered, just slightly but Ward picked up the slack, eyeing you with faux sympathy.

“We’re not the enemy here. We want to understand. That’s all.”

Still, you were blank faced, barely blinking as your eyes remained trained on the glass behind them.

The moment stretched, a brutal game of chicken.

Ward tried again. “Let’s talk about Father Lundy. Or what about the kid? The one you saved?”

No reaction.

Brock leaned forward, arms on the table, “look, we—“

“Agent Brock Lee Rumlow, formerly a beat cop who got pulled for assaulting an innocent woman at a routine stop for “suspected drugs” when in reality, you were collared for being upset she wouldn’t sleep with you as a bribe to make her ticket go away. Agent Grant Aaron Ward, ex-military turned bureau dog because your father is a senior agent," you recited their information to them with a cold, blank stare. “Failed your exams but your application was mysteriously ‘pushed through’.”

Rumlow’s smirk cracked like glass under pressure and Ward’s brow twitched, just slightly, like a muscle spasm born from surprise. For a moment, the entire room froze—like the air had been sucked out, and all that remained was your voice—your accusations—still echoing off the walls.

Rumlow leaned forward, jaw tight. “You think you know something about me, freak?”

You tilted your head just enough to make it a taunt without lifting a finger.

Ward raised a hand toward Rumlow like he was calming a spooked dog.

“Let it go,” he muttered, eyes fixed on you now, cooler but far more calculating. “You’ve done your research. Great. That means you know how this ends, too. You rot in a box, and we write the ending.”

Behind the glass, Wanda was smiling now—but not out of joy.

It was sick, twisted pride. You weren’t rattled by their posturing. You were thriving under their fury, like a predator circling a wounded gazelle. Teeth bared and they didn’t even realize they were in trouble until your mouth sunk into their throats.

The door to the observation room opened behind her—Agent Hill, watching her silently. “Director says give them ten more minutes.”

Wanda didn’t look back. “They won’t need ten.”

Inside the room, Rumlow pushed his chair back with a snarl, the sound scraping violently against the floor. “You’re just playing games.”

“I have been this whole time, you misogynistic Neanderthal. You just haven’t caught on that I’m smarter than you because while you’ve been learning the rules of checkers, I’ve already played three games of chess… and won.”

Rumlow lunged across the table at you—fists clenched, face flushed—but Ward caught his arm, yanking him back with a hissed:

“Don’t. That’s exactly what she wants.”

What truly infuriated him was that you didn’t move. Not a flinch, even as his hands were inches from your face as you stared him down like he disgusted you.

Behind the glass, Wanda covered her mouth with the back of her hand—not in horror, but in awe. That sharp, wicked awe that blooms only when someone sees art where everyone else sees splattered colors on a canvas.

Ward dusted off his pants like the conversation had left dirt on him. “We’re done here.”

Rumlow was still fuming, but silent now. A beast without claws, licking at his injured pride.

As they turned to leave, Ward paused at the door, giving you one last look—cold and clinical. “You think you’ve won, but you’re still the one in cuffs.”

Then they were gone.

And almost instantly, the door reopened as Wanda stepped into the room, eyeing you with something that bordered on want, even if she couldn’t admit it to herself. Watching you keep your unwavering calm beneath their goading?

It left her aching in a way she’d never expected.

“You didn’t talk to them.” A pause. Then, softer, with a knowing smile curling at the corner of her mouth:

“You saved it for me.”

Your eyes met hers and for a moment, she thought you’d give her the same cold stare you’d offered Brock and Grant, but as your expression softened, her heart thumped painfully in her chest.

“Good morning, doctor,” you murmured, smiling faintly.

She had prepared herself for silence, maybe even scorn, but the softness in your voice—measured, deliberate—slipped past every wall she’d put up on the walk to this room.

“Good morning.”

Her voice was quiet, but there was something trembling underneath it. Something hungry.

She took her seat slowly, not breaking eye contact. Exhaling, she pressed her palms flat on the table. “They’ll file their report. Blame your lack of cooperation on attitude or mental state. They won’t know it was because you were bored.”

Wanda leaned in slightly.

“But you’ll talk to me… why?” The question should’ve been clinical, but it wasn’t. Not as her voice cracked slightly.

This answer? It meant something—even if she didn’t want it to.

"Doctor Wanda Django Maximoff, twin sister of Special Agent Pietro Django Maximoff. Middle names both come from your father—Sokovian tradition, I suspect. You came here as children due to the extreme violence in Sokovia during the wars, both of you choosing law enforcement but different paths. He was shot two years ago in a standoff. Survived but is paralyzed from the waist down. On permanent desk duty these days."

Wanda’s breath caught so sharply it was almost a gasp. You had just peeled her open like a letter never meant to be read. Her throat worked around the lump forming there—part shock, part something far more intimate.

“How did you—?”

You tilted your head slightly, smiling. "You've served in several cases over the last ten years, most involving monsters—helping to put them away... a practicing psychologist but you tend to prefer crime to clinics.”

Her fingers were trembling faintly now, and she folded them together to still them. She tried to hold your gaze, but it was different now—not clinical. Not feigned detachment.

It was intimate. Vulnerable. Drawn to you like a moth too close to a bonfire.

“Is that why you spoke to me?” Her voice was lower now, like something private being shared in the dark. “Because I’m not afraid of what you are?”

“I learn a lot about the things I find… fascinating, Dr. Maximoff. I know plenty about the bureau but you are the most interesting thing I’ve studied in a long time.”

Wanda inhaled sharply, the sound of her name on your tongue sending an unwelcome tremble down her spine. She shouldn’t enjoy this—shouldn’t care that you find her fascinating and yet…

“Tell me more… what else you see…” she was almost breathless and she hated herself for it.

You leaned forward with a faint smirk. "You both survived a war no children should be a part of and instead of letting it make you hard, you decided to go into this life. Helping put rapists, murderers, monsters away. But I think, doctor... the more you see, the more you become like me. Disillusioned, angry... ravenous. And I think—“ your voice dropped lower, “—if you could’ve… you would have been just… like… me.”

You leaned back in your seat once more, hands flexing against the cuffs. “And when you’re ready to admit it to yourself, doctor… come see me again.”

Chapter 4

Summary:

A riot puts the two of you closer together than anticipated.

Wanda knew the moment she walked into the floor that housed your usual interview room that something was terribly wrong. She’d swiped her keycard through its usual reader, granting access to the wing, but as she approached the hallway leading towards interrogation, everything began to sound hectic.

Echoes bounced off concrete walls as shouts rang out from somewhere down the block—guttural and frantic, not the usual prison din.

“They’re hitting C-Wing. We need backup now!” she heard someone scream before the sound of something metal cut off their next words.

Looking behind her, Wanda could see the ward locked down. There was nowhere to go and there was no easy spot to take shelter or run because the prison housed the worst of the worst offenders—and you were one of the worst.

Wanda broke into a run. By the time she reached the corridor near interrogation, the cells were wide open and emptied. The hallway was thick with tension—and something else. Blood, fresh and acrid. Two bodies lay crumpled by the wall, guards by the looks of their uniforms, unmoving and their weapons stripped clean. There was a heavy silence now where violence had just been and the thought crossed Wanda’s mind of, where are they?

And then—

A sharp sound.

Movement from the far end.

Three inmates stepped into the corridor. One was dragging a crowbar, its tip still wet with crimson dripping onto the floor. Another was already smiling—something wrong and too wide in it. The third didn’t smile at all. She just stared at Wanda, like she'd been served up as a gift.

“Look what we got here,” the smiling one muttered.

Wanda took a step back, her breath catching. Her heart was a riot of its own now, crashing against her ribs, screaming run, hide, fight—but her body locked up. Her back pressed against the wall, mouth dry as she glanced between the three of them.

“Hey!”

The clang of metal slamming against the wall sent the three inmates scattering as you stalked down the hall with a pipe in your hand, blood glistening on your knuckles, a bruise already darkening across your cheek.

“She’s fucking off-limits.”

Your legend in the prison had been cemented long before you stepped foot through the corridors and the image of you streaked in blood and furious was a sight that could freeze blood into ice. Maybe you hadn’t killed a woman before but there was no doubt—

If they touched her, they’d be another notch on your kill score.

The one staring at Wanda too intently turned to you, her stolen baton trembling in her hand as she glared at you but the smooth, casual gait of your walk was unnerving at best. You looked like you’d gone to war and were the only one left standing.

“Now, now, no need for inner personal violence. Hela just wants—”

Never pausing, you wrapped your hand around Hela’s throat, easily stopping the baton as she swung it at you. “Do I look like I give a fuck what she wants? Dr. Maximoff is mine. Back. Off.”

Hela struggled beneath the strength of your grip, eyes bulging slightly as you calmly turned to face the other two women.

“Let me make one thing clear—if anything ever happens to Dr. Maximoff while she walks these halls, I will personally disable every single cell in this fucking building and torch it so you all roast in your cages like pigs at a barbecue. Am I clear?”

Yanking Hela around, you slung her into the other two without preamble.

“Make sure everyone knows what I’ve said. Because if you test me…” you trailed off with a terrifyingly cold grin, eyes dark and deadly as you looked between them.

Wanda didn’t speak, eyes on your back like she didn’t know if she should bolt or fall to her knees. She stood behind you, heart hammering, breathing hard—but she didn’t screamed. Didn’t move.

The one who’d been smiling looked at you with genuine fear on her face.

“A-ah, y-yeah. We’ll make sure they know.”

You could see the visible swallow in her throat as she scrambled to her feet, pulling Hela up and dragging her down the corridor and out of sight, the other woman with the crowbar following behind like a scolded child.

Turning to face Wanda, you smiled faintly. You looked criminal but the soft expression you offered her did something strange to her belly. “You alright, doctor?”

Her throat worked once before she nodded, her fingers flexing at her sides as she took in the bruising on your face and the blood on your hands that didn’t seem to bother you in the slightest. Like it was just another day.

“I’m fine,” she said, but the words were breathy and fragile. Not like her usual faux-professionalism. “W-why did you help? You could’ve just… walked away…”

You snorted like that was the most ridiculous idea you’d ever heard, shifting to stand in front of her, bracketing her against the wall with your arms as another group of inmates scrambled past you into a faraway brawl, not sparing you a single glance. Not because they didn’t know who you were—

But because they did.

“I could never leave you to defend yourself in this mess, doctor. I happen to like my time with you. If you were hurt, who knows when I’d get to see you again,” you murmured, voice low and dripping with suggestion.

You stood there for what felt like hours, though it was only minutes. The only sounds shared between you being your breath and hers, her lip trembling slightly as she stared at you. You didn’t need to say anything; you, protecting her when you could’ve been attempting to escape, said it all. Even as the sounds of the riot began to quiet, you didn’t move—didn’t run. You just… stayed.

“You know, love…” you heard her breath hitch at the term of endearment but carried on, “when the guards inevitably storm this hall, they’re less likely to ask questions and more likely to, y’know, put a bullet through my skull. So when they arrive, if you’d like to tell them I was helping and not harming, I’d forever be in your debt.”

You leaned closer, mouth mere inches from hers. “And I promise you—I’m someone you’d like to have power over,” you whispered, eyes flickering between the green of her irises and the soft pink of her lips.

Smirking as you heard the clicks of safeties being shut off, you mockingly lifted your hands. “Now, now… no need for bloodshed. I was helping the good doctor.”

“Step away from Dr. Maximoff!” Rumlow barked and you didn’t have to be looking at him to know he was aiming his rifle at your back.

Chuckling slightly, you took a single step back, only to be stopped as Wanda’s hand wrapped around your wrist and she moved in front of you.

“Stop. Drop your weapons. She’s not a threat.”

Brock scoffed in disbelief, “do you remember what she’s done, Wanda? She’s the biggest threat of them all.”

Agent Romanoff, lingering beside Brock, arched a brow. “What happened, Wanda?” she asked quietly, because she’d never seen Wanda stand between an inmate and a gun.

“(L/N) defended me against three inmates that I helped put here. If she hadn’t stepped in, God only knows what they would’ve done to me—and she stayed with me until you got here. So maybe don’t shoot the woman who protected me when I had nothing on me to defend myself.” Her voice was trembling but not from fear.

No, this was something deeper. Darker and colder, climbing its way up her chest and settling in her throat, like she was daring him to test her.

“Any inmate who leaves their containment during a riot is considered a threat and can—and will—be neutralized appropriately,” Rumlow recited, his gun still aimed in your direction.

“Agent Rumlow, if you continue to level your weapon and it happens to go off, injuring the good doctor… I will gut you from your testicles to your jugular before you can blink,” you chimed in calmly, fingers lacing behind your head, not sparing him a single look because you knew, without needing to see him, that his gun was still raised. “And if you think I’m bluffing, I can assure you—” you glanced over your shoulder at him, eyes calm but deadly. “I’m not.”

“See?! She just threatened a special agent!” he spat, glaring at you, his hand trembling slightly on the gun.

“…because you’re pointing a fucking gun at a civilian, you dumbass,” Agent Romanoff snapped before tugging out her radio. “Hill, we have a situation down here. And surprisingly… it’s not (L/N)’s fault. But you need to get down here fast before Rumlow does something stupid and (L/N) does something worse.”

Rolling your eyes, you dropped an arm and wrapped it around Wanda’s waist, tugging until she was safely hidden by your body, face to face with you once more. Your brow was arched, lips quirked in a humorless smirk.

“Who knew doing the right thing was the wrong choice on my part, doctor.” You chuckled, keeping yourself between him and her, ignoring the way he shouted behind you.

There was a tense silence before—

“What the hell is happening here?!” Agent Hill snapped as she arrived with Agent Barton and Agent Carter in tow. “And why am I hearing that you were aiming a service weapon at a civilian, Rumlow?”

“(L/N) threatened to gut me!”

You hummed. “Only because you were pointing a weapon at the doctor and trembling. If your finger had twitched, you could’ve injured her gravely. Only then would I have gutted you like the pathetic little fish you are,” you offered unhelpfully.

Hill exhaled sharply through her nose, exasperated in a way that sounded like she was fighting a migraine with yours and Brock’s names on it. “Dr. Maximoff, are you okay?” she finally inquired, looking past your shoulder to lock eyes with Wanda.

“I’m fine thanks to (Y/N)… she saved my life, Maria.”

Blue eyes studied Wanda’s expression, trying to detect even the smallest hint of pressure or coercion but finding nothing except resolution.

“…Romanoff, escort (L/N) back to her cell,” Maria finally said, looking at the agent.

“Rules say any inmate that participates in a riot goes to soli—” Rumlow started to protest, but a sharp look from Maria silenced him.

“I know the rules, Rumlow. I wrote half of the damn things. But considering the worst thing she did was threaten you for waving your gun around like it was a goddamn toy, I’m inclined to forgive this sin once.”

Her eyes met yours.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten who you are or what you’ve done but you protected a member of my staff so consider this your one act of forgiveness. Am I clear?”

Tilting your head with a faint smirk, you nodded. “Crystal, Agent Hill.”

She peered at Wanda. “Your interview for the day is canceled. You can reschedule for after this mess is cleared up, okay? Once we get the rest of the inmates back into their cells, I’d like to see you in the director’s office.”

Nodding, Wanda’s eyes flickered up to meet yours. “I’ll help Agent Romanoff escort (L/N) back to her cell and then I’ll be up.”

“That’s not nece—” the expression on Wanda’s face halted Maria’s dismissal and she simply rolled her eyes. “Fine. Maybe if you help, then (L/N) will be less trouble for Romanoff.”

Smirking, you finally turned to face the swarm of guards, offering your wrists almost playfully to Agent Romanoff. “Do go easy on me, Agent… or at least buy me dinner first,” you teased, not flinching when she slapped the cuffs onto you harder than she needed to. “Ooo, how butch… I bet you’re a hit with all the lesbians in a cop bar, aren’t you?”

She jerked on your cuffs and you cackled, following along with Wanda walking beside you. She hated the hot, ugly feeling bubbling in her belly at the sight of you flirting with Natasha, even if she knew—knew without a doubt—that it was just to get under Natasha’s skin.

Fuck, what is happening to me?

Chapter 5

Notes:

Warnings: Mild smut, language, blood and gore near the end.

The mirror in the women’s restroom was cracked.

Possibly from the riot, possibly because of some idiot who just didn’t know how to keep their temper in check. It was thin, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the mark, seeing both sides of herself on each half. She should be furious, wary, disgusted by you and your actions—

But all she could hear was your voice in her ear, asking if she was okay. Your arm around her waist as you pulled her away from Rumlow’s weapon sights. The way you told the inmates she was yours and that you’d destroy the entire prison to keep her from harm.

It shouldn’t have left her stomach burning, but god help her, her panties were drenched and it was genuinely one of the most fucked up situations of her career.

She splashed water across her face, trying to hide the flush of her cheeks and watching the droplets roll down her throat and soak into the collar of her blouse just so. Wanda had been saved before, as a child in Sokovia, by men who thought they understood but were just as invasive and useless as every other person in her life. But this?

This was different—and she hated it.

Hated that she felt safer in the arms of a murderer than she did in a room full of FBI agents.

She gripped the edge of the sink, breathing deeply through her nose. It had been logical to protect you after what had happened. To defend you from the agents as they rounded on you, but logic couldn’t explain away the warmth blossoming in her belly and the way she craved your arm around her again.

The door creaked open behind her and Wanda straightened instantly, eyes flickering to an agent of the bureau she hadn’t cared to learn the name of.

“Debrief room is available. Assistant Director Hill is requesting your presence. Now.”

-X-

Hill sat at the end of a long table in a glass-walled conference room, her face carved from stone as Rumlow stood beside her, arms crossed and expression dark, like he’d been reprimanded but didn’t want to admit it. Natasha was on Maria’s other side, face impassive but clearly unimpressed by whatever tale Rumlow had attempted to spin before Wanda had arrived.

Wanda sat across from them with her spine straight, hair still damp near her temples. She looked calm.

She wasn’t.

Hill clicked her pen once, touching it to her notepad. “Walk us through what happened, Doctor Maximoff. Every detail.”

Wanda nodded, folding her hands in front of her.

“There was a security breach moments after I arrived and scanned into the hall. I was enroute to interview room 6 when I heard the alarm. I was already within proximity—closer to it than any exit, especially since the wards lock down during riots so I made the decision to attempt to reach the room and secure myself.”

Rumlow snorted, mouth pressed into a thin line.

Hill didn’t blink. “And then?”

“I encountered three inmates in the corridor. They were armed. One of them moved to touch me… or worse. Before she could cause harm… (L/N) intervened.”

Rumlow’s arms dropped to his sides. “Intervened?” he repeated. “She fucking choked out the inmate often referred to as Hela and told the others you were off-limits. That’s not intervening, doc. That’s some weird possessive serial killer shit. And she threatened my life.”

“Correct.” Wanda nodded without hesitation. “Except she only threatened your life when you continued to point a loaded weapon at me.”

“So what, you think she was doing you a favor?” Rumlow sounded incredulous, like it was beyond his comprehension that you could’ve chosen to protect Wanda freely.

“She de-escalated a life-threatening situation without harming anyone beyond what was necessary,” Wanda replied simply, locking eyes with Natasha. “You saw her, Agent Romanoff. She wasn’t unduly aggressive upon your arrival. In fact, she was actively shielding me with her body. She could’ve left me to their hands in that hallway but she didn’t while you—” she shot a look at Rumlow, “threatened her life for… protecting me.”

Hill pressed her lips together before she calmly asked, “Doctor Maximoff, do you believe your safety is compromised by continuing to interact with Inmate 643?”

She was certain she already knew the answer, but the question was necessary for protocol.

“No. Not at all,” Wanda replied without hesitation. “She’s a killer. A murderer… but I feel safer in a room with her than I ever do with him—” she nodded towards Rumlow, “or Agent Ward.”

Hill’s jaw tensed slightly as she leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly.

“She didn’t have to help me, but she did.” Wanda’s voice never wavered, even as she looked between the three agents. “That says more about her and you know it.”

Natasha sighed slowly through her nose. “I’m not one to side with murderers, but…” Natasha’s nose scrunched like the idea of admitting this would feel like glass in her throat, “Inmate 643 did not appear to use any unnecessary force nor did she lash out when guns were pointed at her back. She simply seemed to care about keeping Dr. Maximoff safe. Even when Rumlow acted like a jackass.”

“I did my job!” he barked, glaring at Natasha like her words had betrayed him.

“No, you pointed a loaded service weapon at a goddamn civilian and then continued to keep it trained on the back of an unarmed, compliant prisoner!” Natasha snapped back. “Honestly, if you had fired and hit Wanda, I don’t know that I would’ve stopped (L/N) from making good on her promise. Because that’s what it was. A woman like her doesn’t threaten or posture, she would’ve—”

“Enough!” Hill’s hand slammed onto the table, her face twisted in frustration and utter irritation. “Fine. Prisoner (L/N) won’t be reprimanded for her actions during today’s riot. If you truly believe she was only acting in your best interest, then I won’t pull you from her case. But—” Hill leveled Wanda with a serious look, “the moment I start to think you’re getting dragged into her madness, I will pull you. Do you understand? Because clearly Inmate 643 has decided you have a bond and she will attempt to capitalize on that.”

“I understand.” Wanda nodded, her face impassive despite the war burning deep beneath her ribs. She hated herself for defending you, because you were supposed to be this monster, this boogeyman… but she hated the idea of being ripped away from you more.

-X-

That night, the door to Wanda’s apartment slammed open with a heavy thud against the wall as she stormed in. She threw her bag aside, closing the door a little too hard as she pressed her forehead against the wood. Her hand fell to the lock, flipping it once… then twice. Once for safety, once for control. An old coping mechanism she’d picked up over the years, after dealing with her troublesome childhood in Sokovia.

She’d lied to Hill.

Not outright, but by omission. She hadn’t told her the extent of what she was feeling. That your hands guarding her, that your violence against the other inmates in order to protect her, left her aching in ways it shouldn’t have. She hadn’t told her that she feared she might already be in too deep. No, she’d called you a hero in front of four Bureau agents and walked out like it was nothing…

Except she feared it was everything.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Wanda dragged her hands down her face, exhaling a breath that trembled at the edges. She should be filing her report. She should be journaling or baking or watching old sitcoms and drinking wine.

She should be in control.

Instead, she was standing in the dark with her thighs clenched and her mind spiraling into the place she didn’t let herself go. The place where you were waiting, with a cocky grin and blood on your hands.

She didn’t make it to the bed, exhaustion settling in her bones like goddamn concrete.

She passed out on the couch, half-dressed, tension bleeding from her body only as sleep took her violently—

-X-

The room was in a haze, most of the features obscured except for the cracked mirror Wanda stood in front of. She was panting, pupils blown wide with need as she stared at the figure in the glass. You stood behind her, your hand snaking around her throat and breath hot against her ear as you whispered…

“You’re just like me, Wanda.”

A noise escaped her throat, like it had once meant to be a protest but became a low, aching moan instead.

“The blood on my hands…”

Your free hand skimmed over her belly before dipping lower, sliding between her thighs as she arched into you.

“…you want to taste it.”

Her moan was guttural, but she didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to as your other hand tightened around her throat, fingers tracing her drenched, heated flesh before sinking deep into her cunt. She stared at herself in the mirror, entranced as your mouth brushed along her flushed throat, tongue dragging over her neck.

“Don’t lie to me, Wanda.”

She ground down into your hand, silently pleading as her eyes rolled back…

-X-

Wanda woke with a jolt, sitting upright on her couch as she gasped into the darkness of her living room. Her chest was flushed, panties soaked through.

“…fuck.”

-X-

At the same time, you—unfortunately—were not having the same joy.

Locked in your cell, eyes cold with fury, you glared at Rumlow as he paced in front of your cot. Your hands were bound by chains to the hook on the floor, meant to help keep you “contained” should you act out. But here? Now?

“She defended you,” Rumlow spat, sneering at you in disgust. “A fucking murderous bitch!”

Baring your teeth in a cocky smirk, you tilted your head. “Aw, what’s wrong, agent? Upset she didn’t appreciate your heroics and drop to her knees to suck your pathetic co—”

His fist slammed into your cheek, just below your eye, cutting off your jeering. Head snapping to the side, colors bloomed behind your eyes as you breathed through gritted teeth, tasting the slight copper blossoming on your tongue from where you’d bitten it. You could already feel the familiar ache of a bruise forming as his other hand caught your mouth, the sting of a split burning across the sensitive flesh of your lip.

“Shut up! You think you’re better than me?! You’re an inmate in a federal prison! You’ll die here.” His chest was heaving, fists clenched as he snarled down at you.

Slowly turning your head back to face him, the expression on your face chilled him to the bone.

“…so will you, agent.”

But Rumlow—stupid, arrogant, idiotic Rumlow—didn’t hear a warning. Only a challenge.

He stepped closer until you were inches apart, his breath hot and vile as it fanned across your face. “What makes you say that, (L/N)? Because from where I’m standing, you can’t do sh—”

You surged forward, forehead meeting his nose with a sickening crack before you shifted just enough to sink your teeth deep into his shoulder. Through the thin material of his uniform. Harder and harder until his blood flooded your mouth—

And still you didn’t let go.

Not until his howls of pain sent Ward rushing into your cell to yank you off. You fought against the man’s hold for a moment before letting him finally peel you away, only to watch in amusement as Ward gagged. Because your mouth had never slackened…

So he’d simply helped you rip a hunk of meat from his shoulder. The same hunk you spat in front of them as Rumlow shouted, his hand pressing against the heavily bleeding wound.

“…you think you’re in control, agent? You know nothing about control. But… you will.” You offered a feral smile, teeth slicked in crimson as you chuckled. “My face? It will be the last thing you ever see. That I promise.”

Chapter 6

Summary:

Dr. Maximoff is beginning to realize there's no pretending you don't matter... no matter how much she wishes she could.

Notes:

Warnings: Mentions of murder and assault, death penalties, Rumlow being Rumlow, language, reader being hurt...

A/N: Part six, y'all. As my best friend says, "ugh, the tension and fuck Rumlow, that bastard."

When Wanda walked towards your usual interrogation room, she’d told herself she’d be professional. That she wouldn’t let you get into her head, not after the dream she’d had about you. Told herself that she needed that space. Time to… consider what she was doing.

But the moment she stepped inside, it all came crashing down.

You were sitting at the table, hands cuffed to the table as you idly glanced about. It was when your eyes met her—when she was greeted with the horror that was the damage done to your face last night—that took her breath away. Her lips parted, partially stunned but mostly just…

Horrified.

“Appreciate my new look, doctor?” you rasped, voice rough and a little slurred as you attempted to keep from splitting your lip open again. “I think it suits me…”

Wanda’s mouth hung open, her brain trying to form thoughts. She wanted to ask questions, demand to know who did it, but all she could do was stare at you. Stare at the mess of your face.

“My lovely guards would have you believe this was my punishment from other inmates,” you said smoothly, leaning in just enough to draw her closer with you, “but…”

The smile that curled your raw lip was all teeth and venom.

“I will say there’s a bite missing on Rumlow’s shoulder that very much matches my mouth after he paid me a visit last night.”

She didn’t sit. Didn’t move closer, though her jaw clenched so tightly her molars ached. Her hand gripped the edge of the chair across from you like she needed something solid to keep herself from moving.

“Agent Rumlow… did this?” she repeated, eyes sweeping over your bruised and discolored features. “Did he… do anything else?”

“He beat the shit out of my face but he didn’t touch me, if that’s what you’re asking, doctor. And it’s fairly difficult to fight back when my hands are still cuffed to the hook on the floor but I am a stubborn bitch.”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair like the whole incident was a nuisance. “Apparently I made him look bad, saving your life. I should’ve left you to the wolves so he could’ve saved the day. Maybe you would’ve even fallen into his arms. Y’know, once you stopped being horribly traumatized from being… sexually assaulted or beaten half to death—or maybe even fully to death, who’s to say, of course. But what’s THAT little detail to him?”

Wanda’s chair scraped hard against the floor as she yanked it back and dropped into it.

“…does it hurt?” she asked quietly, gaze detailing every inch of the abuse inflicted on your face.

“Very much. But what is pain if not to remind us we’re alive?” you chuckled, shrugging. “If he’s bothering you, darling, I’d be happy to kill him for you. I already intend to before I escape this hellhole but if you want him gone, I’d happily up my timeline.”

Wanda froze.

The words hung there between you in such a casual manner that Wanda wasn’t sure if she should laugh or report you. She knew what she should do but… in that split second, she hesitated. She didn’t want to say no.

She took the time to really look at you, to see the honesty in your eyes and the pain your face attempted to hide, even as your lip pulled and your cheek throbbed.

“You saved me,” she whispered, more to herself than you. “And he punished you for it.”

She sat back, only slightly, but her eyes never left yours.

“I’m going to file a formal complaint. I’ll go above Hill. Above the director, if I have to. This is criminal.”

“Darling, I appreciate the concern but no one here seems to think I’m still considered human anymore. And I doubt anyone would argue it. To them, I’m a serial killer who’ll never make it to trial. Either by their hand or another inmate. The only reason I’m still breathing now is because they want you to confirm how many I’ve killed.”

You sighed, studying her seriously.

“I doubt I will ever see trial, doctor. The moment they have the answers they want, I’ll be found hung in my cell…” there was a moment of silence as the thought lingered between you. “But I do so wish I’d met you at a different point in my life. I think… I think you’re the kind of person I would’ve given this all up for.”

Wanda’s breath hitched, sharp like a cut to the ribs she didn’t see coming.

She blinked once.

Then again.

Her throat worked as she swallowed the lump rising hard and bitter. Her fingers curled into fists against the tabletop, knuckles taut and trembling as she stared back at you, all sense of professional thrown out the goddamn window at your words.

“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered. “Not when I’m sitting here. Not when you're still here.”

Her voice cracked, splintered with something fierce and aching.

“You don’t get to look me in the eye and tell me you would’ve given it all up if only.”

She leaned forward again, her eyes burning, her hands unclenching just enough to flatten against the steel top between you both. “Because I’m here now. Not in some other life. Not in some sweet, clean version of the world that doesn’t exist.”

Her voice trembled with every word, hands reaching out like she wanted to touch yours, cuffed and flexing.

“…have you started dreaming about me, doctor? Because I dream of you…” you mused, head tilting thoughtfully. “Only two weeks of conversations and you’ve already sunk your pretty nails into my mind. Does that say more about me… or you?”

The flush that rose to her throat was slow and traitorous, a soft bloom of red that climbed her collarbone like a confession. Her lips parted, but no words came, not at first. Her eyes dropped to the table, then slid back to yours.

“Yes… I have,” she whispered, almost ashamed. She didn’t ask what you dreamed about. Because the idea of knowing scared her. What if you dreamed about her in a way that only left her heart racing and her panties soaked? Or, worse… what if your dreams were cruel?

“If I ever escape this place… the first thing I’ll do is climb in your bed. Because I want to know what you sound like coming on my tongue,” you whispered almost conversationally, voice low enough that the cameras in the interrogation room wouldn’t pick it up. “My imagination just isn’t doing you justice, darling.”

Wanda’s breath left her like you’d pulled it out with your teeth. Her thighs pressed together beneath the table—barely a movement, but enough. Enough that she knew you saw it.

Her hand moved before she could stop it, just a twitch toward yours on the table. But she caught herself, fingers curling back into a fist as she swallowed hard.

She leaned forward, close enough you could smell the warm vanilla on her breath.

“If you ever escape,” she murmured, her voice trembling at the edge of need, “you better fucking make good on that promise.” Her eyes burned into yours. “Because if you don’t, I might come find you myself.”

She hated herself for giving you even that hint of admittance but she couldn’t lie. Not to herself and not to you. She wanted you… and gods help her, she wasn’t going to let you go to the chair without knowing what you sounded like when you moan her name.

-X-

The second the interview ended, Wanda was storming into Hill’s office like a woman on a mission—or a hunt, depending on who you asked. There was a fury in her face no one expected as she threw open Maria’s door.

“Ah, yes, come on in. I love when people just barge into my office without an appointment—” her eyes cut over to Wanda, “and looking like they’re about to raze my facility to the floor…” she sighed. “Close the door, Wanda.”

Wanda’s voice was sharp as the door clicked closed behind her. “Are we going to pretend this is normal now, Maria?”

Hill steepled her fingers together, face impassive. “Which part, exactly, are you referring to, doctor?”

“Guards beating in inmates’ faces while they’re chained up? The part where a woman in federal custody walks into an interview room with a split lip and a black eye, and not one person blinks?” Wanda stared at Maria in disbelief. “What the fuck is happening to this place?”

Maria sighed through her nose heavily. “You’re talking about Inmate (L/N)’s injuries, I presume.”

“I’m referring to Rumlow,” Wanda snapped, stepping closer. “I’m referring to the fact that we both know he did it and yet he’s still walking the halls with a badge and a loaded weapon.”

“She’s a serial killer, Wanda,” Hill said flatly.

“She’s still a human being,” Wanda retorted furiously. “Don’t play the serial killer card when the Bureau has housed dozen of murderers who never once was left looking like that. Even the ones who fucking deserved it!”

Hill met her eyes, gaze unreadable. “You’re too close. You’re letting her draw you in.”

Wanda laughed—cold and bitter. “Don’t talk to me about being drawn in while Rumlow’s playing out his own violent fantasies in the basement and no one’s stopping him.”

Hill stood, voice firm. “There’s no evidence.”

“There’s bruises!” Wanda shot back, hands clenched into fists. “She said he paid her a visit after hours. I don’t care what she’s done—what anyone’s done. We don’t beat answers out of people. We don’t break them just because we think they deserve it. She says Ward was involved. She said there’s a chunk of Rumlow’s shoulder missing. If there’s no evidence, then he shouldn’t have any marks, right? Ward and Rumlow’s keycards wouldn’t have been swiped to enter her cell… right? Pull the damn timestamps. If she’s lying, then I’ll step back. But I know she isn’t—and so do you.”

Maria’s tongue pressed against her cheek as she stared Wanda down before—

“I’ll look into it,” she finally said, slow and unwilling. “But you need to remember your role. You’re here to analyze her. Not bond with her. Not protect her. And not to become part of whatever game she’s playing.”

“But it’s suddenly the role of your agents to beat prisoners half to death? If she dies in your custody, Maria, I will make sure everyone knows that you protected the badge instead of stopping it from happening,” Wanda snarled before storming out of the office, slamming the door so hard it rattled every plaque and painting on Maria’s walls.

Stepping into the hallway, Wanda’s heels clicked down the tiles as she walked away from the proverbial fire she left burning in the office. As she neared the end of the stretch, her steps slowed as she spotted Rumlow leaning casually against the wall—

And the bulk of a bandage tucked beneath his uniform. Just like you’d said.

“Doctor,” he greeted, pushing off the wall with a smile he thought was charming. “You okay? Hill can be a hardass when she wants to be.”

Wanda didn’t stop walking. She didn’t even acknowledge his existence, eyes trained straight ahead as she headed for the elevator.

He fell into step beside her. “I just wanted to say—I would’ve stepped in, you know. During the riot. If the freak hadn’t… whatever that was. Her little show.”

Wanda’s silence was sharper than a blade’s edge as her eyes cut over to him in warning, but he was too stupid to realize that the quiet did not mean please fill it.

“But hey,” he continued, smirking. “She’s clever. I’ll give her that. All that ‘I’ll burn the place down’ bravado. I think she’s trying to seduce you, personally. Like some twisted Hannibal Lecter thing. But I mean…” He looked her over with smug confidence. “Why settle for someone like her, when you’ve got a guy like me standing right here?”

That did it.

Wanda stopped cold, her head tilting slightly as she finally turned to look at him.

“Because I’d rather fuck the person who stepped in to keep me safe than a man who waited to see if I’d scream his name for help. You’re a pig, Rumlow. You were hoping I’d, what, be traumatized and just… come crashing into your arms like you’re some big, strong man who can protect me? I’ll pass.”

His jaw ticked. “You really don’t know what she is, do you?” he said, voice lowering, bitterness curling beneath every word. “She’s not some misunderstood anti-hero, Doc. She butchered people. Slit them ear to ear. Left them bleeding out on sidewalks and church floors like they were fucking garbage.”

Wanda didn’t blink, arching a brow. She knew what you’d done; she had files upon files for it, for god’s sake.

“She has names. Dozens of them. We don’t even know how many more are buried. And you—what? You want to romanticize that? Make her some fucked-up symbol of justice because she happened to save you?” His voice rose just enough to echo in the hall. “Don’t kid yourself, Wanda. She’d cut your throat just as quick if it suited her.”

“Maybe—but she didn’t. She didn’t leave me in the hands of murderers. You may think you’re a better person than she is, but good people? They don’t beat unarmed inmates who are chained up in their cells. And they sure as hell don’t leave women to be assaulted.”

She stepped closer, pressing a finger firmly against his chest.

“I don’t fuck men who get off on hurting women in chains. Stay the hell away from me, Rumlow.”

She walked away without looking back.

Chapter 7

Summary:

Actions have consequences... no matter who you are, unfortunately.

Notes:

Warnings: Language, explicit violence, blood, Rumlow

The room was quiet when Hill stepped inside Fury’s office. It had only been two days since Wanda stormed into her office but she’d been sitting on it for the last forty-eight hours. Pondering what Wanda’s actions told her—and she knew what it told her, even if she tried to convince herself otherwise.

“You’ve seen the reports,” Maria finally said, breaking the silence. “She’s compromised, Nick.”

He didn’t respond, staring out the window.

“She’s defending a serial killer in official briefings. She’s emotional, protective… And now she’s trading open threats with Rumlow in full view of surveillance. Granted, he was out of line but—”

Fury turned and Maria’s words cut off. “I have seen the reports. I’ve also seen what she’s pulling from (L/N). No one else has gotten close. Hell, before Wanda, no one had managed to force (L/N) to speak and now she’s doing it freely. No one else has been in.”

“She’s not in, she’s under,” Maria snapped, “And if you let her keep going, she’s going to drown in whatever the fuck is happening between them.”

Exhaling heavily through his nose, he muttered, “Three days. No contact. Debriefings only. We give Dr. Maximoff time to cool off.”

Maria pursed her lips before giving a sharp nod, though her gaze held no victory. Only grim certainty that this—pulling Wanda away from you—was going to end in bloodshed.

-X-

The moment the message came through Wanda’s email, she left her office and stormed up through the Bureau until she reached Fury’s—

“You sidelined me?!”

Fury didn’t look up from his computer. He didn’t even flinch at the pitch of her voice. “It’s three days, Wanda. Not three months or three years.”

“She’s not going to wait three days,” Wanda hissed, pacing. “You think someone like her opens up just because you schedule her into a neat little rotation of analysis? You made me go in there. You told me to pull answers from her and now that I’ve built something, you’re pulling me out?!”

“You’re too close,” he grunted, finally glancing at her seriously. “And I’m not going to lose our top psychologist because she started confusing obsession with insight. You ripped into Maria because Rumlow may have roughed (L/N) up a little. That’s not healthy.”

“He roughed her up? He beat the shit out of her face!”

Fury’s gaze never wavered. “Three days. We’ll reevaluate it then.”

-X-

Maria knew she never should’ve agreed to let Agent Rumlow tell you the news. She should’ve sent Romanoff or Barton or even Carter but she’d been attempting to juggle half a dozen things and hadn’t put enough thought into the idea of what was going to happen.

Your cellblock was quiet when Rumlow’s infuriating whistle hit your ears. He came alone, his shoulder still bandaged beneath his uniform, the keys to your cell swinging around one finger with an almost childlike glee.

“No visit today, I’m afraid,” he grinned, tone too mirthful to be considered casual. “Dr. Maximoff’s been reassigned. Permanently.”

He leaned against the bars, far too confident.

“Apparently someone finally realized letting her fuck around with monsters isn’t a great long-term strategy.” He clicked his tongue with feigned sympathy. “Bet that stings, huh? Losing your little audience. No more conversations. No more batting your lashes across the table. Just you and me now. Guess you’ll have to start telling me all your secrets now.”

He was leaning closer, not realizing how easy it really would be to—

“You’ll never see her again… freak.”

There was a moment of silence that passed between you, your eyes locked onto his as he beamed smugly, before you surged forward.

“Then come in here, you coward!” you snarled, reaching through the metal and tangling your fingers in the fabric of his uniform. He gasped, but it didn’t matter because—

Clang.

Clang.

CLANG!

His skull cracked against the bars, over and over and over, as your fingers only tightened, all of your senses a sea of red. He howled, instinctively reaching for his radio or his taser or both, but it didn’t matter. His forehead was split open, nose visibly crooked, and the blood leaking into his eyes kept him oblivious to the fact you’d stolen his keycard.

“Where’s that confidence now, fucker?!” you screamed, your fist leaving his shirt to grab his hair and drag him closer, forcing his face into the metal. “C’mon! Do something, bitch!”

Your free hand tucked the card into your pocket before you reached through the gap, nails sinking deeply into his throat. Blood began to bubble beneath your fingers immediately, crimson slicking his skin and yours. Your fingers tightened, watching his face begin to grow maroon, then purple as you cut off his air, before you shoved him backwards.

As he laid gasping on the ground, you slammed the keycard against the lock and slipped through the bars. Not to escape. No, that wasn’t what this was. You wanted him to fear you; to know you could kill him—and would, someday.

Straddling his hips, your fists pounded into every piece of his face you could reach.

“You—” slam, “are—” slam, “going to die—” smash, slam, “in this building. And I’m going to be the one who does it!”

Bending down, your teeth sank into his throat with a fury, and the noise that escaped him was inhuman.

The sound was pure panic—wet and high and humiliating. The sickening crunch of muscle and cartilage gave way under your bite, his blood gushing against your teeth, spilling warm and coppery down your chin as you tore into him like an animal finally unchained. He thrashed and shrieked beneath you, trying to throw you off but he knew if he jerked too hard, you’d rip out his goddamn throat.

The alarm went off moments later as guards farther down the hall heard his yelling, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was making sure he felt true, genuine terror at knowing you held his life—literally—before your teeth.

And that someday… you were going to kill him.

By the time guards began to rush down the hallway towards you, you’d already released him and stood, grinning down at him with something cold and deranged in your eyes. “You pathetic, little bitch. She wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole!”

Your foot stomped down on his wrist, knocking it away from his throat as he tried to stem off the bleeding, and the sick pop that filled the air might as well have been music to your fucking ears.

The guards all came to a halt a few paces away, tasers lifted and aimed at you, but you didn’t flinch. Didn’t take your eyes off Rumlow as you licked his blood from your teeth—again. You wanted him to remember this moment. Wanted him to think about the fact you’d managed to rip into him twice like the feral beast you were.

He writhed on the floor, blood soaking his collar, his hand curled and useless at his side. The raw agony in his voice twisted into something broken—rage swallowed by humiliation.

Peering up at the guards, you tossed them the keycard you’d swiped before lifting your hands in mock surrender, stepping back towards the cage they called a cell as you cackled. It was an eerie, unsettling noise. Not because it was simply unhinged.

No, this was something closer to joy. Like you reveled in his pain, in their terror of you. Like all of this was a game to you. One of the younger guards—a rookie by the look of him—stumbled back, eyes wide, hand trembling on his radio.

Your blood-slicked hand waved mockingly, a parody of innocence as you took the final step back into your cell, letting the door slam closed behind you.

“Get him out of my sight… or you’ll be holding a funeral for him next,” you warned, wiping his blood onto your uniform like it was a nuisance. A mere annoyance and waste of your time.

The guards didn’t argue.

Two of them rushed forward to drag Rumlow away. He was pale, slick with sweat, his breathing ragged and gurgling, hand cradled against his chest like a newborn he’d failed to protect.

They were quick to drag him away from you… and then there was only silence as you crawled onto your bunk, laughter still ripping from your throat, but the amusement bled into something darker. Colder.

Rage.

No more Wanda.

The words rang in your skull like a death sentence, horrific and brutal. Your chest heaved, hands clenched into fists so tight your nails bit into your palms, and still the laughter came—feral, broken, somewhere between a war cry and a sob that would never truly allow for tears.

She was gone.

Ripped from your world with clinical hands and bureaucratic silence. She was the only one who ever looked at you and didn’t see a monster.

And now, she was gone.

Your body trembled like you were a bomb seconds away from detonation, and still you laughed. Loud and violent and consuming. Until your throat was raw. Until your chest ached…

Until the sound of your fury was all that filled the concrete cell.

-X-

The hallway outside the infirmary smelled like iodine and antiseptic, with the faintest hint of copper from the scene that had looked more like a goring minutes before.

Rumlow’s screams had stopped somewhere between triage and anesthesia, but the tension still bled through every inch of room. A guard was giving his report outside the doors to Agent Romanoff, his voice shaky, sweat dotting his brow despite the chill of the AC.

Fury arrived first, though Hill came in moments later, her expression already tight with disbelief.

The moment they reached the glass partition, they saw him—Rumlow, pale and twitching, his neck wrapped in thick gauze, one arm cradled like a mangled branch. His face was bruised and busted, his nose a little crooked, his forehead stitched and one eye swollen shut.

“You’re telling me (L/N) bit him?” Hill asked, her tone flat, eyes cutting towards the guard.

“No,” the young guard said quickly, then corrected himself, “Yes—I mean, yes, ma’am. After she smashed his head into the bars repeatedly. And then she stomped on his wrist and s-snapped it like it was nothing.”

“She bit a federal agent,” Hill repeated slowly, like she was trying to comprehend the absurdity of it. That this was now the second time you’d had the ability to sink your teeth into one of her agents—specifically Rumlow.

Again.

Fury didn’t say anything. Not at first. He just stared at Rumlow like he could see every choice that had led to this laid bare across the man’s mangled body.

“Jesus Christ,” Hill muttered.

“Who the hell thought it was a good idea to let him be the one to tell about Dr. Maximoff’s temporary hold?” he demanded.

Maria winced, knowing she’d have to confess she’d allowed it but the young guard flinched, cutting her off. “Uh, well, sir… he didn’t tell her that exactly. He told the medics that he… told (L/N) that she’d never see Dr. Maximoff again ever when he was trying to explain to them what happened. That the doctor had been… permanently reassigned. Said she went crazy and started smashing his face into the bars.”

Hill sighed, dragging a hand down her face. “We can’t keep this quiet. There’s blood. Medical reports. Rumlow’s going to milk this for everything it’s worth. He’ll paint it like an assassination attempt while riding on the bureau’s dime.”

“This wasn’t an assassination attempt,” Fury admitted begrudgingly. “He made a blatantly stupid choice and faced the natural consequences.”

Hill didn’t answer for a moment. She and Natasha just shared a knowing look; that whatever happened from this moment on would set a dangerous precedent, no matter what they did.

After a beat, she sighed, “What do you want to do with her?”

Fury’s gaze didn’t leave the glass. “She just shattered a man with her teeth and bare hands.”

“Because he told her she’d never see Maximoff again,” Hill pointed out, not sure if she was defending you or simply pointing out a very crucial detail.

That silence lingered.

Then—

Fury exhaled, low and deliberate. “Move her to solitary. Twenty-four hour watch. No lights out. If she’s going to act like this during her time away from Maximoff, then I want to make sure she can’t cause any more damage…and to keep Rumlow from being able to have unrestricted access to her ever again.”

His hands slipped into the pockets of his coat, and he stared straight ahead, eye narrowed as he connected the dots no one else could see.

“Rumlow knew she was volatile,” he muttered. “I think he counted on it. I just don’t think he was expecting this kind of reaction.”

Hill frowned. “You think he wanted to provoke her?”

“No,” Fury said, “I think he wanted to punish her. For embarrassing him in front of Maximoff. For winning that standoff in the hall. And maybe—just maybe—he thought if he got a reaction violent enough, we’d have an excuse to put her down.”

Hill was silent, staring at Rumlow’s limp form on the cot.

Fury looked at her then, his voice quiet, hard-edged. “But he didn’t count on her holding back.”

Hill’s brow creased. “Holding back? She put him in the medbay, Nick.”

“She could’ve killed him, Maria. Crushed his windpipe. Snapped his neck. You’ve read her file. Seen what she’s capable of.” He paused, the air heavy with unspoken things. “She bit him. That wasn’t a killing blow. Because she knew, the moment she killed him, she really would never see Dr. Maximoff again.”

Hill’s arms loosened, just slightly. “She was sending a message… and a warning.”

Fury nodded. “And now we need to decide what kind of message we send back.”

“…at least (L/N) got payback for her face and it’s just Rumlow,” Natasha mused, shrugging at Maria’s sharp, scolding look. “I’m just saying… couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

Chapter 8

Summary:

Staying away has never been Wanda's strong suit.

Notes:

Warnings: Language, mature themes, mentions of what happened to Rumlow....

A/N: This chapter was fun as fuck to write, enjoy. Because I did.

News traveled fast. Maybe it shouldn’t have. After all, they were meant to be professional adults, but it wasn’t every day that a serial killer attacked a guard the way you’d torn into Rumlow.

Wanda had gone in early—too early, honestly—but she hadn’t been able to sleep. Not after being told she couldn’t see you again for three days, at minimum.

Reevaluation, my ass.

She’d gone down to the cafeteria in hopes of snagging some of the more decent fruit before agents and interns flooded the building, but she froze the moment she heard two people discussing what had happened, pressing her back to the wall as she tried to listen without drawing attention to herself.

“…wait, (L/N)?! The one who only talks to Dr. Maximoff?” one of the voices gasped.

“Yeah. Bit Rumlow like a dog and broke his wrist with her bare foot. I was talking to Artie. He said she was cackling like she’d lost her fucking mind and didn’t stop even after they dragged her into solitary. He also said they had to sedate her at like, four o’clock this morning because she was just laughing and smacking her head off the wall.”

“Jesus fuck… what the hell happened?”

“From what I’ve heard, Rumlow told her that Dr. Maximoff was permanently pulled from her case and she lost her shit. Bashed his head into the bars and broke out just to beat the shit out of him. Didn’t even try to run. She only wanted him.”

The first voice exhaled sharply. “God… imagine being so obnoxious that a killer slips out of her cell just to kick the shit out of you.”

Both of them laughed, oblivious to the stunned woman listening to them, her fingers pressed to her lips to keep from making a sound.

You thought she was gone. He’d told you that you’d never see her again and you’d…

God, she shouldn’t like that. She should be disgusted… right? She should hate knowing that you were so attached to her that you nearly tore Rumlow apart in your rage at the idea of losing her. So why the fuck was her heart pounding in her chest with something so far more danger than fear—want.

Need.

“I mean, I get it,” the first voice continued thoughtfully. “(L/N) is… hot. I wouldn’t  blame Dr. Maximoff if she got attached to her. I bet it feels like a hell of a power trip. Having a killer like that at your fingertips? Knowing she’d kill or die for you? It’s got to be intoxicating, right?”

“Be careful that Hill or Fury don’t hear you saying that,” the other woman warned, though she was clearly amused. “They’re already pissed (L/N) is sinking her claws into the doctor.”

There was a pause before the first voice answered, completely unbothered, “I’m just saying… yeah, she’s a bad person—obviously—but… she’s what dark romance books are modeled after, right?”

There was a snort from the other woman before footsteps echoed down the hallway as they disappeared and Wanda finally let out the breath she’d been holding.

-X-

She knew what she wanted wouldn’t make her look trustworthy. Really, she did know that… which was why she went to Natasha instead of Maria or Fury the moment she finally regained control of her legs.

“I need a favor,” she blurted out as she caught Natasha in the agents’ locker room. “Please.”

Natasha was sitting on the bench, slumped slightly as she meticulously cleaned her sidearm. “I never like that word—favors.” She glanced up at Wanda knowingly, arching a brow. “This is about (L/N), isn’t it?”

“Is it true?” Wanda asked, almost breathless. “What I heard wasn’t… an exaggeration?”

Sighing, Natasha set aside her gun before looking at Wanda fully. “No, it wasn’t an exaggeration. Rumlow’s going to be on leave for at least a week because of the damage your psychopath did to him.”

Bristling at that—your psychopath—Wanda opened her mouth to argue but Natasha’s expression brokered no defense.

“Stop, Wanda. We both know that she’s your psychopath—and that you like it. You can sit here and swear to me that it’s entirely professional curiosity but we both know you’re falling in love with her. Don’t deny it. I’ve never seen you so focused or torn up over another patient.” The word ‘patient’ fell between them like a stake in the earth. “I’m not judging you, doctor. Nor am I asking you to defend yourself, but don’t lie to me and tell me this is just you wanting to solve a case anymore. That’s insulting to both of our intelligences.”

Natasha exhaled, standing.

“(L/N) is in solitary. She’ll be there, at least, until your mandatory separation is finished. Fury thinks if someone gets too close to her right now, they may end in a fate similar to Rumlow’s. So no, I can’t sneak her into an interrogation room for you—” she pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek, “but every Wednesday night, around two a.m., the system in solitary goes down for maintenance for about an hour. Key readers don’t record swipes, the cameras are blacked out… and would you look at that… today’s Wednesday.”

Shrugging, Natasha gathered her gear from the bench she’d been sitting on, slipping it into place.

“Do with that information what you will, doctor.”

-X-

You were staring at the ceiling of your cell, head lolling against the pillow, as you listened to the artificial silence that was solitary confinement. Time was an illusion within these walls, leaving you entirely uncertain of how long you’d even been here. Minutes? Hours?

Days?

The sound of heels on the floor echoed in the stillness but you didn’t look up, assuming it was Hill or another bureau lackey coming to offer you a meal—

Until you heard the card reader beep as someone slipped into your cell.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Wanda murmured, voice barely above a whisper, and your body jolted upright on the cot, eyes snapping up to meet hers.

“…doctor,” you breathed, almost reverent, as you scrambled to your feet. “They said—”

“He lied,” she breathed, words cracking as she took in the genuine relief on your face at the sight of her, like her appearance had lessened the noose around your neck. “He fucking lied. Fury and Maria put me on leave from your case for three days. They thought I was losing objectivity; that I was getting too close to you…”

She stepped deeper into the cell, her eyes never leaving yours.

“…and they’re right.”

“Wanda…”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” she whispered, one step closer. Then another. “I see you in my dreams, every time I close my fucking eyes… you’re just there. Whispering things in my head, dragging me deeper into you and I can’t—I can’t stop it.”

Your jaw tightened, clenched so tight it almost made your teeth ache, before you closed the distance. Lifting your hand, you cradled her jaw, mouth a mere inch or two from hers. Her inhale was sharp, almost panicked, but she didn’t pull away. Didn’t create space.

She just kept your gaze. “Why me, (Y/N)? Why do you look at me like that? Why can’t I get you out of my head?” The words sounded less like a demand for answers and more like a plea for understanding.

Fingers digging slightly into her skin, you chuckled humorlessly. “Because you matter to me, doctor. And it has been a very long time since anything has mattered to me.”

Those words settled into her chest like a balm and a wound all at once. No one had said that to her in years… maybe ever. Not without conditions or expectations. Not without agenda. And certainly not like this—not like it was carved from the deepest part of someone who didn’t lie to themselves, let alone others. You had nothing to gain with your honesty and everything to lose and Wanda…

She was standing on the precipice of something she couldn’t fucking take back, no matter how much she tried.

For a moment, Wanda said nothing. Her eyes flickered between yours, studying you like she was truly seeing you for the first time, before she surged forward, lips crashing into yours with a hunger that felt both reckless and overdue. Her mouth was hot and desperate, hands tangling in your unkempt hair and tugging sharply, dragging you closer.

It was wrong. This was wrong… but goddamn, why did it have to feel so right? Why did it set her blood ablaze in her veins? Why did it make her want to crawl into your skin and never surface again as long as it meant she could touch you?

What the fuck was happening to her?

You could feel the hesitation, the pieces of her warring together, but it only drove you closer as the kiss deepened into something messy, your teeth snagging her bottom lip just enough to steal a quiet, broken little gasp from her chest. Her breath was hot and ragged against your skin with every kiss, like she couldn’t imagine peeling her mouth away. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Her hands slid from your hair to the collar of your prison uniform, curling in the uncomfortable fabric as she stepped back, pressing her own body against the wall of the cell, tugging you with her.

Hands falling to the wall on either side of her head, you groaned, your hips flush with hers. It wasn’t enough—gods, it wasn’t enough—but it didn’t matter. All you cared about was the scent of her shampoo in your nose, the needy sounds that were escaping her parted lips, and the feel of Dr. Wanda Maximoff grinding against your thigh like it was her damnation and salvation all at once.

“I hate how much I want you… how much I need you,” she panted into your mouth, though her lips reclaimed yours before you could answer.

Her tongue slid against yours, desperate and coaxing, hips shifting as she chased the feeling of her center gliding over your leg, even if there were unfortunate layers of clothing separating you. She gasped when your hands dropped from the wall, bodies pressing together so tight that she was certain even wind wouldn’t be able to slip between you, as your hands fell to her hips, then her ass, gripping the supple skin through the thin material of her slacks.

A moan broke from her mouth only to be swallowed by your own. She knew time was running out; the system would only remain shut off for an hour and she was despondently aware that she was nearing the hour mark but the knowledge only made her frantic and you rougher, your hands squeezing her ass like you wanted to keep her against you forever.

Her hands cradled your face, forehead touching yours as she finally ripped her mouth away from yours, drinking in much needed gulps of air.

“I have to go… but I don’t want to,” she whispered, kissing just below your ear. “Fuck, I need you. But if they catch me—”

“I really wouldn’t ever see you again,” you finished, nodding in understanding, even as your fingers dug deeper into the globes of her ass. “I understand.”

She heard the system beep as it began to reboot.

“This isn’t over,” she promised, crushing her mouth to yours in a final, searing kiss before she nudged you back and slipped from the cell, though her eyes didn’t leave you until they absolutely had to.

You stood there, staring at the cell door with wide, disbelieving eyes. Of all the things you’d expected to experience tonight… it hadn’t been the feeling of Dr. Maximoff’s mouth against yours, hadn’t been her hands in her hair and her hips rocking against your thigh as she moaned like a woman in heat.

“Goddamn,” you muttered, licking your bottom lip before a faint, albeit dark, smirk crossed your lips.

She was yours—

And God help you both, you were hers.

-X-

Natasha Romanoff’s apartment was sparse.

In another life, it would’ve been considered closer to a safehouse than a home. Mismatched furniture scattered about, a single television in the living room in front of a couch that looked like it had seen better days. A coffee table that seemed like it’d been taken from the side of a road or bought from a secondhand shop instead of being purchased deliberately.

Curled up cross-legged on her couch, Natasha held her laptop on her knees, scrolling through it with a deliberate intensity. Eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, she stared at the screen thoughtfully. Hundreds upon hundreds of decrypted and sensitive files flickered across as she skimmed, lip caught between her teeth.

Files—your files—took up her screen before she tapped another tab and another series, labeled under Case File: 212311 23423, flooded the display.

Unknown amount of victims… estimated sixty-seven possible… orchestrated over the last decade… two possible unsubs… similar MOs but often carried out strategically different… only male victims linked…

She tapped on the keyboard a few times and slowly, each file began to disappear from the screen. One after another, until only your files were left, haphazardly thrown together by agents who thought they understood—and the dear doctor who was clearly falling in love with you.

Leaning over, Natasha snagged a discreet-looking burner phone from the coffee table and dialed the only number it had in its call log.

“The files have been scrubbed,” Natasha said calmly in Russian, closing the laptop before flipping it over as she began to take it apart. “There is no connection between us and (L/N).”

“No evidence of where some of the little killer’s information came from?” the voice on the other end questioned, though they didn’t sound concerned. “Do you think she knows?”

“Nyet. She has no idea. And she hasn’t mentioned to anyone—including Dr. Maximoff—that some of her information came via… external sources.”

The other person hummed. “Good. Some things are better left unknown.”