Stillwater [Pietro Maximoff Fanfiction]

1

I've worked with a lot of difficult people in my life — snipers with superiority complexes, scientists with God ones — but Pietro Maximoff is in a league of his own.

It's not that he's mean. He's just... fast. Not just physically — mentally, emotionally. Everything about him moves at the speed of light, and if you can't keep up, he'll leave you spinning.

That's why we don't usually get paired together. He's chaos; I'm coordination. I talk. I observe. I blend. Pietro blurs through walls and forgets there were supposed to be walls in the first place.

So when Hill dropped the mission file on my desk and his name was paperclipped to mine, I laughed out loud.
It wasn't a polite laugh, either — it was a you've-got-to-be-kidding-me laugh.

⸻

"Undercover?" I asked, raising a brow as I scanned the report. "As married?"

"Small town, low tech," Hill said without looking up from her tablet. "Locals are suspicious of outsiders. We need something believable."

"Then why him?" I asked, pointing across the room. Pietro was half-listening, spinning a pen between his fingers with the kind of restless energy that makes you want to tie him to a chair.

"Because," Hill said, "you two have chemistry."

I almost choked. "We have friction."

Tony, passing by with his coffee, didn't even try to hide his smirk. "Same thing, different genre."

I glared at him. "You're not helping."

"Wasn't trying to," he said cheerfully, and strolled away.

⸻

The mission was simple enough. Go to a tiny town called Stillwater. Pose as newlyweds. Find the source of the energy signal S.H.I.E.L.D. detected last week — something that looked suspiciously like repurposed HYDRA tech.

We'd blend in, gather intel, and get out before anyone realized we weren't really there for the farmer's market.

It sounded easy.
It never is.

⸻

"Relax, Hale," Pietro said as we packed gear into the quinjet. "We'll play house, smile for the neighbors, and be home by next week. I'll even cook dinner."

"You can cook?" I asked, grinning.

He paused. "I can heat things quickly."

"Wow, romantic and useful."

He rolled his eyes but I caught the edge of a smile. That was the thing about him — he tried to look detached, but his face always gave him away. You could read the smallest flicker of amusement, the twitch of a dimple, the spark behind his eyes when he thought of something clever but didn't say it yet.

I'd never tell him this, but he was kind of... easy to like.

Dangerously so.

⸻

The rest of the team had opinions, of course.

Natasha teased us relentlessly, calling us "Mr. and Mrs. Trouble." Steve gave us one of those earnest, concerned smiles like he was about to remind us to "stay professional." Sam placed a twenty-dollar bet that we'd kill each other before the mission ended.

I told him to make it fifty.

⸻

We lifted off at dawn. I sat across from Pietro in the quinjet, pretending to review my notes while he drummed his fingers on his knee, jittery and impatient. The vibration of the engines matched the buzz under my skin.

I broke the silence first. "You ever done undercover before?"

He shrugged. "Once. Didn't go great."

"What happened?"

"I forgot I was undercover."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Perfect. What could possibly go wrong?"

⸻

The clouds broke, revealing the sleepy town below — still streets, glimmering lake, clusters of houses like something out of an old postcard.

Stillwater.

The name alone felt too quiet, like the calm part before a thunderstorm.

Pietro leaned forward, eyes bright. "So, what's our cover story again?"

"Married five years," I said. "Moved here for a slower life. You run a small auto shop; I do freelance design. We keep to ourselves but we're friendly enough not to scare people."

He gave me a sideways look. "You thought about this a lot."

"I think about everything a lot."

"Dangerous habit."

"So I've heard."

⸻

The quinjet touched down in the woods just outside town. When the ramp lowered, the air smelled like pine and gasoline — old roads and quiet mornings. Pietro slung his duffel over one shoulder and looked back at me.

"You ready, Mrs. Hale?" he asked, half-smirk, half-challenge.

I stepped past him, tugging the ring from the mission kit and slipping it onto my finger. "Please," I said. "I was born ready to fake domestic bliss."

He laughed. "I think this will be fun."

That made one of us.

⸻

But the truth is, part of me liked the thrill — the pretending, the danger of being someone else.
And if he was going to play the reluctant husband, fine.
I'd make it real enough to scare him