Chapter Text
The sky over was a hollow gray that sucked the light out of the Loop. It was that miserable part of November where the trees were bare and skeletal, and the wind off the lake cut right through the clothes. The season of gold leaves was long gone, but the snow hadn't come yet to cover up the trash and the oil slicks in the gutters. Everything was just damp and cold. The smell of wet concrete thick in the air.
Down in the West Loop, the L tracks cast long shadows that sliced up the pavement. The whole neighborhood felt on edge and crowded. People kept their chins tucked into their collars, scurrying past the soot-covered brick buildings. Their breath came out in shaky puffs as they scrambled to get inside before the real freeze moved in and stayed.
The fluorescent lights of the office flickered with a dying hum that usually gave Pietro a headache. Today, however, he was too busy bouncing a rubber ball against the stained acoustic ceiling tiles to care.
"Pietro. Catch!" Wanda said. Her voice a sandpaper rasp.
She didn't look up from the ledger as she flicked a heavy brass stapler across the desk. Pietro caught it mid-air without missing a beat, his hand moving in a blur of practiced reflex.
"You're late with the Cage file," she added, Her green eyes finally broke away from the paperwork, flickering upward. The look of someone used to measuring the distance between a threat and the nearest exit, a habit born from years of watching the shadows for a move that hadn't happened.
"Cage is a crier, Wanda," Pietro said, leaning back in his creaky swivel chair. He ran a hand through his hair, which was already messy from a morning of persuading a mechanic to hand over his keys. "He’s got three dogs and a gout flare-up. I gave him until noon to find the cash. Empathy, sister. It’s a lost art."
"Empathy doesn't pay the rent on this dump," Wanda countered. She straightened her charcoal blazer over a black turtleneck as she stood up, then pulled her brown hair into a ponytail so tight it looked like it was straining against her scalp. "Grab your coat. We’ve got a pickup in the North Loop."
The car ride was all silent, save for the rhythmic clicking of Wanda’s fingernails against the steering wheel. They pulled up to a crumbling brick apartment complex that smelled of stale grease and damp concrete.
Wanda stepped out first, her stride cutting through the crowded sidewalk. By the time Pietro caught up, jogging with his hands in his leather jacket pockets, she was already at door 4B, her knuckles rapping an impatient rhythm against the wood.
The man who opened it was twice her size, sweating through a tattered undershirt. "I told the girl on the phone—"
"The office is done listening," Wanda interrupted. She held her gaze that forced him to stop talking just to hear her. "We aren't here for your excuses."
"I don't have nothing!" the man barked, trying to loom over her.
Pietro stepped forward then, a lopsided smirk on his face. He didn't look particularly dangerous, mostly just bored. "Hey, easy, big guy. My sister has a very low tolerance for yelling. It gives her a migraine. And when she gets a migraine, I get cranky. You don't want me cranky. Trust me, I move a lot faster than you can look."
Pietro leaned against the doorframe, his athletic frame blocking the only exit. He looked the man up and down, eyes landing on a shiny, high-end mountain bike leaning against the hallway wall. "That looks like five hundred dollars' worth of an apology, wouldn't you say, Wanda?"
Wanda brushed past him. Her eyes scanning—cataloging every item that could be turned into quick cash.
"Take the bike," her voice completely drained of emotion. "And the TV. Pietro, get the cables."
"Hey! You can't just—" The man moved to grab Wanda’s arm.
In a heartbeat, the atmosphere shifted. Pietro was between them, his fingers locked around the man’s wrist. The smirk stayed on his face, but it no longer reached his eyes.
"Hands to yourself," Pietro said as his voice losing its playful edge. "Better show some respect, man."
Wanda was already busy yanking the cords from the back of the television, her face a mask of indifference. Life had taken everything from her once, and now, she was simply the one doing the taking
"Pack it in," she said, clutching a tangled mess of cables. "Three more stops before we can even think about eating."
They headed back to the car, Pietro hefting the wide-screen TV with a casual ease. He stole a look at his sister. She was staring straight ahead, her jaw tight, eyes locked on the street.
"You're getting too good at this," Pietro joked, trying to crack the tension. "A few more months and you'll be the one scaring the hell out of me."
Wanda popped the trunk. Her expression softening by only a fraction as she looked at her twin. "Someone has to. If I don't, we go hungry. You know how this works."
"I get it," Pietro sighed. His smile turning genuine and a little sad, tinged with grief as he caught a glimpse of the girl she used to be, the one who laughed at everything before their country turned into rubbles. "Remind me to get you a drink tonight. You’re wound so tight I’m afraid you’ll snap."
The second stop of the day was a basement laundry. The humidity was stifling, choking fog of bleach and steam.
"The interest doubled on the first, Mr. Ross," Wanda said, her voice cutting through the hiss of the steam presses. There was no threat in her eyes, but still, it made his skin crawl. "You’ve burned through three extensions. We’re done waiting."
"Please, Maximoff," the man begged, his hands shaking. "My daughter’s tuition—"
"What about her?" Wanda snapped, her green eyes flashing. "I have exactly twenty-two hundred thoughts, and they’re all about the money you owe Strucker. Pietro, empty it."
Pietro moved effortlessly, vaulting over the counter in one clean motion. He offered the man a small, apologetic wince as he popped the register. "Sorry, pops. You caught her on a bad day."
His fingers were a blur as he stripped the drawer of its contents. He pocketed a stray ten dollar bill—a little tip for himself—and winked at the man before dumping the rest into a heavy canvas bag.
"She’s right, though," Pietro added softly, lean and imposing as he stood back up. "Strucker doesn't like waiting. We’re actually the nice part of your day. Trust me."
The "office" of HYDRA Credit Recovery was tucked away in a windowless suite of a building that should have been condemned a decade ago. It sat on the edge of the industrial district, where the rumble of the L train shook the foundation every fifteen minutes. The rattling the floorboards and serving as a rhythmic reminder that the rest of the city was busy moving while this room just rotted.
At the center of the gloom sat Wolfgang von Strucker. He was draped in a silk suit, looking like a diamond in a gutter against the peeling wallpaper and the suffocating stench of old nicotine. Over his right eye, a monocle was wedged firmly into a socket scarred by some violence. The glass catching the dim overhead light and turning his gaze into an unblinking glare. He looked like a man who had never broken a sweat in his life, because he paid people like the Maximoffs to do the sweating for him. Even in the damp heat of the office, he remained perfectly dry, a preserved instance of old-world malice sitting in the middle of a modern-day slum.
Wanda hauled the heavy canvas bag off her shoulder and slammed it onto his desk. The thud was thick with the sound of cold coins and crumpled paper, kicking up a fine mist of gray dust.
"Ross is square. Cage gave us half. There’s a high-end bike in the trunk for the rest," she said. Her voice was raspy from the biting lake wind she’d been fighting all afternoon. She kept her posture rigid, her chin tilted up just enough to let him know she wasn't intimidated by the shadows in the corners of the room.
Strucker unzipped the bag slowly. Thumb brushing against the filthy, sweat-stained bills like he was touching something diseased. A nasty smile pulled at his mouth.
"Satisfying as always, just how I like it. You’ve got a real mean streak, Wanda. It’s making me a lot of money." He flicked his gaze toward the doorframe. "And what about you, kid? Did you actually keep your fingers out of the till this time, or did you let the itch get the better of you?"
Pietro was slouched against the splintered doorframe, looking bored as he picked at a hangnail with a fresh wood splinter he’d found. He looked up, a tired, shit-eating grin spreading across his face. "Mostly, Boss. I’m a saint while the sun’s up. Ask me again after midnight."
Strucker let out rattling sound that was supposed to be a laugh, though it sounded more like bones grinding together. He reached into a desk drawer and tossed two thick envelopes onto the mahogany. Wanda’s hand flashed out, pinning them to the wood before they could even finish sliding.
"Your pound of flesh. And a little something extra for the Ross job," Strucker said, leaning back until his leather chair groaned in protest. "He was a slippery prick. I heard he tried to snap his own neck on an icy fire escape in Uptown just to get away from you two."
He ran a clean finger over the scarred surface of his desk as his voice dropping to a low hum. "Terror is a better motivator than a contract. Just make sure the next one doesn't actually manage to die before he pays up. Dead men don't have pockets."
"I guess we’re done for the day."
The apartment was a fourth-floor walk-up in a pocket of Uptown where the city let the streetlights stay broken for months, leaving the sidewalks in a permanent twilight. The stairwell was a vertical tunnel of greasy smell of someone else's dinner. Inside their door, it was a cramped, miserable box of a place. They’d rigged a moth-eaten curtain across the middle of the bedroom just to pretend they had lives of their own, and the kitchen was nothing more than a shitty pan and a sink that bled a maddening tink into the silence.
The second the deadbolt thudded home, the mask fell apart. Wanda kicked off her boots, leaving them where they landed. She yanked the hair tie from her head, letting her long hair spill out as she clawed at her scalp, trying to rub away the tension that had been hammering at her skull all day.
"Strucker is a goddamn leech," she muttered. Her voice was thick and heavy as she collapsed into a chipped wooden chair that groaned like it was about to give up on life.
"He’s a parasite with the checkbook, Wanda. Big difference," Pietro shot back. He was already hovering at the fridge. Pulling out a carton of eggs and a few shriveled potatoes that looked like they’d been dug out of a gutter.
Wanda watched him work. He began carving the dark, soft spots out of the shriveled skins with a dull paring knife, dicing them into tiny cubes to make the portion look like a meal instead of a side dish.
"Besides," Pietro added, tossing a black spot from the potato into the trash, "you were the one who almost made that guy faint today. You're getting a reputation, sister. People are starting to whisper when they see the girl in leather jacket."
"Let them. It keeps them from swinging," she said, though her eyes were fixed on the frost patterns creeping across the corner of the windowpane.
Dinner was a quiet routine. Pietro manned the pan, and soon the biting smell of scorching oil and browning starch filled the cramped room. He tossed the potatoes with a dusting of old paprika he’d scavenged from the back of a cupboard. For a second, a vibrant scent of a home they barely remembered, a fleeting hit of Sokovia lingering in the kitchen.
No need for plates, they ate straight from the dented pan to save on the dish soap. Their forks scraping against the metal with a harsh ring that once again filled the silence of the apartment.
Wanda stared at her plate, her eyes reflecting the glow of the single overhead bulb. The silence of the room was heavy, made worse by the wind rattling the glass. "We’re short on the rent for next month," she said, her voice losing its edge, sounding smaller. "Unless we dip into the stash. But we can't touch that. That’s the 'run' money. For when everything goes to hell."
Pietro reached across the scarred table. His knuckles, still swollen and purple from a fight three nights back, bumped gently against her hand.
"We’ll scrap it together, Wanda. We always do. We're the Maximoffs, yeah? We survived a war," he said, his voice dropping the bravado for a second. "Some slumlord isn't going to be the one to put us in the ground."
Wanda looked at her twin, the only person in the world who knew the girl before... everything turned this way. She managed a small smile that didn't reach her eyes but warmed her face. "Eat your eggs, Pietro. You’re talking too much again."
"I always talk too much," he grinned, shoving a mealy forkful of potato into his mouth. "It's my best quality."