Crimson Widow

The first thing I noticed about her was the way she held her fork. Like it was a weapon she hadn't decided whether to use yet.

That was the fourth day. Before that, I'd noticed other things. The way she stood too close to doorways. The way her accent curled around certain words like she was tasting them before she let them go. The way she never looked at me directly, not once, not even when I was speaking to her.

I'd been at the compound for six months by then. Long enough to know which floorboards creaked and which coffee mug was Steve's and which silences meant something was wrong. Long enough to stop sleeping with a gun under my pillow. Most nights.

Wanda arrived on a Tuesday, which felt wrong somehow. Catastrophes should happen on Mondays or Fridays. Tuesdays are for grocery runs and dental appointments. Not for the girl who'd put Tony in a coma to walk through your front door with two duffel bags and a look on her face like she'd already survived the worst thing the world had to offer.

She had.

We all knew. We'd watched the footage. Sokovia, Lagos, the whole disaster tour. Tony had spent three weeks in a medically induced coma while the rest of us tried to figure out what to do with the kid who'd put him there. The answer, apparently, was to give her a room on the third floor and hope for the best.

I didn't vote for it. Neither did Sam. But Steve gave one of his speeches about second chances and redemption and all that crap he believed in, and that was that.

So Wanda Maximoff moved in, and I started counting the days until she'd prove us all wrong.

She kept to herself those first few days. Smart. I would've done the same. She ate when the kitchen was empty, trained when the gym was empty, moved through the compound like a ghost who'd forgotten how to haunt properly. I watched her from the corner of my eye, the way you watch a stray dog you're not sure is rabid.

On the fourth day, she sat across from me at breakfast.

I don't know why. There were six other tables. The whole cafeteria was empty except for us. She could've sat anywhere. But she chose the seat directly across from mine, set her tray down with a clatter that echoed off the walls, and started eating like I wasn't there.

I watched her. I'm not subtle about that kind of thing. Never have been.

"You're staring," she said, not looking up.

"You're sitting at my table."

"There are no assigned tables."

"This one's mine."

She finally looked at me then. Her eyes were green. Not the soft green of spring leaves or ocean water. Something harder. Something that had seen too much and decided not to care anymore.

"I didn't know you owned furniture," she said. "Should I ask for a formal transfer of property?"

Her English was good. Better than good. That surprised me. I'd heard the recordings, the halting sentences, the long pauses while she searched for words. But that was for officials and cameras. This was different. This was her real voice, sharp and tired and older than nineteen.

"Funny," I said. "You didn't seem so smart in the reports."

The fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Something flickered across her face. Pain, maybe. Or anger. They look the same on some people.

"Reports," she repeated.

"Files. Dossiers. Whatever you want to call them."

"I know what reports are." She set the fork down. "I'm just surprised you read them."

"I read everything."

"Then you know what I did."

It wasn't a question. I could've lied. Could've said I didn't know, didn't care, that the past was the past. That's what Steve would've wanted. But I've never been good at lying to people who can see through it.

"I know," I said.

She nodded slowly. Like she'd expected that. Like she'd been waiting for someone to finally say it out loud instead of dancing around it with careful words and careful looks.

"And you still eat breakfast with me."

"I'm not eating with you. You're eating with me. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

She picked up her fork again. Took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. All while looking at me with those green eyes that didn't blink nearly as often as they should.

"You're not afraid of me," she said.

"I've faced worse."

"Have you?"

I thought about Budapest. About the Red Room. About the things I'd done that kept me up at night, the faces I still saw when I closed my eyes. She wasn't wrong to ask. She wasn't wrong about any of it.

"Different kind of worse," I said.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

She smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of someone who'd learned long ago that the world didn't owe her anything and she'd stopped expecting it to.

"You don't like me," she said.

"I don't trust you."

"Same thing."

"No. It's not."

I stood up, grabbed my tray, and left her sitting there. I could feel her watching me go. That's the thing about Wanda. She's always watching, even when she's not looking. Especially when she's not looking.

I didn't sleep that night. Kept thinking about her eyes. Kept thinking about the way she'd said reports like it was a curse word. Kept thinking about the fact that she'd chosen my table out of all the empty ones.

She was testing me. That much was obvious. The question was why.

The next morning, she was there again. Same table. Same seat. Same look on her face like she'd already won something I didn't know we were fighting about.

"You again," I said.

"Me again."

I sat down. Not because I wanted to. Because running would've meant something, and I wasn't about to give her that.

We ate in silence. Or I ate. She mostly pushed her food around her plate and watched me with those eyes that never seemed to close.

"You have nightmares," she said eventually.

I froze. Fork halfway to my mouth. Heart doing something complicated in my chest.

"Excuse me?"

"Nightmares. You have them. I can feel them through the wall."

"I don't have nightmares."

"You do. You dream about a girl. Red hair. She's falling."

The fork clattered against my plate. I hadn't meant to drop it. Hadn't meant to react at all. But she was already nodding, like my reaction was all the confirmation she needed.

"I'm not in your head," she said. "You're just loud."

"I'm not loud."

"You are to me."

I wanted to hit her. I wanted to walk out. I wanted to do a lot of things that would've proved her right about whatever she thought she knew.

I didn't do any of them.

"We're not doing this," I said. "Whatever this is. We're not doing it."

She tilted her head. Curious. Like I was a puzzle she was just starting to solve.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay?"

"Okay. We're not doing it."

She stood up, took her tray, and walked away. Just like that. Like the whole conversation hadn't happened. Like she hadn't just reached into my chest and squeezed.

I sat there for a long time after she left. Long enough for the cafeteria to fill up and empty out again. Long enough for Steve to come looking for me, ask if I was okay, get a nod and nothing else.

I wasn't okay. I hadn't been okay in years.

But that was the first day I wondered if maybe she wasn't either.