Chapter Text
Nine Weeks Ago
The bell above the door needed to be fixed.
It barely made a noise as the man stepped inside, only emitting a pathetic, tinny sound as it swung shut behind him as he walked further into the store.
His eyes were sharp, the kind that made you feel like you needed to curl in on yourself, to duck your head down and pray it wasn’t you he was staring into. The store only had a few aisles; prepackaged snacks and a long row of merchandising refrigerators stocked with energy drinks and sodas, the lights inside flickering in and out with what seemed like the changing of the wind.
The man scanned up and down the aisles, grabbing a select few items as he made his way towards the back. He paused, there, in front of the glass doors. He looked over the shelves, taking in every option available. He seemingly disregarded the cold brews and the like, instead purusing over the canned lemonades and teas.
The clerk watched him with the only attention that precious, knowable boredom could bring. Chin in hand, elbow atop the countertop, most of her mind a few feet to the left where the small television was fixed to the wall, protected by a metal cage around it. Her gum was spearmint flavored, making her breath sharp and slightly sweet.
The man, a handful of snacks in his hand and two drinks under his arm, walked up to the register.
The clerk popped her gum. “Crazy, ain’t it?”
He looked up at her from under the brim of his hat, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. His steel eyes flicked upwards to the television, then back down to her. “Sure is.” He replied gruffly as she scanned his items. He paid in cash.
“Whole country’s goin’ to shit.” She remarked as the receipt chugged its way out of the machine. She ripped it off cleanly, handing it to him. Her statement could be taken in a million ways, but the man just nodded.
“You have a nice day.”
She watched as he walked past the pumps outside, to a large SUV parked out front of the convenience store. There was another man waiting in the passenger seat, dark hair and a green sweatshirt, a bored look on his face as he fiddled with the radio.
The man from the store hopped into the driver’s seat, dropping the grocery bag in his companion’s lap. They drove off, and the clerk returned her attention to the television screen.
On it, a young Commander faced away from the camera, telling the President something that only the two of them fully understood the implications of, something the rest of the people assembled in the chamber and the entire world watching at home would never know.
That was the only thing on the clerk’s mind as the SUV drove out of the gas station and merged onto the highway, as a storm prepared to roll into a town a long way from there.
Seven Weeks Ago
Miles away from that gas station on the highway, a young Colombian woman stood in line, large, chunky headphones around her neck. She was dragging a high-quality suitcase behind her, a neck pillow secured around the handle.
She regarded her fellow travelers waiting around her with a detached interest, alternating between people watching and checking her wristwatch impatiently, resisting the urge to tap her foot against the floor.
When the line finally started moving once more, she strode up to the booth and purchased her ticket, pulling a few bills out of her finely made wallet.
Everything about her seemed neat, organized. Her hair was up in a perfectly even bun, blouse and slacks pressed, nails neatly manicured. If one looked closely, they would be able to pick out small bits of color—her jewelry, the bright pink pen sticking out of her breast pocket, the colored wire frames of her glasses.
It was all consistent. Professional, sleek, but with accents of a pigmented personality that shone through.
Save for one thing.
Her headphones, something one would assume, based on her choice of outfit and the accompanying accessories, were something that should be brightly colored, like her wallet and suitcase and neck pillow.
Oddly enough, though, they were just a plain, dark gray.
Six Weeks Ago
Elsewhere, two people walked in the direction of the baggage claim of the airport.
Not together, mind you. Somewhere, a Chinese cybercrime expert had gotten off a plane thirty minutes ago, and had taken time to stop in the bathroom, a vending machine, then look around in one of the small stores, selecting a postcard, buying it and then carefully sliding it into his carry-on.
Meanwhile, an Inuk engineer had touched down not even five minutes ago, on a different flight from a different city, and had pushed her way through the crowds to disembark. She had promptly checked a clock mounted on the wall, gaining a pinched look on her face.
She walked brusquely across the airport, strides long and purposeful.
The two got to baggage claim, at staggered times and at two different carousels. The woman, in a loose sweatshirt and jeans, dark hair pulled into a long, elaborate braid, hefted her duffel bag up off the belt and quickly walked off with it slung over her shoulder. The man, in casual sweats and a tee, carrying nothing on his bag but a laptop, waited a few minutes for the crowd to dissipate as their bags first began spitting out onto the conveyer, stepping up and grabbing his own suitcase once a path was cleared.
At a leisurely pace, he got into an elevator, taking it down to the garage level. From there, he walked across the parking lot to the curb, across the street and out of the airport.
The woman was sitting in the back of a taxi.
He slid in next to her.
Five Weeks Ago
Out on the open water, a Thai psychology major leaned on the railing, watching as the approaching land got larger and larger on the horizon. It was a frigid, icy day, and most of the other passengers were waiting inside the ferry. Not him, though.
The sea spray that reached his face was jarring, unpleasant, stinging as it made contact. Despite it, though, he stayed where he was as they crossed the channel. There was a backpack, deep purple and held together with safety pins, patches ironed onto the front, at his feet.
His jacket, clearly worn dark leather, was pulled tight against his body, offering any and all protection from the wind that whipped against the boat.
It was a dark, dreary day, one that foretold of rain and more gloom than usual. Not a single ray of sun could force its way through the oppressive layer of clouds, casting an all-consuming shadow on everyone down below.
The man rested his chin on the railing, watching as the docks came into view.
He ran a hand through his choppily cut hair, then sighed, reaching down and scooping up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.
Four Weeks Ago
In a very different situation from the man on the ferry, two people sat in the cab of a truck in complete silence.
A Norwegian pathologist was at the wheel with a stony, hard face, staring ahead at the road and nothing else. Her short hair, a feathy, ashy blonde, was left out of its usual slicked back style, loose, free stands framing her face. Despite that, she didn’t resemble any synonym of soft.
The man next to her was hunched in on himself, looking for all the world like he was trying to pull himself into his sweater, like a turtle with a shell. His hair; fine, coppery strands, hung in front of his face and eyes.
A blizzard raged outside the vehicle, the windshield wipers working overtime to clear the view as they drove, a single dark blue swatch against an all-white painting. It was desolate, frozen roads and iced over windows. Regardless, the woman kept driving.
She wore nothing protective besides a graphic tee and an unbuttoned shirt overtop, but seemed perfectly comfortable in the freezing temperature that had invaded the car. Slowly, the man leaned forward and turned on the heated air.
The woman didn’t move, but her eyes slowly swept towards him at the movement.
He swallowed and pulled back into his seat.
Thursday, February 28th, 2018
12:41 PM
International School of Lyon, France
Charlotte Allard should not be sitting anywhere near her.
Like, anywhere near her. Not next to her, not in front of her, not behind her, and most certainly not a space diagonally ahead of her, where Louise could stare at her for far too long without anybody noticing.
Today, Charlotte’s long, auburn hair was pulled into two low buns, decorated with little clips with fabric daisies on them. God, Louise wished she could do that with her own hair. Maybe Charlotte could teach her—
No, that was ridiculous. She’d have to ask, which meant walking up to Charlotte, which meant speaking to her. Which, was…no. Just, no. Instead, Louise, chin on her palm, watched as the girl took notes in a sparkling gel pen, her handwriting bunched up and neat, her brightly-mascaraed lashes almost brushing her cheeks when she looked down.
Charlotte Allard was perfect.
She was smart, and kind, and absolutely beautiful. She had a laugh like tinkling bells, and a smile like the first ray of sunshine after a long, cloudy winter. Charlotte was the type of girl that people wrote sonnets and ballads about, the kind of girl that you could only just observe from a distance.
Well, if you were someone like Louise, that was.
She tore her eyes away, looking down at her school uniform. Her white button up, neatly ironed by her father that morning. Both the tie and skirt were a rich evergreen, soft and silky material that was cool to the touch. There were even small pockets sewn into the sides, where she could keep her phone and her keys when she walked across the parking lot in the morning.
Her hands, fingers bitten down to blunt, uneven edges, pressed into her palms as she risked another glance.
Louise; awkward, ill-proportioned Louise, knobby elbows sticking out of her sleeves, gangly legs that fit awkwardly into a pair of sneakers, a band-aid covering her knee from where she scraped it on the concrete outside of her house.
She couldn’t help the comparison.
Charlotte wore sheer black tights, ripped at the knees and around the thighs, paired with platform Mary Janes, looking effortless and perfectly put together all at once, like it was unintentional how intentionally perfect she was.
The bell rang shrilly, violently jolting her out of her reverie. Louise’s eyes flew up to the clock; an old, grand thing that was written in Roman numerals rather than modern numbers. She leaned over to grab the strap of her backpack, heaving it up and onto her lap. Hurriedly, she shoved all her papers into the folder she’d marked for the class, covered in stickers and marker doodles, taking care to not crease any of them despite her rush. She snapped her binder shut and crammed it into her bag, yanking on the zipper to shut it.
Unfortunately for her, everyone else seemed to have been paying attention to the time, and had been packed up long before the bell. Her fellow students flooded out of the classroom, shouting their farewells to the teacher in clumsy, accented English, lunches or ID cards in hand as they turned down the hallways.
Louise watched as Charlotte tucked her pen behind her ear, gracefully swept her bag over her shoulder, and smoothed out her skirt before leaving, not looking back. Not looking back to see Louise, wide-eyed behind her too-small glasses, staring.
She let out a sigh as she watched Charlotte go, then averting her gaze to the ground as she stood up, chair screeching against the floor as she pushed it back. It was loud and grating, and it only seemed to happen to Louise. She slid her arms into the straps of her backpack, white-knuckling them as it sat against her spine.
Not even the first step she took, someone cleared their throat behind her. Frozen to the spot, Louise pivoted, eyes wide. She grasped for the English they were supposed to try and use in class, something that usually came so easily to her, only to find her throat wouldn’t work, that no sounds came out of her mouth.
From his spot leaning against his desk, Charlie raised a dark brow over his tinted lenses. His arms were crossed, head inclined towards her. “Are you honestly going to tell me that there’s something written in that notebook of yours?” Her teacher asked in smooth, perfect English.
She swallowed thickly, ducking her head down, mind instantly flashing to the empty pages that had been laid out in front of her, mechanical pencil abandoned on the desktop next to it as her attention had been yanked elsewhere.
“No,” She whispered, ashamed. “Sorry, Monsieur.”
Louise didn’t have to look up to know that her teacher was frowning, the type that pulled at the corners of his mouth and knitted his brow. She’d always hated when he made that face at her—it was a disheartening combination of disappointment and concern, like he knew they could do better and was worried as to why they weren’t. It was gut-wrenchingly effective.
She liked all her teachers, really. Music, precalc, physics—they were all fantastic professors, good to the students and knowledgeable about their subjects. Every teacher was somebody’s favorite, but the widely held opinion among them was that Charlie was the best of the best. Even some of the kids that weren’t in his class or in one of the clubs he advised liked him best.
He was the youngest of the faculty, enough to understand their jokes and to seem to actually care about their problems, genuine in his advice and concern, young enough to scrunch up his nose when they called him by his last name and the accompanying title at the beginning of the quarter.
None of the students liked to disappoint him, and Louise was no exception. “I was just…” She trailed off, cheeks flaming, gripping for words in the secondary language. Her English was nowhere near as good as her native French.
Charlie’s lips curled up into a faint smile, switching to French easily. “Charlotte Allard, I know.” He said. “Staring at the girl won’t get you anywhere, Louise. And you won’t get anywhere at all if you don’t pay attention in school.” He tapped the top of her desk, giving her a significant expression.
Louise gaped. “How—how did—” She fumbled. Alright, maybe it wasn’t her unfamiliarity in English that was turning her into a mess.
His face softened. “You’re my students. I always know.”
And that seemed to be accurate. How he did it, Louise was unsure, but he always seemed aware when there was something wrong in his classroom.
True to form, he cocked his head to the side. “Are you alright, Louise?” He asked.
Her face twitched, eyes traveling back down to the floor, staring at her scuffed shoes. Was everything alright? She’d been happier than she’d been in a long while, but a bleak miasma seemed to trail after her wherever she went. It seemed to be a consistent theme in her life; grasping for words and none of them fitting right.
Charlotte Allard was the type of girl who got poems and songs, and Louise would never be the person able to write them.
“I’m,” She started weakly. “I’m…”
Charlie blinked. “Working on it?” He offered.
She took that in, getting a feel for how it rolled around in her mouth. “Working on it.” She repeated. “I suppose.”
He nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”
That was the thing about Charlie. When he said something, it sounded like he meant it. It was a rare quality in a teacher, in Louise’s experience. Everything about him, the deep green sweater that all the faculty got, the dark slacks and the crisp button-up, that he always paired with a pair of battered sneakers that were definitely against the staff dress code, seemed open.
His classroom was dotted with blooming plants, leafy ferns, and vines that hung over the edges of their terracotta pots. It lacked most of the eye-catching posters the other rooms had, instead decorated only with wall-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with books in more than just the handful of languages he taught. Old, weathered paperbacks, heavy hardcovers, and even a few magazines laying on the bottom shelves.
Other than that, there were the windows. The typical blinds had been removed, soft, pale curtains taking their place, letting natural light spill into the room. It made the entire place glow in the afternoons, and provided a view of the late sunrises in the winter mornings. The entire room, like their teacher, seemed warm and inviting.
Louise found herself smiling. “Thanks, sir.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Any time, Ms. Bonnet. I don’t want to hold you for too long—go enjoy your lunch.” He dismissed, pushing himself off the desk. “And remember what I said.”
He wasn’t just talking about paying attention in class.
It took her a second to start moving, frozen under the light scrutiny of her teacher. “Right, right. Um, thanks, sir. It won’t happen again.” She rushed out in English, grabbing her things in her arms and hurrying out of the classroom. Behind her, her teacher shook his head, still smiling.
As she made her way down the hall, his words echoed in her mind. I’m working on it, she repeated. Louise dropped her stuff at her locker, smoothed down her newly grown out hair, and walked outside to the courtyard where her friends were waiting, sitting in a loose semicircle at one of the stone picnic tables.
A round of greetings came up as she sat down, dropping her lunch on the table. She’d forgotten to pack one the night before, and was forced to randomly grab whatever meager offerings her kitchen held, which seemed to include a slightly stale muffin, an orange, and a pudding cup with no spoon.
“Did you get in trouble?” Ines immediately asked, peering over at her. To her left, Theo scoffed, his dark curls bouncing as he shook his head. “From Trejo? Unlikely. He’s way too nice.”
Elias frowned at the other boy, pushing up his glasses with his shoulder. “He’s not too nice.” He defended, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Remember Louis Vernier?” He prodded, giving his boyfriend a look.
Louise, along with Ines and Colette, winced.
The tragic tale of Louis Vernier was a short one. It was the first day of quarter, and they had all been waiting in the classroom, a mix of nerves and excitement filling the air. The new language professor hadn’t yet been spotted, by anybody, but they had all heard about him. Apparently, he was handling the French classes for the non-natives, along with the English class, Spanish class, and the class where all the oddball-language kids did their work online if none of the options at school interested them.
(Later that day, Louise would find out from Manon Bassett, who was learning Arabic, for some reason, that the teacher was perfectly capable of assisting her in her courses, speaking it fluently. Along with what sounded like a few other languages, not including English, French, and Spanish.)
And then Louis, whom Louise tragically shared five miserable letters with, was sitting right in the front against the wall, chatting loudly with the boy sitting next to him, who quite honestly looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Long story short, Louis said some…rather unsavory, unkind things about a girl in their grade, how she wasn’t really a girl, and their new teacher had chosen that exact moment to walk into class for the first time.
The verbal slaughter that had followed immediately after was Oscar-worthy. The entire class watched with slack jaws, eyes flickering back and forth like it was a tennis match and not a complete and utter decimation. Louis Vernier was, after being reduced to near tears, sent to the office and told not to come back until he felt like he could be a better person.
He hadn’t come back. Whether that was because he didn’t have the guts to show his face again, or because Charlie refused to let him back into his class, was unclear. Either way, Louise didn’t really care. The further he was from her, the better.
She, who had been sinking into her seat as Louis talked, hiding behind her curtain of hair and praying he wouldn’t look at her. Praying he wouldn’t note the defined lump in her throat and the lack of softness in her jaw, her flat chest and low voice.
She’d only been at this school since the beginning of the year—a precious two months—and nobody yet had said anything about her not being a her. One of the many positives about transitioning before she started a new school, she’d told herself. But when Louis talked, all that contentment had faded away into the wind.
Watching his stupid little face turn red and splotchy as the new teacher ripped him a new one quickly soothed her, though.
After that, their new teacher had walked to the center of the room, introduced himself using his first name, and began to outline the syllabus like nothing had happened.
Some students—people rather like Louis whom she’d always tried to avoid—hated him. They all transferred out within the next two weeks, weeded out one by one.
The class became a safe haven for Louise, and all the other students like her. Charlie was nice, but most definitely not too nice, as Theo was implying.
“He just told me I needed to focus in class more.” Louise mumbled, the flush on her face not yet faded. Elias, who knew just exactly what had gotten her so distracted, cackled. After a second, Colette caught on. “How does she always know?” The girl demanded, eyes wide. “It’s unbelievable!”
Another thing about their teacher; nothing got past him. And when Louise said nothing, she meant nothing. Normally, he didn’t care much when they had quick, whispered conversations during class. But, occasionally, mostly at the beginning of the semester, when somebody said something that made his face twist, he was unafraid to call them out and promptly have them leave the classroom.
And he heard. He always heard.
“I think he’s like a bat.” Ines said solemnly to Colette. “Sonar ears or something.”
“Echolocation.” Louise corrected automatically. She rolled her eyes as she unzipped her lunch pail. “And our teacher isn’t Batman, Ines, Jesus.”
Notes:
here we go!!!!!!! welcome, my beanie babies :)
a few things: yes, this one is rated M, gonna be a little violent and a tad fruiter. if there's any TWs, they'll be in the notes at the beginning of the chapter!
in order of the SWORD members featured, it's bucky and percy, bridgette, mal and dan, ross, then lee and someone
and yes, percy 100% would be that teacher that all the gay students imprint upon like ducklings. fight me.
plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter Text
Thursday, February 28th, 2018
1:21 AM
Lyon, France
The Winter Soldier was an omen.
He was unstoppable in his goals, vicious in his execution. Cold and unfeeling as his name. He was a herald of death, a shadow in the night, a name that only left the words of dying men, whispered words on blood-coated lips.
The Winter Soldier was also dead.
Bucky leaned back against the brick wall, staring out over the rooftop to the streets spanning below. Despite the late hour, the city was alive, breathing and bustling. Tonight, the heart of Lyon was beating, and Bucky had his fingers right on the pulse.
Streetlamps dotted the sidewalks, and lights from dozens of businesses cast a soft glow of a thousand different colors onto the cobblestone of the walkways and roads. The night was a dark one, only the few daring out as the sky overhead clouded over. The first boom of thunder had sounded about an hour ago, and ever since, the streets had been steadily flooded with a torrent of rain.
His collar was turned up to protect his face from the bitter air, hands tucked into his jacket pockets as he waited. Like most nights, he had work, but was content to take a small break and stare out over the city, taking in the infatuating skyline, the mix of buildings ancient and modern. It was so different from New York, which was a world so familiar yet so weathered by the eighty years he was away.
To his left, the loud thump of concrete sounded. He inclined his head, looking towards the other ledge.
Stepping over the crumpled body, Percy trudged back towards him, a displeased look on his face. “Nothing new.” He reported as soon as he was within earshot.
Bucky nodded, pushing off the wall he was leaning on. “But he talked?”
His boyfriend ran a hand through his hair, nodding. “They always do.” Then, pointedly, “I don’t know why you wanted me to take this one, though.”
It was true that Bucky typically handled interrogations. He’d spend eighty years learning how to twist information from people without so much as leaning a mark on their skin. (And what luxury it was to have the option to not hurt people.)
Tonight, though, as they’d stepped out onto the streets, hoods drawn up from the rain, Bucky had insisted otherwise.
As the lightning crackled overhead, he shrugged slightly, a smile curling up in the corner of his mouth. “A change of pace is always nice.” Bucky settled on. He cast a glance to Percy out of the corner of his eyes, to find him rolling his eyes, exasperated but undoubtedly fond.
Bucky slid his phone into his jacket pocket. “The police are on their way.” He informed. “They’ll take care of him.” He jutted his chin towards the man on the ground a few yards away. The WSC and the French government had unified under the need for this mission, offering them any and all resources they would need to complete their task. So far, all they’d taken them up on was the occasional officer sent to bring someone to the cordoned off section of the prison.
(And that one time Ross bullied an officer into buying her a pastry. But they chose to ignore that in the illusion of professionalism.)
Percy’s arm brushed his, and instantly the water that had been steadily soaking into his clothes disappeared. As the lone deputy came up the rooftop access stairs, after giving him a short nod of acknowledgement, he and Percy made their way down.
Ever since Percy had explained the Godly world to him (with the blessing of one of his Gods, apparently, though he refused to say who), it was like something had just snapped into place. Bucky had always been aware there was something other about Percy, something that he would never be able to fully understand.
But now, the knowledge weighing heavy in his mind, it began to all fit together, like somebody had wiped off glasses he didn’t even know were dirty.
When Percy smiled, his canines were curved, tips sharper than they should be. His face was perfectly proportioned and symmetrical, like a mathematical equation turned to art. There was a subtle sense of belonging that sang in his movements, like he was just another piece of the Earth that just simply was.
He was beautiful and terrifying and capable of many things. A storm, his boyfriend was.
And tonight, that seemed to be in full effect. The rain flattened his dark hair to his forehead, long strands hanging limply down. Percy’s features seemed to be exaggerated in the harsh lighting of the night, deepening his cheekbones and dramatizing the shadows around his eyes.
In the storm, his eyes took on the deep, rumbling color of the bleeding sky, lightning echoing in his irises like a mirage. He looked wild and dangerous, like another facet of the tempest, an echo of the weather. It was entrancing and somehow incredibly dangerous looking, the former rather than the latter for Bucky.
For others, though, that seemed to be a different story.
The man on the rooftop had taken them in both, Bucky’s height and wide shoulders, the dark look on his face and the metal of his clenched first, and he was scared. Terrified, actually. But then he looked behind him and saw everything that Percy was, and he was unnerved.
So, yes, Bucky requested that he take point on this one.
It had been almost two months since their plane had touched down, and ever since then, their lives had been tinted through a strangely-colored lens. They’d only begun to investigate a few weeks ago, so as to not raise suspicions about the timing, just in case.
They’d even staggered their arrivals; Percy and Bucky had come first, the others following in the weeks afterwards.
The walk back to their apartment was solitary, just the two of them and the harsh, persistent rain that reached neither of them. Like a warm coat, Bucky could feel the Mist blanketing his and Percy’s figures, messing with cameras and any potential eyewitnesses. They’d checked, both in their own ways, that they had been alone up on that rooftop, but one could never be too careful.
As it turned out, Bucky was what Percy called almost clear-sighted. Once the barrier of unawareness had been broken down in his brain, it was impossible for him to go back, to sink back into the comforting, familiar life that the Mist brought. He could see, truly, now; the endless depths of Percy’s eyes, the sheen of the Mist in the air, how Mrs. O’Leary’s irises, pupils, and sclera were all varying shades of a rich crimson.
A few days before they’d left, their faces had been changed by the Mist. It felt like that one time Shuri had put a face mask on him—the subtle weight of something on his skin slightly irritating, but something you got used to. It had been fascinating to watch as Hazel had worked her magic, to see Percy’s eyes change to a soothing russet, his hair lighten to a feathery chocolate brown. The shape of his jaw, his nose, his brow all shifted right before his eyes.
Then, Bucky had blinked, and he looked normal, like his Percy.
Hazel had just hummed. “Interesting.” Was all she’d had to offer, all those weeks ago. Bucky’s own face looked different to everyone else, as well, but it wasn’t like it mattered much to Percy.
Everything about them had been changed, but there was always something undeniably true at their core. Percy, who wore soft cardigans every now and then, now had a closet full of pullovers and sweater vests and, yes, more, thick, chunky-knit cardigans. He still drank decaffeinated tea, spent a large amount of time petting his dog, and baked.
But when Percy Jackson melded into Charlie Trejo, he also was an only child, had one or two distant cousins, had gotten his teaching degree and was born in Brazil, raised in Miami.
And he was married.
Bucky looked down at their linked hands, a soft expression on his face.
Andrew Trejo was a veteran who had come home to his husband, missing a part of him that he would never really get back. They had been extended an offer by a branch of Stark Biomedical, offering candidacy for their prosthetics project. The branch was based in Lyon, and the pair relocated almost immediately.
He had gotten into the program, and the arm had supposedly been a great fix. Now, he worked as a mechanic in a local garage, and often dragged his husband to second-hand stores to browse their literature sections, bringing home armfulls of weathered, well-loved books. Andrew was raised by a single father, and had a grandmother who lived back in Romania.
Their apartment was smaller in size, but every inch was filled with personality and life. Countless plants hung from the ceiling and rested on shelves, novels on almost every available surface, a desk was pushed against the wall with lesson plans shoved to the side and a computer of no discernible brand, save for the single, glowing delta on the top. It smelled like lavender and pine, gently overlaid by the sea breeze, and Bucky adored it.
As he pulled off his jacket and tossed it onto the coat rack—Percy always gave him this face when he didn’t—Mrs. O’Leary, or Red as her tags displayed, came bounding up to them, skidding on the hardwood floors. As Bucky leaned down to scratch behind her ears, he found himself wondering, like every time he saw her, just how big she actually was.
Later, as he turned out the lights and climbed into bed, Percy spoke up. “You know, today I told a kid she wouldn’t get anywhere if she didn’t pay attention in school.”
Bucky hummed, pulling the comforter up over them. “Yeah?” He said, decidedly amused.
Percy rolled over into him. “I slept through my junior year, babe. I am so underqualified for this.” He groaned. Bucky laughed, brushing Percy’s hair back off his forehead. He’d let it grow out a bit, revealing the slight natural wave that had been before hidden. It looked good, Bucky had not-so-privately thought. Really good. “I’m sure you are a fantastic teacher.” He replied.
When Percy huffed, Bucky felt it against his collarbone. “I’ve been to jail, like, a million times.”
The times he’d made it to a cell was actually seventeen, but Bucky didn’t bring that up. “I don’t think it counts if you get out in the first twenty-four hours.” Through less-than-legal means, sure, but he most definitely did not stay in those cells.
“Gods, you’re so smart.” Percy mumbled, already half asleep. “No wonder I married you.”
…Bucky was so in love with this guy it was stupid.
His arm came up, around Percy’s back and pulling him closer towards him, enveloping him in his warmth.
The first time they’d shared a bed, it hadn’t been as awkward as one might expect. Even before they had gotten together, they’d fallen asleep next to each other countless times. It wasn’t much different, really. There was an incredible ease to how they fit together, Percy’s unnatural warmth soothing a part of Bucky that had been screaming for eighty years past, the demigod unconsciously wrapping around him like an octopus, content to lay like that even when Bucky accidentally rolled on him in his sleep.
It was comfortable in a way Bucky never thought he’d be able to achieve. His chin resting atop Percy’s head, both arms around him, the blanket pulled up to their shoulders, Mrs. O’Leary curled up in the spot they left open by being so close together.
They were in a foreign country under fake identities, but it couldn’t have felt more like home.
Percy, Bucky soon learned, was decidedly not a morning person.
Their alarm clock sat on the side table, ringing shrilly, vibrating in place. Bucky cracked an eye open, groaning. He snaked an arm out from the blankets, blindly grabbing for the button on the top of it.
After a slightly embarrassing moment of wild groping, he found it and silenced the alarm.
Percy was still dead asleep, head pillowed on his chest, the top of his head poking out of the blankets. His breathing was steadied out, calm and slow.
“Hey, Perce.” He whispered.
No response. Bucky rolled his eyes, and gently shook his boyfriend. “You need to get up. You’re going to be late.” Still nothing.
It took five minutes of shaking, prodding, and loudly speaking to finally get Percy to move. He made a massively unhappy noise, curling tighter around Bucky. “I hate school,” He mumbled against Bucky.
He rolled his eyes fondly. “You teach it, now.”
“That’s worse.” He refuted stubbornly.
Later, as the two were walking down the sidewalks, early morning breeze light and airy around them, he looked over at him. Neither of them had any doubts about the reasons they were chosen for this mission in particular.
Bucky had decades of experience of going undercover. He was, when he wanted to be, nothing more than a whisper in the wind, a name spoken in the dark of the night. The Winter Soldier was dead, but Bucky Barnes was left behind with the shards of him.
Percy was undeniably skilled. While the Council was unaware of the true abilities he possessed, they knew of his senses and how he could tell lies from truth like it was spelled out right in front of them.
As for the second part, Percy had only voiced it once, while sitting in the passenger's seat while Bucky drove down the highway. “Who’s going to suspect the blind guy?” He’d said sarcastically.
A part of him thought Percy was relieved. To not have to be constantly vigilant, to be able to relax and let a cane and Mrs. O’Leary do most of the work. It was baffling that he had lasted as long as he had, putting up a truly impressive facade of being sighted.
Now, though, he looped his arm through Bucky’s when they walked, cane rhythmically tapping on the pavement. He let Bucky softly murmur to him when somebody was trying to hand him something, when they were coming up on a curb or some stairs.
It had taken embarrassingly long for him to realize that, no, Percy wasn’t just going along with it for their cover. He wasn’t mapping out the world with his senses, a constant focus. Instead, he was just trusting Bucky.
They walked together to the school, and after that, Bucky alone continued on to his own job. It was strange, being thrown back into a normalcy that had never truly been his. Even before the Soldier, the War and the Depression had been looming over everybody, a constant pressure.
A mechanic. Bucky Barnes, the world’s most prolific assassin, was now a car mechanic. The mere thought of it made his lips quirk upwards.
He did end up enjoying it, though. He’d always enjoyed working on cars when he was younger, and was forced to learn about tanks and motorcycles and other vehicles during his Hydra stint. Compared to everything else he’s done, it was a simple job.
“Hey, Andrew!” A voice called from the back of the shop as he walked in, shedding his jacket. Bucky gave a smile and a nod to the man waiting for him.
The hours passed by like water falling through his fingers, slipping through the cracks. He worked in the back, typically. According to Arthur, who manned the desk, he had a resting face that looked ready to kill.
Who'd've thought.
When he got home, there was already somebody waiting for him. Normally, this would prompt him to draw his gun from his jacket, but he could hear the music, dampened through a pair of noise-canceling headphones.
When he stepped inside his living room, Lee—Isak Hansen, these days—was sitting on his couch in a bulky sweater and jeans. Her headphones were firmly in place on her head, but he didn’t doubt for a second she knew he was there.
He came to stand behind the couch, arms crossed. He cleared his throat loudly, and she slipped her headphones around her neck. “Report from Tremor.” Was all she said, pointing at the coffee table.
Bucky briefly raised his eyebrows, but went to grab the papers anyway. He was the least familiar with Lee and Dan—they had been away for the short period he was in the Hub with the team. Something about a hospital breakout and punching a doctor. He didn’t really want to know. Lee was brusque, even-tempered and had an inherently judgemental resting face. She spent little to no time on any sort of pleasantries, and seemed to have no consideration for social norms.
He quite liked her.
As he read, he periodically glanced overtop the paper to the couch opposite.
The man sitting there was slouched, curled slightly in on himself, staring at the floor. He was young, just like the rest of the team, almost painfully so.
Spencer Saint-James was a med student who’d dived a bit too far into man-made pathogens to go unnoticed, and had promptly been dragged into an interrogation room six months ago. He’d been deemed a flight risk by the WSC themselves, and, when the Lyon issue had come to light, Hanover had pulled Percy aside and made a proposition.
The entire team had still been reeling at the loss of Anev, and had been extraordinarily hesitant to accept a new member, even on a probationary basis. The reactions had been mixed; from Mal’s shy wariness to Bridgette’s avoidance of conversation.
Dan had not yet spoken to the man one-on-one. The entire team had seemed to close ranks around their cybersecurity expert, as if to make sure what happened once would never happen again. Unsurprising, really.
The harshest of them all was Lee. The constant narrowed eyes, tracking every movement Saint-James made. She was curt, unfriendly, and unflinchingly professional.
Or, well, maybe that’s just how she was. Like he had stated earlier; she wasn’t a very warm person, and had the resting face of someone planning to offer to do your taxes, purposely misfile them, and then call the IRS.
Unfortunately for Saint-James, Lee was the supervisory special agent, only ranking under Percy. Which meant, because he was busy with his job, the med student had been forcibly stuck to Lee’s side for about six weeks.
She stood, checking her watch. “Nguyen will be by tomorrow with more.” Was all she said. She left without another word, Saint-James scampering off after her. Bucky couldn’t help the exasperated shake of his head as they disappeared down the hallway.
Percy sure knew how to pick ‘em.
Down on the sidewalk, Spencer trailed behind his supervisor, a comfortable distance between them. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, hair hanging in his face.
Her legs were long and her strides fast, and he had to break out into a jog every now and then to keep up with her.
If someone had told him, a year ago, that his research habit would have ended him up on a WSC watch list and subsequently under surveillance, he would have probably passed out. But, well, here he was, dragged all the way to France, consulting on one of the strangest medical mysteries he’d ever seen.
The SWORD team had been…strange. An experience, definitely. He’d been introduced to them by their codenames, and had done his best to memorize each one to match it to a face. Most of them were fairly nice, if not distant.
(Surprisingly, Sergeant Barnes seemed to be the most normal of the group, when he wasn’t in a homicidal rage. Or casually dropping things about his life during the Depression or as a Hydra weapon.
…Alright, maybe they were all weird.)
He hadn’t really been able to figure out why they looked at him out of the corner of their eyes, how their faces tightened slightly when they saw him—just for a second, like they were expecting somebody else in his spot.
Spencer had met them all, except for their legendary tech support, Ace. For some reason, he felt like that was on purpose.
A week ago, he’d walked into a conversation between Foxglove and Archangel. For once, they'd both seemed comfortable, relaxed, even. It was a rare sight, he'd come to understand as the weeks went on.
“Yeah,” Archangel had said, a smile in her voice. She sounded fond, if not a little distant. “I remember that. When Aspen—” Suddenly, she cut off, and the space around her and Foxglove seemed just a little bit colder. “Never mind.” She said quietly. Foxglove’s face was pained.
He’d wanted to ask, but they had both looked so troubled, like something was deeply wrong, and he had no idea what.
In front of him, Echo rolled her eyes. “Pick up the pace, would you?” It was only then he’d realized that, in his thoughts, he’d slowed down. He took a quick few strides, trying to meet her. Spencer wanted to ask, desperately, curiosity burning from the inside out. He opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat, and he looked away.
The entire ride to the Trejo apartment had been like this, as well as the subsequent elevator ride and wait in the living room.
This time, she didn’t seem so keen on letting it go. Echo arched her brow, an irritated look on her face. “Spit it out.” She said flatly, still not looking at him as they walked ahead to the car.
He ducked his head down. “Who’s Aspen?” He asked softly.
Echo froze halfway to taking her keys out of her pocket. Her knuckles were white around the fob. He’d always thought her face was harsh; sharp lines and a strong brow, eyes so pale they looked near colorless, like they could see right through him. Never had he felt it more than now. “Where did you hear that name?”
Spencer stares at her, wide eyed and drawn. “I…I accidentally heard Archangel and Foxglove say it.” He admitted. “I was just wondering. Who are they?”
Her eyes closed briefly, and she unlocked the car. When she spoke, her voice was a thousand miles away. “A very lonely person. Now, come on. We need to get back.”
Notes:
percy: *looks like a celestial godly being, a reflection of the storm, like he belongs in the screaming of the thunder and the lightning*
bucky: hotim a sucker for bucky 'constantly freezing and hating the cold' barnes and percy 'body temperature of 106' jackson
and introducing spencer! all you need to know about him right know is he's a ginger and has to follow lee around like a small dog
plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter Text
Saturday, March 2nd, 2018
4:03 PM
Lyon, France
There’d been another reported outbreak.
Like Lee had promised, Satja Nguyen—Ross Bunmi, to them—had dropped by the next day, bags under his eyes and a deep crease in his forehead. As soon as Bucky saw his face, a deep weariness seeped into his bones.
“How many?” He asked.
Ross rubbed a hand over their eyes. They, too, looked different these days. None of the SWORD members had records of their faces anywhere, public or not, negating the need for a layer of Mist like Percy and Bucky wore.
Instead, Ross had cut his hair, leaving it curling around his ears, though still choppy and feathery as ever. He wore color contacts, spoke differently, dressed in clothes that didn’t quite match his usual style. Today, it was a pair of dark wash jeans and a jersey for a soccer player Bucky wasn’t familiar with.
Catching up with modern sports, oddly enough, wasn’t high on his list of priorities.
Ross’s eyes, though more hazel than they used to be, were still heavily lined. It wasn’t enough to draw attention away from the heavy bags under his eyes. “Three. Two siblings and a school friend. We got their last locations from the older sister before it set in.”
Ross’s voice was heavy, weighted down. He passed them a folder from his backpack, then gave Mrs. O’Leary a quick pet before taking his leave, slipping out the door with shoulders dropped and drawn in.
Part of Bucky didn’t want to look inside, but he knew he had to.
Seventeen-year-old Annalise Martin, her nine-year-old sister Elena, and Elena’s friend, Nina Michel. All dead.
He closed his eyes, taking a few measures breaths to steady himself.
Going undercover was always hard. It was something he’d done a million times; a soulless weapon painting on a new name and past, stepping out into the light just long enough to snuff out a life. It was difficult in the way that everything had to be timed perfectly, every move calculated and precise.
Now, it was difficult for those reasons, and every other one.
Having to just sit there, stifled under his false shield of an identity, having to remain casual and go to work and the grocery store and the dog park like nothing happened, like he hadn’t just covered up the death of three children.
Bucky knew that it was for the best. Something like this getting out would cause mass panic, make everything far, far worse. But it still left an acidic, bitter taste in his mouth, sliding down his throat to churn in his stomach.
He went to work. He went to the grocery store. He went to the dog park.
Their names burned a hole in between his eyes.
Bucky dropped down onto the couch, digging the butt of his palm into his forehead.
After flashing their IDs, he and Percy were quickly ushered past the yellow tape, cordoning off a crime that never happened.
The February sun shone weakly through the clouds, reaching out to brush against the asphalt of the emptied parking lot. Empty tables and abandoned booths were lined up in neat rows, colorful signs and banners displaying names above them.
The scent of artisanal soaps and candles, raw honey, and ripened fruits permeated the area, overlapping and drifting together in a thousand layers. They passed a stack of overloaded crates stocked with blood oranges, a few stray ones fallen onto the pavement in the haste of the evacuation.
Percy walked just a step behind him, his cane folded up and resting in his inner pocket, nestled in the fleece lining of his flannel jacket. His sunglasses perched on his nose, hair rustling in the attempt of a breeze that had started up.
Bucky knew he didn’t like to have his cane out when they were doing work for the other part of their lives—it made him stick out. It made him memorizable. And, as much as Bucky loathed it, to many people, it made him look weak. They hadn’t seen Percy the way Bucky had—the living power that rested beneath his skin.
For the last eighty years, Bucky had become brutally familiar with every single fighting style that was out there—but when he saw Percy fight for the first time, he was delighted. For the first time in a very long time, he came face to face with a fighting style that wasn’t imprinted into his brain through blood and broken bones.
He’d been taught how to wield many blades, different swords included. But the first time he truly saw Percy fight, a month after everything that happened in Alaska, it was like the breath had been stolen from him. He’d still been in recovery from the wound in his side, had been readjusting to having the remnants of his sight stolen, but had still fought in a way that somehow suited him so well.
Simply put—when Percy fought, it made Bucky understand why it was often called the art of the sword.
It was just him, running through forms in the middle of the empty gym, controlled and precise. Every movement was fluid and connected, his blade an extension of his being. And the way he moved—pushing forward with his rear leg, slashing brutally downwards, never wasting time going for a limb, instead striking right where one’s throat or chest would be.
Bucky had leaned against the back wall of the gym, watching as a living relic of one of the greatest empires in history ran through his warm-ups. There was just something in how Percy fought, the footwork and the unrelenting press forward against an imaginary opponent, that made Bucky remember a long-dead civilization lived on in Percy. His strikes were that of an army, a conqueror, a demigod.
It was like nothing Bucky had ever seen. Just like the rest of Percy.
Around them, a few stragglers stood outside the barriers, loading crates of produce or crafts into trunks and truck beds. A ways away, he could see Bridgette, in a thick sweater and jeans, leaning against one of the cars, whispering conspiratorially with a woman selling handmade soaps about how the police found out one of the candle-makers had been, somehow, involved in drug manufacturing.
It was such a stupid excuse, Bucky thought, but he knew people would buy it. Anything to divert their attention from why the market had really been shut down.
Mrs. O’Leary is standing by her, too, discreetly sticking her face in a crate of peaches. The Hellhound seems to feel his gaze on her, and she looks up, cheeks puffed out with stolen produce. He just raises an unimpressed eyebrow at her and turns away.
“Anything?” He asked under his breath. He heard Percy sniff the air slightly, mouth settled into a frown. “Nothing weird. Carrots, garlic, pears,” His nose wrinkled. “Mustard greens.”
Bucky sighed, looking back at the group of police cars at the edge of the parking lot. “The HAZMAT team didn’t find anything either. It’s like nothing was even here.” He said, frustrated. “Three people dead, and not a single thing left behind.”
Percy linked their fingers together. “We’ll figure it out.” He said quietly.
They split up after that. Bucky met up with Van Keppel and Saint-James, the former in a corduroy jacket, the latter in a thick hoodie. Van Keppel’s eyes roved across the dissolving groups of vendors, narrowed and hard. Next to him, Saint-James fidgeted, looking anywhere but the forensic pathologist next to him.
Van Keppel’s eyes didn’t leave the woman Bridgette was talking to. “We got samples from all three of them. All of our panels came up empty.” His mouth twitched downwards. “Unless we know what we’re testing for, nothing will come up.”
Bucky’s lips thinned. “You’re sure?”
He nodded, ice-blond hair rustling across his eyes in the wind. It’d grown out considerably since they’d agreed to take the mission all those months ago, no longer carelessly chopped short on the sides. Now, it curled around his ears and at the back of his neck—and considering how often he saw Bridgette absentmindedly playing with the longer strands, it hadn’t been his idea.
“We can’t test for everything, Barnes. We don’t have the time for that. If you give us something to look for, we’ll do it, but until then…” He trailed off, shaking his head. Saint-James looked up slightly at the word us, but ducked his head back down soon after.
The supersoldier rubbed a tired hand down his face. “Alright. Thanks.” He turned away, heading back towards Percy, who was enthusiastically talking to a jam vendor a dozen meters away. Bucky couldn’t help the fond roll of his eyes as his boyfriend turned away, jogging towards him with a jar of what looked like raspberry jam in his hand.
“Really?” He asked.
Percy shrugged. “Wanted to see what she knew. Turns out, she knew a lot about jam. She was very convincing. And it smelled good.”
Bucky smiled, shaking his head. “Right. Well, Lee and Saint-James haven’t found anything. If we don’t know what we’re looking for, we’re kinda screwed.”
The demigod’s face turned serious. “Shit,” He muttered. They started walking to the other end of the barricade, away from prying ears. “Have we ruled out anything new so far?”
“They don’t think it’s a gas,” Bucky offered. “If it was, Lee bet it would’ve spread further than just the three it hit. People would’ve been sick, at least. The market was really crowded.”
Percy nodded, face knit in concentration. “So through contact somehow, probably. Something they ate, maybe? Touched something, maybe it got into their bloodstream somehow?” He theorized as they walked. “If we try—” His nose wrinkled, and he shook his head. “If we try some more blood analyses, or maybe I could take a look, see if I can pick out anything odd.” He finished, rubbing his nose.
Bucky looked over. “Worth a shot. You alright?”
His boyfriend nodded, sniffing. “Yeah. I think I’m allergic to France, though.”
Bucky absolutely did not find the ensuing sneeze cute. And it most definitely did not sound strangely like a small cat.
Saturday, March 2nd, 2018
8:12 PM
Queens, NY
The raindrops were like tiny prickles of ice, each droplet hitting the concrete sidewalks with a gentle plink. It was a metallic sound, cut by the soft pads of his headphones. Peter fiddled with the wire where it plugged into his phone, twisting it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger.
His jacket was zipped up to his throat, the thick lining warding off the late night chill, his hood keeping the rain from seeping through.
Since the second he’d woken up that day, a strange sense of uneasiness had settled into his throat, like a lump he couldn’t quite swallow. It’d followed him like a heavy cloud as he’d gotten dressed, pressing itself against the back of his neck, draping across his shoulders. It was there when he’d eaten breakfast, when he’d gotten dressed, when he’d worked on a school paper, when he’d gotten on the subway to Stark Tower.
Being there always soothed something in him—Friday’s kind voice, the warmth of the common room, the ambient life of the lab. Sure, company was a little scarce these days, ever since Sergeant Barnes and Percy had left, but Mr. Stark was always there when Peter was.
Mr. Stark always knew how to help. He was smart, and brave, and cool, and nice, and a million other things Peter wished he could be. But even when they were side-by-side in one of the labs, something still felt incredibly off.
His spidey-sense had never acted like it was now. Not a subtle warning, or a scream of imminent danger.
No, this was slower. This crept up his nerves, setting each one alight. There was no sudden flash, no persistent caution.
It was unnerving.
Peter shivered slightly, pulling his jacket tighter around himself.
His visit to the tower had been cut short, and he walked across the street with his overnight bag on his shoulder. The text from Aunt May had been sudden, frustratingly timed and extremely, worryingly vague.
The only thing she’d said was that he needed to come home. Now.
He’d glanced up at Mr. Stark, then, biting his lip, slid the phone over to his mentor. He, too, had been confused, but had gotten up to throw on a coat and grab his car keys. Peter had looked back down at the message, before shaking his head.
“It’s fine, Mr. Stark.” He quickly said, standing up and sliding it into his pocket. “I’ll swing home.”
“It’s really no problem, kid.” The man had replied. “No problem at all.”
Peter shrugged, swinging his bag onto his back. “It's fine. Swinging is faster, anyway.” He’d murmured, only half focused on the conversation as he spoke. The truth was, he just wanted to be alone, to get some time to think. Nothing against Mr. Stark, of course, but…
Again, that feeling was creeping up on him. Not like he needed to look over his shoulder, to check around corners. Like something was wrong, and there was nothing Peter could do about it.
Dread. His spidey-sense was pumping dread through his veins.
He’d left the building spewing apologies to a confused looking Mr. Stark, flipping up his hood and pulling his headphones over his ears as soon as he got down to the street below.
His walk had been accompanied by the steady pitter-patter of rain and the soft, low sounds of the playlist MJ had made for him, overlaid in time by his footsteps and the tell-tale beating of his heart.
It had been a tenuous few months, especially in the weeks following Toomes’s attack on the school.
The whole thing was still fresh in his mind, seared into his brain. How Cindy wasn’t responsive for a terrible few minutes, how Abe screamed when his leg was set, the taste and the burn of ash on his tongue. The sound of the bomb going off, of Toomes’s crazed laugh, the Rhino’s pounding footsteps.
Peter’s heart beating against his ribs like a mangled bird, how he ran from Toomes, how the Rhino leaned over him with a yellowed grin.
He remembers being angry.
The rage that had coursed through his veins.
For Liz, how she shook and trembled the last time he saw her before she moved. For his friends, bleeding and bruised and burned, behind him. For Percy, straining under the weight of Peter’s own fault.
For himself. For being the little guy, the punching bag, the coward.
They didn’t come for Spider-Man, not his bright colors and lighthearted quips and minimum force, his pulled punches are careful throws.
They’d come for Peter Parker, who wore no mask, who was scraped raw and pulled thin.
Peter Parker, who was the bruises and blood behind the mask, who curled over his uncle’s body, who screamed when he found out what happened to his parents, who stopped speaking for weeks after his Aunt hired a babysitter.
Spider-Man was fabric and tech. Peter was pain and so, so much anger.
It had scared him. More than any of the rest of his friends.
He didn’t see them all for a few weeks after the attack. When he did, they weren’t upset, like he’d expected. Oddly enough, they’d seemed…concerned.
They talked for a long, long time, before being able to settle into something that resembled normalcy. It was a weight lifted off Peter’s chest and shoulders, letting up and allowing him to breathe. Now, they covered for him in class, sent homework answers when there’d been an emergency and he hadn’t found the time, kept spare bandages and alcohol wipes in their bags, just in case.
It left something warm and soft inside him. But now, all that was gone, because something was wrong.
Something was so, so, wrong, and he felt like he was walking straight to his own execution as he ascended the steps to his apartment building. He took out his keys and stepped onto the executioner’s block. He fit them in the lock and let them wrap the noose around his neck. And as he opened the door, he could feel them kicking the block out from under his feet.
The expression she wore was one he had not seen in a long time. Not long enough. Nowhere near long enough.
Peter took one look at Aunt May’s face and he just knew.
Notes:
ive gotten some really interesting theories from my beta readers about whats causing this whole disease thing and now i wanna hear what shit you guys can come up with. hit me.
enjoy some of bucky being down astronomically bad for this man
percy really embodying The ADHD here just-
yeah there are bodies. but also i can smell So Many Things and also theres jamand now, i present lee and spencer
O
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/\you guys: show us peter
me: *drops this*
you guys:
you guys: not like thatplumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter Text
Sunday, March 3rd, 2018
3:06 AM
Lyon, France
Waking up to a scream was a common occurrence at the Trejo apartment.
It happened far more often than either of them would like to admit; being yanked from sleep by the harsh hand of their partner’s pain. Bucky’s own were always silent; stifled cries, biting his tongue hard enough to bleed, the silence forced on him for decades following him even in his sleep. Percy would wake to the scent of iron and a thudding heart. Bucky, on the other hand, would wake to thrashing and soft, muffled sobs, to see the demigod curled painfully tight in on himself.
Sometimes they’d be able to go back to sleep afterwards.
Other times, they ended up like this.
Percy was curled up into Bucky’s side, his face pressed into his chest. Both of the supersolider’s arms were wrapped tightly around him, holding him close. Neither of them would speak until they were ready; until then, it was just their overlapping breathing and the padding of the rain outside.
His boyfriend's breaths were still shaking and rattling in his chest, a struggle to regain control of them, even now. The blankets pooled around his waist, and Bucky resisted the urge to pull them up further on him.
Percy’s heart, flighty and fluttering, wasn’t keen on slowing down. Though he’d been roused from his nightmare, Bucky could tell that the panic overlaying his mind was far from gone. He smoothed a hand over Percy’s hair, wracking his brain for a distraction.
“My therapist says I’m supposed to try and talk about it more.” He found himself saying. “What it was like, being with Hydra.” Percy shifted against him, silent but listening. Taking this as a cue to keep going, Bucky went on. “She says it’ll help me come to terms with it more.” He muttered, shaking his head. “Come to terms with it. Like I don’t have to do that every morning.”
He’d been attending therapy in Wakanda ever since he’d been pulled from cryo, and continued to do so over calls once he moved to Stark Tower. The last session he’d had before they’d left for Lyon, she’d impressed that upon him with a stern look. It doesn’t have to be with me, she’d added. Just somebody you trust.
Percy shifted again. Far more subdued than normal, “Tell me something, then.” His voice was hoarse, a painful rasp in it. “Something you don’t usually tell people.”
It wasn’t phrased like an offer, but Bucky knew it was one. He knew if he said nothing in reply, spent the rest of the night staring at the wall without making a sound, Percy would accept that. It was one of the many reasons he decided to bring it up.
The question was, what to say? There were a million and a half things Bucky never brought to light, things he never wanted to. Some part of him knew that it wasn’t healthy, the urge to bury the last eighty years and push down until they were barely noticeable. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the headboard.
“I was awake when they took the arm.”
The color drained from his face. “What?” Percy whispered.
Bucky didn’t look at him, didn’t want to bear witness to the pure devastation on his face. “Sometimes, when it’s real cold out, it’s like I can still feel the bonesaw.” He admitted. At his side, Percy curled around him, pressing up against the connection point between metal and flesh, the soft material of his tee rasping against the raised scar tissue.
He didn’t have to look over at Percy to see the rage, pure and primal, that lurked beneath his skin. Flashing in his eyes like lightning in a hurricane, sharp and electrified and unpredictable. The clenched jaw and fists that made themselves known every time Bucky let something slip about his time with Hydra.
“I should’ve destroyed that base.” Percy eventually said. Bucky ducked his head, a slight smile curling onto his lips, despite the situation. Percy was good at that, he knew. Making him smile.
Bucky ran a hand up and down the demigod’s spine. “I appreciate that.” He returned levelly.
Percy yawned, rolling his shoulders as he settled further into Bucky’s side. “Do I go now?” He asked. Bucky shrugged the shoulder he wasn’t lying on. “If you want.”
He didn’t respond, at first. Percy’s brow was knit, his mouth a thin line as he thought. Bucky reclined back into the silence, pushing away the images of blood, blood, blood seeping through his mind, of pleading voices and dying words that nobody but him heard as he closed his eyes.
The ceiling fan turned in a lazy circle above them, and Bucky began tracking its rotations in an attempt to refocus himself on anything but that. He’d gotten well into the double digits before Percy spoke up.
“I have a scar on the back of my head from my ex-stepdad breaking a bottle over my skull.”
He said it plainly, like it was just another fact. Like the sky was blue, the sun was warm, and Tony Stark would take over the world if left unsupervised.
To Percy, he supposed, it was.
Bucky never considered himself a violent person.
He’d been a tool of violence, an instrument if you wanted to sound poetic about it. Personally, he found nothing poetic about what had happened to him, but he digressed. He didn’t usually want to hurt people. Hydra, sure, but Bucky just considered that returning what they’d given him.
Other people, though, he’d never found himself truly wanting to harm. Not until Percy said that.
Bucky knew the signs. Had seen them all in Percy, glaring and obvious when you knew where to look.
Percy didn’t just not drink—he stayed away from alcohol in all forms. Never went to bars, stayed away from drink tables at the few work functions they went to, cringed away at the smell of it. He shied away from loud voices, walked far too quiet like it was an old, old habit, and Bucky had seen the faded cigarette burns on his arms (and had accidentally almost turned one of Tony’s marble countertops to dust afterwards).
Their second day in Lyon, Bucky had come home with groceries, including a brand of beer he remembered drinking while in the army. Percy hadn’t reacted outwardly when he’d put it in the fridge; Bucky hadn’t thought much of it.
An hour later, he’d knocked a glass off the counter, and it shattered as it hit the floor. Bucky had sworn, going to bend down to pick up the pieces. From the living room, Percy flinched so hard it looked like it hurt.
He cleaned up the shards, threw out the rest of the beer, and hadn’t bought it again.
Bucky had known it had been bad.
But a bottle over his skull.
Sally and Paul had engagement photos from 2007. The trees were bare and everything was covered in a light dusting of snow, putting them sometime in December. Percy would have been fifteen.
That had happened to him before Paul, likely before the man had even entered his life. He’d probably been in middle school. Or younger, Bucky had realized.
He wanted to ask for a name. Wanted much more than that, really, wanted cracked bones and blood-soaked skin.
He didn’t ask.
A quiet fury, much like his own, lay underneath Percy’s words.“You feel better?”
A bottle over his skull. “Murderous, actually.”
“What a coincidence. Me too.” Percy'd echoed through gritted teeth.
Dr. Mel said it would make him feel better. If that was true, he was still waiting for it. Later that night, Percy had taken his place back against Bucky’s side, and had fallen asleep with an arm wrapped around the vibranium of his shoulder, a hand splayed on the raised scarring around the connection point. His palm was warm, fingertips pressed against the perpetual cold.
Nights like this were a longstanding thing. Old wounds that never really healed kept them both up at times, and they found solace in each other's company. It was tight hugs and soft words, whispered memories that brought clenched fists and a silent vow of violence if given the chance.
Wherever either one of them went, a mountainful of baggage followed. It’d been daunting, at first. To try and understand and get used to having a partner who’d been through so much, to learn what the other needed and when.
Bucky never raised his voice, no matter the occasion. He didn’t drink. On bad days, he never moved too suddenly, kept every movement slow and predictable.
Percy spoke fluent Russian, but never around Bucky. When they sparred, he kept up a steady stream of conversation, providing a lifeline of contrast to the Soldier’s training. On bad days, he cranked up the heat in the apartment and stayed glued to Bucky’s side.
Tonight, though, they laid in silence. Bucky listened to the rain hitting the roof and the pavement below, Mrs. O’Leary’s soft breathing from the foot of their bed, the subdued whirring of the central heating unit.
A bottle over his skull.
Monday, March 4th, 2018
5:42 PM
Stark Tower, NY
Natasha wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself.
She’d been back in the states for two whole weeks, and somehow still hadn’t mustered up the courage to have a real conversation with Tony. Awkward, stilted greetings were as far as she’d gotten.
The second she’d stepped foot in the tower, she’d known something was different. The common room had always had a warm, cozy feel to it, but now it seemed less…artificial. Like people actually lived here, not just a masterfully cultivated aesthetic by Pepper’s top-notch design team.
The afghans no longer left perfectly folded over the back of the couch at an artful angle. They were strewn about, in a pile indicative of use. The television remotes were on side tables and couch arms, not their designated place on the coffee table. Mugs were sitting on coasters, and a myriad of coats hung on the rack by the elevator.
It looked like a home, she realized first.
Then, the fact that it looked like somewhere she didn’t belong.
Maybe, once, it could’ve been. Before she did what she had. Ever since she’d gotten Tony’s letter, the whole Accords mess had been running through her head again and again. Her own words were thrown back at herself every time she paused to think about it, and she was getting very tired of it.
She knew she needed to talk to Tony about what happened. To clear the air.
Natasha dropped down onto her bed, dragging a hand over her face. God, if only her old handlers could see her now. The infamous Black Widow, brought down by the nerves of talking to a man who used to trust her.
It’d taken her far too long to learn that Tony Stark was a much better liar than she’d originally assessed. He wasn’t like her; not a spy, a double agent. Tony Stark was a showman, putting a rich, self-centered, cocky billionaire out for everyone to see. He snarked and he bragged and he jabbed, concealing a million things below the surface.
Natasha still couldn’t get over the fact that, when they’d first assembled, everyone had been so focused on his speaking that they hadn’t even noticed him stick a bug on one of the Helicarrier computers. Stuff like that—it was so much more calculated than she’d believed. His air of superiority and charm and sarcasm was nothing but a shield, lowering people’s opinions and their expectations and their guards.
And nobody noticed.
Are you incapable of letting go of your ego for one goddamn second?
Closer to the end, she had, but it was far too late to count for anything. She’d lashed out at him, and though he’d covered it impressively fast, she’d never forget the hurt that shone in his eyes. He’d brushed her off, flippant, as he redirected the conversation. And then she’d just walked away.
For a top-tier spy, she felt pretty damn stupid at the moment.
Steve had been expecting Tony to apologize. To come to his senses. It’d been belated, but Natasha had realized what Steve never had—Tony had come to his senses a long time ago, right when Steve had stood in front of him out on that tarmac. He’d come to his senses when he’d cut his losses.
And now, sitting in the tower, the Avengers Tower that didn’t need the original Avengers, she wished she’d told him that. Tony wasn’t going to come crawling back, because he didn’t need to. Tony had returned home, bruised face but iron-clad dignity, had regrouped, amended the Accords, strengthened ties with Vision and Rhodey. He’d pulled in Jackson, gave asylum to Barnes, rid the world of the Soldier. And from the news of Spider-Man, had begun to train the next generation of heroes, too.
Pepper Potts led the army of SI legal like a herd of sharks, cutting all ties between Tony and the outlaws that his team had turned into. Rhodes had retaught himself to walk, had made a triumphant return as the War Machine, and ensured the military still stuck with Tony. Barnes had delivered a devastating blow to the remains of Hydra, had drawn up the courage to sit in front of millions and unflinchingly detail what they’d done to him, all with a vindictive look in his eyes that made Nat shiver. Jackson had begun a brutal cleaning-of-house, not just in the US Government, but in the whole damn WSC and affiliates, stamping out corruption like it was a scourge of roaches under his boot.
Once more, a difference between Natasha and Steve. Out of the two, she’d been the one to realize that, whether purposeful or not, this was a loud and clear message. Tony didn’t need them. He never really had.
The world, sure. They’d been needed to clear out a mass of Chitauri, take down Hydra bases, and cut down Ultron’s army. But Tony? He’d made it clear that he was doing just fine on his own.
And now, she was floundering. Her entire life, she’d lived by two main principles. Never trust anyone fully, and always make yourself useful. Unexpendable. And now that she was here, in a place that had no clear defined need for her…
Natasha honestly didn’t know what to do.
Barnes and Jackson had been whisked away on some top-secret mission that she hadn’t been given the details of, bringing their team with them. It was just her and Stark, and she couldn’t even look him in the eyes without hearing her own voice bounce back at her.
I’m not the one that needs to watch their back, she’d said. Natasha wanted to go back to her past self and slap her. She’d been the one on the run, living life on the saving grace of a King she barely knew. And Tony? Tony’d been surrounded by people to watch his back for him.
The ache in her chest didn’t help. Every time she saw something familiar, that resonated like home, it hurt. She’d missed this place, missed Tony.
Natasha stared up at the ceiling, resolute.
The Black Widow was a double agent. She was fatal, sneaky, and cunning. The Black Widow played whatever side suited her, looked out for herself.
The Black Widow was left behind in Wakanda. Right now, she just needed to be Natasha.
And Natasha needed to go apologize to her old friend.
She honestly hadn’t expected to be given permission to be let in.
But, after a moment, the doors to the labs slid open soundlessly, unveiling Tony’s domain in its full glory to her. She’d never really ventured down here, in the past, and Natasha allowed herself one quick moment to marvel at what he had built. Standing here, rooted in the middle of the room, she couldn’t help but think of what had happened if he’d never joined up with the Avengers.
Lined up against the wall, from what looked like oldest to newest, stood a row of suits. She recognized the first, easily. The signature red and gold, clunky and rough compared to the rest but breathtaking and amazing compared to anything else.
Beyond that, the designs changed slightly for each one. The one directly in front of her had bypassed the typical gold, and had been replaced with a cool-toned silver. It was thinner, more lightweight than the others, and a simple nameplate read Mark V. The one standing next to it looked much more like the one she was accustomed to, sans the triangular spot on the chest where the reactor shone through. Then the one he used while fighting Loki, and the infamous Iron Legion model after that.
They went on and on, dozens of them, from the disassembled pieces of the Hulkbuster to the one she knew him to wear currently. Then, at the very end, there was an empty spot. Natasha drifted closer towards it, curiosity reigning. This one had no plaque like the others, and the light that illuminated the spot was turned off.
“That one’s a work in progress.” Came the voice behind her.
Natasha turned around, stamping down the slight guilt in her chest. “I wasn’t—”
He waved her off from his spot at one of the worktables. “They’re on display, Rushman. I’d be a little offended if you didn’t take a look at my life’s work, to be frank.”
She nodded. “Right.” Then, uncharacteristically, she shifted her weight. It was an extremely subtle thing, but she saw Tony’s eyes immediately flick to the movement. Never let it be said Tony Stark was unobservant, she thought. Natasha took in a deep breath, deciding this would not be the time to beat around the bush. “I wanted to apologize, if you’ll hear me out.”
An eyebrow ticked up, and he gestured towards her. “The floor is yours.” He said grandly.
“I messed up.” She opened with. “I shouldn’t have switched sides on you like that. It was a hasty decision, and…and it wasn’t the right one. I abandoned you when you could’ve used a friend the most. I was deceitful, and…” Natasha trailed off. “I was a bad friend. I’m sorry, Tony. I want to make it up to you, eventually, if that’s alright.”
His chin was propped up on his palm, face critical and searching. Natasha had spent a long time building up walls, layers upon layers to hide what laid beneath. Years in the making, but never before had she felt so exposed.
Tony stared at her for a long moment, before, slowly, nodding. “I believe you.” He said finally. It wasn’t an I forgive you, or everything’s alright, but she hadn’t been expecting either of those. Regaining that trust would be something she’d have to work for, and Natasha was nothing if not persistent.
She’d make it up to him, she swore.
She’d have to.
It was then Natasha looked at him once more. The bags under his eyes had been an ever-present staple of his appearance before the Accords. It was no secret to her—the nightmares, the insomnia, the whole nights spent in the lab. From what she’d seen while in Wakanda, though, he’d gotten a bit better. Public appearances were more frequent, and he seemed more… present.
But now, watching him turn back to the screen in front of him with a deeply furrowed brow, she could tell something was bothering him.
“Everything alright?” Natasha asked. He blinked, eyes flitting back up to her like he’d forgotten she was there. When he didn’t respond, she put her hands in her pockets. “If this is a bad time, I can go.”
Another appraising look. Then, he nodded towards the only other chair in the room, across from the table he was at. As she sat down, she couldn’t help but notice a few things—one, the back was adjustable, and leaned further back than Tony’s. Second, it was much lower to the ground, like whoever typically sat in it, because it sure wasn’t Tony, folded their legs beneath them. There were also a couple tools she couldn't place a name to scattered across the table, within the reach of the chair.
Strange. She’d only known Tony to let Pepper and Rhodey down here, and even those were for rather quick visits. But a lab partner? For the Natasha of a few years ago, it was inconceivable.
“If someone…” Tony started with a frown. “If someone you know suddenly goes no contact, how long do you wait before getting concerned?” He pursed his lips. “Rephrase; I’m already concerned, but how long would you wait before doing something about it?”
Immediately, her mind went to Pepper and Rhodes, then Jackson and Barnes. “Well…” Natasha said cautiously. “It depends, I suppose. If they’ve ever done this before, how busy they are, if there’s any reason they could be in trouble that you know of.”
Tony sighed. “He’s never done this before. Sure, a little quieter on busy days, but never just radio silence.”
He. Not Pepper, then. “How long has it been?”
“Since Saturday.” It was Monday, and rather late at that. A similar expression to his fell over Natasha’s face. “Did anything happen?”
“He left pretty suddenly Saturday night. Urgent message. Nothing since then.” Not Jackson or Barnes, then. They’ve been gone for weeks. “He was supposed to swing by earlier today, and his Aunt texted me that he couldn’t make it. No explanation.”
Aunt? The confusion must’ve shown on her face, because Tony suddenly leveled a narrowed glare at her. “I’m trusting you with this, Romanoff. The last time someone messed with my kid, I was an accessory to his murder.” He said it plainly, but the threat was loud and clear.
“Understood.” She said, “...Kid?”
Tony stared at the wall. “Peter. His name’s Peter, he didn’t show up to school today, and his phone hasn’t left the house since Saturday.” He ran a rough hand through his hair. “I try not to be overbearing, but…”
Natasha rested her elbows on the tabletop. “You know him better than I, Tony. Do you think something’s wrong?”
He closed his eyes. “Yeah.” A whisper. “Yeah, I really do.”
Notes:
some gay trauma bonding
bucky's inner urge to beat gabe ugliano to death vs percy's inner urge to paint himself with hydra blood
and yes, percy is the small spoon, thank you for asking
nat time!!! tony helped broker a deal between the WSC and her (and percy definetely put in a good word or two) and now she's at Stark Tower to help track down the rest of the Raft escapees. clint is currently getting a deal of his own to go home to his family
also the lack of real, genuine apologies in the mcu is astounding. like. if they had just straight up apologized, tony would've eventually forgiven them ffs
-in the lab-
nat, staring upon the rows of suits that literally put a man on the same team as a GOD and the HULK: idk i just feel like...maybe SHIELD should have been a little nicer to this guynat and tony friendship is just very important to me okay
plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter 5: Peter
Notes:
!!! TW: SA of a minor. Please be careful !!! Begins at the location switch to Queens. Summary in end notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, March 5th, 2018
3:52 PM
Lyon, France
Spencer would literally rather be anywhere else right now. The lights of the examination room were harsh, glaring down onto the table centered in front of him. His gloves were just large enough to be annoying, hanging off his fingertips ever so slightly, and it was freezing.
He shifted slightly, shoulders drawn in. “I…I really don’t think I’m qualified for this. I haven’t finished my program, you know. Or even done my residency.” He added.
Lee didn’t look up. “Well, lucky for you, I have. So, grab that container and get over here. I need more hands.”
Spencer sighed and inched over to the examination table. “I was supposed to be an anesthesiologist.” He muttered. “This was not included in my syllabus.”
As soon as they’d arrived at the building, Lee had grabbed some unfortunate employee and started giving directions, and after showing them their IDs, they were ushered into one of the back rooms. When Spencer had given him a wide-eyed look, the man had just shrugged and started pulling on gear. “Systemic infections of unknown etiology—standard practice. We get an isolation room.”
It was just the two of them, and only Lee was directly working with the body on the table. He wore cut-resistant gloves under two layers of surgical gloves, and they both wore HEPA filters. The table had an absorbent sheet with waterproof backing, and all the trays and surfaces had pads underneath them. Tape closed seams the held edges down to the table, and all the equipment was disposable.
The body itself looked…surprisingly normal. Spencer had done a cadaver dissection his first year of med school—everybody had to. But never something like this.
Lee did the autopsy with a sure hand, checking over exposed skin and taking hair and nail samples. Spencer’s job was just to put each item in its respective specimen container, and then label and shelve it properly. Once they were done, and everything had been hosed down, they were going to take these to the labs and run some tests. But until then, the respirators stayed on, and the doors most definitely stayed shut.
The recorder sat on a separate table, away from the examination going on. “Making the first incision,” Lee narrated to it as he picked up his scalpel. A wide Y-shaped cut, from shoulders to hips. He removed the frontal part of the ribs, exposing the internal organs. Despite his vague fear of the man, Spencer inched forward, curious. He’d been so swept up in everything that’d been happened recently that, for a moment, he’d forgotten that this was a team handpicked by the fucking WSC. Of course they were extremely proficient at what they did. And Spencer was nothing if not an optimist—he might as well learn from this experience.
He watched as the pathologist began carefully removing the organs, weighing each one and, with some of Spencer’s help, putting them in their correct containers for testing.
The silence was surprisingly comfortable between them as they worked. It reminded Spencer of the lab work he did at school, his professor’s and lab partners at his side. For a moment, it’s like he’s back home.
As he marks something down on the chart, he can’t help but wonder what’s going on back there. He’d disappeared suddenly, without warning. Just a phone call to his father and an email to his school that he’d been scouted for a prestigious overseas program, all expenses paid. It was bullshit, but he knew his dad would be so excited for him that he wouldn’t think to question it.
They’ve finally seen how smart you are, just like I always have, his dad had said as Spencer packed for Lyon. He’d sounded so proud that Spencer couldn’t even bring himself to dispute it.
He knew he should’ve dropped his research. They’d warned him, on more than one occasion, but he’d kept going. And, now, look where it’d gotten him.
Well, better this than in some off-the-book prison underground, he supposed.
“Tissue samples, at first glance, all appear normal. Slight—” Lee cut off with the sound of buzzing. He frowned, and looked over at Spencer, who put his hands up. “I put it on silent! Swear!”
He stripped off his gloves, washed his hands, and put on new ones before he answered, putting it on speaker. He didn’t recognize the number, which was odd.
“Is Van Keppel with you?” It was a male-sounding voice, and unfamiliar to him.
Immediately, Lee halted in his motions. “I’m here, Ace. What is it?”
“Archangel just got a report. I sent the address to your phones. You need to get there, like, now.”
“Damnit,” Lee hissed. “We’ll finish things up here, then be on over. Do not let anybody on the scene, do you understand me? Nobody.”
“Gotchya.” The man, Ace, said before hanging up. Huh. So that’s the mysterious team member he hasn’t met.
Behind the table, Lee beckons him over. “We need to get this done, quick. Grab a scalpel.”
Spencer’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.
This time, there was a security checkpoint a hundred meters out from the site. They watched over the monitors as Lee and Spencer arrived, faces twisted into worried creases.
Bridgette leaned closer to the screen, the blue light washing over her face as the two on-site members pulled on HAZMAT suits, respirators underneath. Just in case. Dan’s nimble fingers hovered over the keyboard, seamlessly following their teammates with the mall’s CCTV system, not losing them out of frame for a second.
“—hear me?” Lee’s voice crackled through the speaker.
Dan leaned in. “Yeah, we got you.”
As the pathologist made his way into the deserted food court, they heard him exhale sharply. He walked to the center, stopping in front of a large planter, obscuring view of the camera. “Did you get a number?”
“Four more.” Bridgette’s choppy voice came through. “Why?”
They could hear the uncharacteristic hesitance in his voice. “Give me a minute.” They saw him shake his head, instead lifting the camera. The flash went off once, twice, thrice. Then, he moved fully behind the planter, crouching down. The shutter went off a few more times.
Lee circled the area, snapping shots of the surrounding tables and benches without a word. After a moment of deliberation, Dan and Bridgette reached the silent agreement to let the man work in silence.
Bridgette turned towards Dan, reaching out and muting the communication line. “I’d hoped I was wrong.” She whispered. “I wanted it to be a prank call, Dan.”
He rubbed her shoulder gently. “I’m sorry.” He said softly. “I think we all wish that.”
She pressed her lips together, blinking furiously to stave off tears. “It—it was just a mall. People we just here with their families. There’s no political motive here. Just… families.”
He wrapped his arms tight around himself. “I know, Bridge. Shit, I know. Before…it was just isolated. One person. Maybe two. But four? I mean, the market was bad enough. There’d never been an attack that public before. And now the mall?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand why the escalation.”
“Guys, this…this is so much worse than we thought.”
“What do you mean?” Dan asked immediately, alarmed.
A notification popped up in the corner of one of the monitors. Dan didn’t waste any time in opening the attachment from Lee and beginning the download process.
“Tell me about the tip you got.”
“It was an SAMU call —Service d’Aide Medicale Urgente— that got sent to me by the department. It was from a teenager, who’d been skipping to get lunch there. One second everything was fine, and then there was a woman on the ground. Symptoms reported include severe coughing, seizures, labored breathing…” Bridgette swallowed. “Then she started bleeding. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but it was everywhere.”
Dan shivered despite himself.
“Kid got the order to evacuate immediately. Mall PA system and alarms went off a minute later, telling everyone to relocate to the bottom floor. They got escorted out and a placed into a quarantine. Nobody’s gone in yet.”
“You said four, right?”
Bridgette blinked. “What?”
“Four bodies. You said four.”
“The woman, and as the others got put into quarantine, many of them reported seeing three other people go down too.”
They’d watched the security feed together. How everything had seemed so peaceful, calm. Then, a body hit the floor. The boy was seen in the corner of the frame, making a frantic call, while three mall-goers rushed to help the woman. Then, the alarms and the overhead sirens, and everyone was running for their lives.
Leaving the three people who’d tried to help the woman on the ground.
“Four.” Lee repeated.
It was then that the files downloaded. With a shaky hand that had nothing to do with Dan’s old injury, he clicked on the attachments.
Over three dozen photos opened up on the screen, showcasing the entire scene from all angles. The blood-splattered floors, the crumpled food wrappers, the overturned tables and chairs from the mass panic caused by the evacuation orders.
And then, the woman. Her lips, her eyes, her nose, her ears, all had blood streaming out of them, half dried and congealed. Her eyes were bloodshot, bright red and puffy. Her purse was just out of reach, like she’d dropped it before she fell.
Then, a man. Tall, thin, dressed in a polo shirt with the mall’s name on it. There was a rag tucked into his belt, and a set of keys attached to his hip. A janitor, Bridgette inferred.
An older woman, gray shooting through her honey-blonde hair. She wore a nice pantsuit, simplistic but clearly expensive jewelry. Her mascara ran down unmoving her face in perfect tear tracks.
A teenager, in a thick sweater and jeans. Their hair was messily cut and pulled back, and their palms and knees were stained crimson from kneeling on the floor. A phone laid just inches away from their outstretched hand, a final call for help that would never arrive in time.
The woman, and the three people who so desperately tried to help her. That might have been the worst part—these people were good, running to help a stranger despite the potential dangers. Helping someone on instinct.
Bridgette was proved wrong, because this was far from the worst part.
The files kept opening.
A man in a dress shirt and tie. A young girl in pigtails. An elder with a cane a foot away. A mother. Her son, cradled close to her.
The files just kept opening, again and again and again, a new face and a new story and a new victim in each one.
Bridgette’s mouth went dry, and bolted upwards, diving to the trash can in the corner of the room. She bent over it, heaving up her lunch as Dan stayed frozen, staring at the photos.
“That,” He finally whispered, “Does not look like four.”
Tuesday, March 5th, 2018
11:58 PM
Queens, NY
It was raining again.
Cold wind swept through the city like a whisper, brutally stinging any skin unfortunate enough to be exposed. Puddles of near-ice glimmer in the streetlights, rippling with unease as they’re disturbed by a pair of heavy-soled sneakers.
The sun had set hours ago, overlaying the streets and buildings in ivory and gold, casting shadows that stretched hungrily.
Now, any murmurs of the daylight had been washed away, replaced with moonlight and the stars, though the latter were far too faint to see in the city. The squealing of tires on slick roads and water meeting the rigid fabric of umbrellas dominated the sounds, mixing and weaving with the howl of the wind.
People were scarce, the lateness of the day and the bad weather meeting to cull the population of pedestrians on the sidewalks. Most had retreated into the warmth of a car, an apartment building, hiding away from the torrents of frigid water escaping from the sky.
Under the harsh illumination of a streetlight, a young man walked down the sidewalk, his hood up and hands tucked into his pockets. His shoulders were drawn in and hunched, gaze fixed downwards onto the toes of his worn shoes. The jacket he was wearing was soaked through, hair plastered down onto his forehead and dripping into his eyes, but he seemed to be making no effort to hurry to whence he came.
Peter did not so much as tremble in the freezing weather, overcome by a different type of numbness as he walked. It ripped at his skin, shredding any protective layers of warmth he may have had, both internally and externally. In fact, he’d barely recognized the fact that it was raining, even as it ran down his face.
The storm drains, flush against the sidewalks, worked overtime, pools of dirtied groundwater flowing across the roads and sinking down below, a steady stream of noise to drown out his thoughts. For now, he was truly alone on the streets, deserted and deadly quiet.
He turned a corner, passed a row of closed shops, rolling metal gates pulled tightly down to protect the glass windows and doors. It truly was silent, save for the natural ambiance of the weather’s assault on the city, threatening to wash away all those who stayed out. Peter couldn’t bring it in himself to worry, unerringly putting one foot in front of the other.
The whimpers passed through the air like smoke, intangible and almost invisible. Easy to miss.
What soon followed, not so much.
It was the soft plea that got Peter, that made him halt in his steps, frozen as the world around him. Slowly, he turned around, eyes scanning the area around him, trying to pinpoint where it had come from.
“Please,”
More a sob than a word, a broken cry that was muffled against something other than the white noise wrapped around the city. Slowly, Peter turned on his heel, backtracking a block as he listened.
Even as it continued, that first word rang through his mind again and again, a terrible mantra that threw him violently back to almost a decade ago. Everything around him devolved to a dull roar, the rain and the wind and the cars and the water disappearing as he picked up the pace.
A tell tale heart, hammering against a ribcage to break it, deafening.
He was running, now. Uncaring of any semblance of a cover, Peter sprinted far faster than any human would be able to, crossing a street and going down another block.
Peter ducked in and out of alleyways, a desperation crawling up his throat as he searched, a wild look in his eyes as the rain threatened to drown out the voice.
“Stop,”
He didn’t bother turning back around. Instead, Peter scaled the side of the brownstone with ease, vaulting over the row of dumpsters and hoisting himself up onto the side of the fire escape, creaking under his weight as he landed upon it.
In under a second, he was on the other side of the block, and in a few more, he was across the street and skidding to a stop in a darkened alleyway. His stomach churned, bile rising up, acrid and burning.
The side of the building was solid brick, rough and cutting, leaving small scrapes and a large red mark on the side of the girl’s face. The smell of salt hits him, her tears free-flowing down her cheeks.
They make eye contact for one terrible, soul-bearing moment. He’s never felt more exposed, cut open and displayed, than in that one short second. Her eyes, shiny and puffy, meet his and for a second, he’s very, very far from this alley.
He sees the word she doesn’t say again, the other hand on her throat cutting off the message that she delivers with her eyes.
Please.
Hands on her too-narrow shoulder, grip bruising and forceful and demanding. Her shirt is torn, pants unbuttoned and hanging low, finger-shaped bruises already forming on her skin.
Peter doesn’t even look at the man. Whether it is because he cannot bring himself to stare at him, or because he simply doesn’t need to, he’s unsure.
Though it was only a second, he sees so much more than he needs to. The hair that had been yanked out of its braid, the shattered phone laying at the entrance of the alleyway, the purse that had been tossed onto the filthy ground.
He steps forward like he’s possessed. Maybe he is, not by the ghost of a dead man but by the ghost of touches that never really went away, words whispered in his own ear that never really went away, a hand around his own throat that never really went away.
Peter’s hand overtop the man’s, wrenching it back and off the girl. He throws him, easily and without thought. His skull hits the concrete with a sickening crack that rings out through the alleyway, echoing.
Behind him, the girl, fingers shaking and shoulders still trembling, zips up her pants and fixes her shirt and grabs her jumper off the ground, yanking it back over her body. He recognizes the crest emblazoned on it as the one of the local middle school.
Once more, they make eye contact. Both waterlogged and freezing, hair hanging in front of their haunted eyes, faces streaked with a mix of water, salt and sky. Neither of them speak. The marks around her throat already begin to darken, and his tongue is lead in his mouth.
Her eyes are round, a soft jade green color, framed by running mascara and smudged eyeliner. His own are a chestnut brown, with deep, bruise-like circles etched beneath them.
Right then, though, their eyes look exactly the same.
Then, she’s scooping up her phone off the ground, clutching it white-knuckle tight, and sprinting out of the alleyway, away from the man on the concrete, towards the lights of the bodega down the street, towards the old woman sitting at the counter inside.
Numbly, he turns away from her retreating back. The man on the ground is struggling up, propping himself up onto his elbows and up against the wall.
Peter doesn’t even think twice before grabbing a fistful of the man’s hair and brutally slamming his face into the brick wall. The sound of his nose breaking brings Peter nothing. No joy, no satisfaction. But he does it again.
He drags the man away from the wall and tosses him onto the floor once more.
Every time his skin meets the man’s, the feeling makes him want to retch, skin crawling with disgust.
Peter can still hear it.
Please.
He’s atop the man, his knuckles slamming into the man’s cheek. The force of it snaps his head to the side. Peter does it again.
He feels nothing, not even the cold rain seeping into his back as he gets on top of the man. His fists meet flesh, again and again and again, whether it be the face or the ribs or the chest or the stomach.
Peter hits him until the color of his skin is replaced by crimson, until he no longer fights back, until his breaths are replaced by agonizing wheezes, until his eyes roll back in his head he’s limp against the concrete.
Please.
He cracks bone and tears flesh with the impacts, a wild voice in his head screaming for more, more, more.
There’s still no sense of accomplishment at his brutality, no peace. The only thing is the want roaring in his chest, pounding in his heart, screaming to be let out. He wants this man to suffer. He wants him to pay. He wants him to understand fear.
Please, please, please.
Somewhere along the lines, her voice overlaps with Peter’s, seven years old and so, so small.
The man makes a desperate noise, a plea muffled by his own blood and broken teeth. Peter’s eyes are wild, alight with something unnameable. “What was that?” He whispers, speaking for the first time that night.
A gurgling noise, barely understandable.
“Please?” He breathes out, manic. “You’re saying please?”
His eyes are already swelling shut, unable to make eye contact with Peter.
“She said please. We all say please . And you never listen!” Peter screamed hoarsely, the words guttural and ripped out of him. He hits him again. “ Please means nothing!”
He’s crying, now, the tears soaking his skin and the bloodied mass below him. He must look a mess, crazy and unhinged, but he doesn't care in the slightest. “You’re not worth the forgiveness, the kindness. You and everyone like you.” Peter chokes out, words hitched by sobs.
He can’t even stand to be near the man anymore. Peter lurches upwards, scrambling backwards off of him. His hands burn, the sickening skin-on-skin contact, the revolting voice and words. “You’re not worth anything.” He swears.
Peter’s knuckles are split open deep, bathed in blood and pain. He gives the man one last look, collapsed on the dirty ground in a puddle of his own life, barely breathing.
He turns and leaves, venturing back out into the city and letting the rain wash the blood away from his hands, onto the ground and into the drains below.
Notes:
summary for those who skipped: Peter hears a girl begging for help, and when he finds her, he finds a man attacking her. He pulls the man away, and she runs into a store. Peter then beats the shit out of the guy.
bit of a heavy chapter, here. trying to address this with few words is hard, but
SA is never, ever your fault. the only blame is on the attacker, never the victim. it doesn't matter if they are your partner, you are intoxicated, or you consented at some point but change your mind. tell someone, whether it's a family member or a friend or law enforcement. silence will never help you. you did nothing wrong.
national SA hotline: 1 (800) 656-4673
it's available 24/7, call or online chat.stay safe out there, and remember that, whatever happens, you are no less of a person because of it.
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter Text
Wednesday, March 6th, 2018
6:32 AM
Lyon, France
Percy balanced his phone in between his shoulder and ear as he searched for his keys in his bag, nodding along absently to Ross’s voice.
“We’re still working on a list of viable targets.” His teammate explained. “Going from two victims at a market to over a dozen in a mall…whoever’s doing this is evolving, rapidly. Or, well, devolving, maybe. The attacks are getting erratic, moving from one or two test subjects to a mass exposure. The attack methods are getting less refined, more public.”
He sighed as he unlocked the door to his classroom. Down the hall, Louise, along with Ines and Elias, early as always, walked down the hall, chatting quietly. He didn’t have Louise until his fourth period, but he knew she always walked her friends to their first class of the day.
Percy rubbed at his nose, irritated. Whatever he’d been having since he got to Lyon had somehow gotten way worse since he’d stepped into the school. He blamed the debate teacher next room over who never closed her windows. He liked his coworkers, truly, but a few did manage to get on his nerves every now and then.
“Somewhere public.” Percy mused as he stepped into his classroom, cautious of his volume. “Probably inside, based on the results of the last attack. Spreads better. A community center, an office, a large store…” He sneezed, jerking his head away from the phone. “Sorry,” He muttered, sniffing.
“I’ve literally never heard you sneeze.” Ross’s voice came through, decidedly amused. “Didn’t know you could even get allergies.”
He huffs, smoothing down his button-up. “Yeah, neither did I.”
The footsteps outside get louder, echoing across the empty hallway. Percy drops his bag on his desk chair, and sets his travel mug down next to his stack of books he was going to hand out today. “Listen, Ross, I gotta go. Class is starting soon. Remember what I said.”
Percy makes his way towards one of the windows, the layout of his class long since memorized, drawing open the curtains and letting the morning sunshine soak into his skin. The day was cold but cloudless, a pleasant break in the frigid weather of late. The sun shone in all its glory, Apollo making his way across the sky unobstructed.
As Percy walks back to his desk, he makes a mental note to speak to the class—it seems somebody had forgotten something under their desk yesterday.
He filled the seating chart from the front to back, and since that spot was in the corner of the far wall, only two of his classes were full enough to have somebody sitting in it. One was Louise Bonnet, and the other a young man named Felix Lavigne. And, if he remembered correctly, Felix had been absent the last week, out with the flu. Louise, then.
“Public, inside. Community center, office, store.” Ross recites. “You got it. We’ll compile a list and start canvassing.”
The girl is still outside, talking with her friends, and Percy goes back to the desk to retrieve her forgotten item and hand it off to her while she’s still here. He gets within five feet of the desk before his nose begins to burn, and he doubles over, coughing.
“Jackson?” Ross sounds slightly alarmed, now. “You alright?”
His voice has a distinct wheeze to it when he responds. “Yeah, fine. Just—” He cuts off, sneezing again. Christ, it feels like his sinuses are on fire. He sniffs, rubbing his nose on the back of his free hand before opening up the desktop.
Through the sting, he can smell the tang of metal, hear a strange… hissing? As he gets closer, he can hear the mechanical humm to it, the barely audible creak and groan that every machine had to him. Something cold runs down his spine.
Time turns heavy, moving like molasses in a way that reminds him of cruel golden eyes. Outside, the three students reach his door, and he can hear the creak of the doorknob.
Without thinking, he lunges across the room, slamming the door shut with his side. The three students jump back, eyes wide. “Go to the office!” Percy orders through the wood. “Now! Tell everyone to stay down there!”
They back up cautiously, before rushing back the way they came, hearts pounding in their chests. Percy locks the door behind them, then rubs a hand down his face. He’ll definitely have to apologize for yelling at them later, he knows.
That is, if he’s still around by then.
“—son! Jackson!” Ross is yelling through the phone, discarding any facades of calmness. He lifts it back up to his ear, mouth dry. “I’m here.” He says. “And about that list of yours? No need to canvas. Community centers, offices, stores, schools.”
Gods, how come he didn’t think of this before? It was so apparent it was painful. It was guaranteed that many people would be in the building at a specific time. It was such an obvious choice.
He can hear Ross’s heart stutter over the line. “Commander…”
Percy stands over the desk, listening to the hissing of the machine. He can smell it now, acrid and tangy. It burns, scraping his lungs raw. “Call the rest of the team.” Percy says numbly. “I’ll—I’ll call James.”
“We’ll fix this. You’re going to be alright.” Ross says.
Percy doesn’t reply.
A perimeter gets set up around the school, cordoning off the entire area. Quarantine tents and checkpoints every few meters, and the HAZMAT teams come in droves. The National Guard sets up a blockade, keeping out any curious civilians or reporters. The entire school is evacuated in under ten minutes.
Lee and Spencer end up being the only SWORD members to go on site, and after donning layer after layer of protective gear, began to methodically go through the entire building, room by room, suited up cleaners behind them. Everything looks normal—lockers with regular old textbooks, spare stationary and clothes, classrooms cleared out of student belongings, empty desks with chairs stacked atop them.
They go through every nook and cranny, each storage closet and cubby. None of them are willing to miss anything, especially with what’s now at stake.
They don’t find a single thing outside of Jackson’s classroom. When Lee finally gets up to the top floor, she’s met with a taped off doorway, the glass part of the door covered. She swallows, and lightly raps her knuckles on the wood. “It’s Lee.” Is all she says.
“Hey.” Her boss’s voice comes closer than she expected. He may very well be sitting on the other side of the door, but she has no idea. The thought sends something painful and sharp into her chest.
“We’re going to get you out of here, alright? Then to a hospital.”
He sounds hoarse, scratchy, like speaking is painful. “Are the kids alright?”
She nods, even though he cannot see her. “Scared.” She admits. “But no symptoms yet. They’re under observation.”
The sigh of relief from the other side of the door is clearly audible. “And…how’s James?”
Lee pauses her, choosing her words even more carefully than before. “He’s worried.” She settles on. “We all are. He’s with the others right now. I gave Ross orders to tase him if he tries to come to the site.”
The dull thunk of what she assumes is his head tipping back against the door. “Good.” Is all he says.
The entire wing of the hospital, like the school, was closed off to anyone without the proper credentials. The rooms are filled with the students and staff that had been in the school—almost three dozen people. Though nobody said it, everyone was grateful that it was such a small school and early enough that most people hadn't yet made their commute.
James Barnes is standing in front of the pathologist with a deeply worried furrow and frantic eyes. She doesn’t even bother to try and turn him away, instead directing him to the extra gear. He won’t be let into Jackson’s room, but she can get him into the wing at least. He’d find a way in no matter what she does.
Once he’s properly dressed, she leads him to the room at the end of the wing without a word. It’s built like the rest of the rooms, save for the large glass partition that separates the bed and surrounding areas from them. She leaves Barnes standing by the wall and enters the quarantine area, steadying herself.
Jackson is still conscious, which is a startling feat on its own. There are only two other doctors beside him, who are hurriedly taking his vitals. The EKG’s steady beeping grounds her as she begins to check him over. With careful hands, she ties a band around his upper arm and begins taking blood from the crook of his elbow. She knows that it’ll have to be kept out of the hands of the other doctors—Jackson had made sure she knew the… eccentricities of his blood. She’ll study what she can, then destroy the samples. Jackson barely reacts, sluggish and slightly out of it.
Lee has never, at any point in her life, been an optimist. She knows the odds.
They have no idea what causes the disease, how to test for it, the order the symptoms will set in, nor how to treat it.
The machine that dispersed it is a strong lead. It’s been sent back to the lab where Mal is dissecting it, and the rest of the team has been ruthlessly tracking down every possible lead since Ross alerted them to what happened.
But she knew the odds.
Wednesday, March 6th, 2018
9:34 AM
Stark Tower. NY
Tony stared at his phone screen for a very long time before silently turning it off and putting it down.
Percy was sick.
Really sick, and they weren’t sure how to fix it.
Tony couldn’t even go see him. Despite it all, they were still undercover, and Tony Stark showing up to see a random teacher in France would most certainly set off alarm bells if they were being watched. The risk was too great.
That didn’t mean he had to like it, though.
He knew Bucky well enough to read the panic and desperation between the lines of his message. It made something in his stomach churn. Helplessness was a feeling that Tony knew well. Sitting in that cave as the men put Yinsen on his knees, watching as a nuke flew over New York, his back on the cold concrete in Siberia as Rogers loomed over him.
Being helpless was a feeling Tony was familiar with.
He still felt like breaking something.
Rubbing a tired hand over his face, he leaned back in his seat and stared up at the ceiling of his lab. “I really wish Bruce was here.” He admitted, voice raw. “Seven PhDs would be really helpful right now.”
“I’m sorry, Boss.” FRIDAY replied softly. “I haven’t stopped looking.”
Tony reached out and patted the side of his computer. “I know, Fri. Thank you.”
Most days, he tried not to think about his friend and where he might have ended up. The quinjet had last registered with one of his satellites at the edge of the exosphere—if Bruce was planning to stay on-planet, there was absolutely no reason for him to be that far up. Hulk was smarter than that, too. No, Tony’s friend was somewhere much further. Devastatingly out of his reach.
Wherever he’d ended up, Tony hoped he was at least having fun. It’d be a real shame for his trip to space to be a complete dud, after all.
(Tony didn’t even dwell on the notion that maybe Bruce hadn’t ended up anywhere at all. That his friend had run out of fuel or food and had died alone, drifting across the empty void that Tony knew all too well.
That would be a terrible way to die.
Like it was yesterday, he remembered how he floated, weightless and barely awake, watching an armada of unimaginable size head towards his planet. The wormhole, the nuke, falling. Some nights, he still woke up feeling weightless.
But Bruce was alright. He had to be.
Sure, he was the Hulk. But more importantly, he was Bruce fucking Banner, one of the strongest people Tony had ever known. He had seven goddamned PhDs. He could survive space.)
Tony closed his eyes and resisted the urge to try and call Bruce’s cell, which had long since been disconnected.
He missed Bruce. Thor, too. He missed Bucky and Percy, and the SWORD team that kept popping up in his living room.
Having Natasha here was…strange. She walked on eggshells around him, and her guilt was well-hidden, but apparent to him. Her apology from the other day had been frank and unexpected, but welcome nonetheless.
Things between them getting back to how they were before the whole Accords mess wasn’t going to happen. Maybe the rift could heal, but Tony was very firmly a forgive but never, ever forget person.
“Boss,” Came his AI’s hesitant voice. “I…have come across something you may need to see.”
Tony straightened in his seat at her tone. “Cue it up.” He said cautiously.
What appeared on the screen was blurry, low-quality video from a dry cleaner’s security camera. It was dated just past midnight, the middle of a rainstorm that had flooded the streets and had only begun to clear up a bit ago.
Not much was in the frame; mainly the storefront, the pavement in front of it and directly across the street. It was all empty, save for the occasional car going across the street. Then, two figures, one small and one large, walked down the street, one after the other, into a small alleyway on the corner of the screen.
Then, fast-forwarding a few minutes later, a person dropped down from above, directly in front of the camera, as if from the roof or balcony above. They landed on the concrete in an easy crouch, seamlessly standing up as if it was second nature. As if that wasn’t strange enough, the person then sprinted across the street and into the alleyway, disappearing from view a moment afterwards.
Tony sat there in silence, holding his questions, leaning forward with a knitted brow. A minute later, somebody ran out of the alleyway and into view. A girl, barely a teenager, he guessed, ran across the street and closer to the camera, clutching her bag and phone tightly. Five minutes after that, the person from the roof calmly walked out and turned down the sidewalk, not crossing the road closer to the camera like the girl had.
The third person didn’t come out.
“Fri, what is this?” He asked finally.
In lieu of an answer, the camera fast-forwarded a few hours. Now, an ambulance and a cop car were parked in front of the alley, lights flashing. A stretcher was loaded into the ambulance and it sped away not a moment later, careening down the street. Tony took it all in, eyes darting around the screen as officers and crime scene techs went in and out of the alley for the next few hours.
He tore his eyes away, looking back up at the ceiling. “I don’t get it.” He finally said.
“Well,” FRIDAY said, almost cautiously, “I do tend to keep an eye out for Enhanced in the area. I did some light dipping into the police report and hospital records…the man that was attacked was done by someone unbelievably strong. His skull was almost caved in, Boss.”
“Alright…is this a common occurrence?” Tony ventured, still confused as to why FRIDAY was alerting him to this. Sure, if there was an Enhanced who’d gone nuts and was rampaging downtown, he might be called in to take care of that. But a single assault case wasn’t typically his area.
“No.” FRIDAY replied. “The issue isn’t that. I managed to follow the attacker across part of the city. Eventually, he walked by a bank with much better cameras. I took a frame from the footage and cleaned it up as best I could. And, Boss…” She trailed off.
Then, the screen changed, a single image projected.
A teenage boy, soaked to the bone. His clothing was a bit hard to make out due to the low lighting, but Tony managed. An old MIT hoodie, jeans, and converse with duct tape on the toe. Bloody knuckles stuck out of too-long sleeves. He didn’t have to look closer to know that, if inspected, the hoodie would have the name Tony Stark stitched into the back.
The hoodie had been old, something he kept in the back of his closet and barely remembered. One cold day in the tower and an intern who’d forgotten his sweater later, and the hoodie had left his possession.
Peter.
All the color drained from Tony’s face, the breath punched out of him. “No,” He whispered. “Fri, this has to be wrong. Pete would never. This isn’t right. This has to be wrong.” He said, frantic.
“I’m afraid it isn’t. I triple checked.”
Tony squeezed his eyes shut, slumping forward, burying his face into his hands. “Fuck,” He swore viciously. “Gods fucking dammit.”
Then, like all the energy had been sapped from him, his voice went quiet. “I’ll…” He swallowed. “I’ll text him. Have him come over. Clearly,” He said, eyes locked on the screen, “We need to talk.”
Notes:
...yikes lmao
percy, just trying to do his fucking job: :|
the fucking bioweapon in his classroom: ;)have some percy feels, some bucky feels, some tony feels, some rare BRUCE FEELS, and some peter feels
enjoy <3
plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter 7: The Further You Go
Notes:
TW: descriptions of childhood SA (to skip, go down to the next timestamp, and there'll be a summary in the end notes)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday, March 6th, 2018
2:16 PM
Stark Tower. NY
He knew the call would come eventually.
Peter had been waiting all day, ever since he’d gotten home early that morning, just a half hour past midnight. He’d been frozen solid and soaked to the bone, blood coated hands sliding open the latch to his window and pulling himself in.
He’d left his stained clothes in a heap on the bathroom tile, and had spent the next twenty minutes under burning hot spray, trying to scrub off something other than blood. The water had run off his skin red nonetheless. He’d emerged, skin pinkened from the temperature, hair dripping in his eyes. Peter had barely dried himself off, just changed into a pair of pajamas and walked over to his bed.
Then, he just sat there.
Aunt May came in, who knows how much later, a daylight behind her and breakfast in hand. She didn’t try to start a conversation with him. She’d just left the plate on his desk and told him she loved him. Peter had managed to give her a smile, but it didn’t look real to either of them.
He didn’t budge from his spot, spine against the wall, legs curled up close to his body, his phone laying a foot away on his pillow, screen side up.
When it rang, Peter didn’t have to look at it to know who was calling. He just reached over, swiped to accept it, all without tearing his eyes away from the blank spot on his wall he’d been staring at for the last few hours.
“Peter.” Mr. Stark almost never called him his full name. Either some variation of it or a nickname. Never just Peter. “You need to come to the tower, kid.”
He couldn’t bring himself to let any emotion slip through his voice. “Alright. I’ll be there in an hour.” Peter rasped out. Before Mr. Stark could respond, he hung up.
Then, Peter stood, muscles creaking and stretching in protest. He numbly pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater, neatly folded up his suit and gingerly placed it into his backpack, and climbed out onto his fire escape. It seems even the so-called Amazing Spider-Man could only outrun his own karma for so long.
A few hours was better than he expected, really.
It would be faster to take the subway, but Peter didn’t think he could handle the forced proximity. He walked, head down and face unchanging, on the edges of the sidewalks along the puddles of rainwater lining the streets. He went through Elmhurst then Sunnyside, then across the bridge and Roosevelt Island until the familiar skyscrapers began to dominate his vision.
A part of him wished he’d swung there. But if he did that, he’d have to put the suit on. Sliding that bright fabric over his split knuckles wouldn’t feel right. And taking it off might just be his breaking point.
He, for once, didn’t talk to FRIDAY in the elevator. The ride was completely silent, save for the quiet workings of the car and the pleasant dinging that signaled his arrival.
She brought him to the labs, and Peter’s eyes stung at the realization. All the hours he’d spent here, hanging out with Mr. Stark, building and talking together—
Peter scrubbed a rough hand across his eyes.
He stepped out of the elevator, trying his best not to let anything slip from his composure. There was light coming from only one room, leaking down the hallway towards him. Peter closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and walked inside.
Mr. Stark was sitting there, waiting. His eyes were trained on the screen in front of him, a frame of CCTV footage illuminating his face. The man looked tired, Peter noticed first. Really tired.
“Come sit down, Peter.” He said.
Soundlessly, he slipped his bag off his shoulders and took a seat at the same desk Mr. Stark was. Peter unzipped his backpack, pulled out the suit, and set it on the table. “Figured I’d save you the trouble.”
Mr. Stark stared down at the vibrant fabric that had been shoved towards him. After a second, the man put a light hand atop the bundle and pushed it back towards Peter. “That’s…that’s not what this is.” He said.
Peter didn’t reply.
“This was you?” Mr. Stark finally said. He didn’t turn towards the security footage, but he didn’t have to. Peter knew what he meant. What surprised him, though, was the tone of Mr. Stark’s voice. The lack of finality, like, just maybe, Peter was innocent.
“Yes.”
Mr. Stark closed his eyes, nodding. He didn’t say anything for a long few minutes, like he didn’t even know where to begin with Peter. Then, “Why?” He said, looking back down at the suit, tracing each line and design with his eyes.
That was the thing, Peter supposed. Mr. Stark thought that had been Spider-Man out there, suit or not, doing that. But he was wrong. Hurting that man was all Peter Parker.
“I’m sorry.” Peter said instead. “I know you’re mad, but—” His voice cracked, cutting him off. Peter, once again, rubbed at his eyes, trying to get the rest of his words out. Peter knew that what he’d done was unforgivable, but the worst part was that he couldn’t even drag up a bit of remorse about what he’d done. That man deserved what he got. Peter wanted to explain, to make Mr. Stark understand, but all that came out, pathetically quiet and choked up, was “Please don’t hate me.”
Mr. Stark’s face shuttered. “Hate you?” He whispered incredulously. “Pete, what?”
Peter looked up at him for the first time. Mr. Stark was leaning forward, brow knit in a concerned expression, eyes searching. “Kid, I—I’m not mad at you. Okay, I’m a little pissed, but that’s because you just disappeared.” He said softly. “But I’m not here to—to take away your suit, or yell at you.”
“What?” Peter croaked out.
Mr. Stark looked at him, something breaking in his face. “Kid, I was worried.” He got out. “You weren’t responding to any of my messages, and—and the first I see of you, you’re acting way out of character, and I know something’s wrong, but I can’t help if you don’t talk to me, kiddo.”
Peter stared, wide-eyed at the man, before flinging himself forward and into him. He wrapped his arms tightly around Mr. Stark, burying his face into his collar. Mr. Stark, after a moment of surprise, returned to hug just as tightly. “I got you, kid,” He whispered as Peter’s shoulders shook. “I got you.”
He held him, just like that, until Peter’s shudders came to an end and his breathing got back under control. There was a wet patch on the collar of his shirt, but Tony didn’t mention anything, which Peter appreciated.
Peter pulled away a bit, not far enough to leave the safety of Tony’s arms, but enough for him to make eye contact. “I was—I was just on a walk.” Peter rushed out. “He had this, this girl in the alleyway, and he was hurting her and was taking off her clothes and she was crying and begging and—” His voice broke. “And I hit him. Again and again and I just kept going. I was so mad.”
Tony rubbed a soothing circle on Peter’s shoulders with his thumbs. “Okay.” He said. “I’m going to be honest with you, Pete, alright?” The teenager nodded, eyes still blurry with tears. Tony sighed. “I’ve killed people before.” He said bluntly. “Ever since I became Iron Man. Percy’s done it, Bucky’s done it, Rhodey has. It’s part of our jobs. It doesn’t have to be part of yours.”
“The man…” Peter asked.
“Lived. He’s in the hospital, but he’ll get out eventually.” Tony finished gently. “I’m telling you this because I need you to understand—being a superhero can mean hurting people. You don’t have to kill people. But that choice…sometimes it’s not your own. You with me?”
Peter nodded.
“The thing I’m worried about is why, kid. I know you see a lot of stuff out there on patrol, but you’ve never reacted like this. I just—I just want to know if you’re alright.” Mr. Stark said. His voice and face were open and raw, and Peter didn’t even try to stop the flow of words that came rushing out of him.
“When Aunt May called me home the other day, she had to tell me something. We, we’d gotten this letter and—” Peter shook his head. “This…this guy had gotten out of jail, and we had a restraining order on him, so we got a notice about it.”
Tony blinked. “A restraining order?” He asked carefully.
Peter leans back into Tony, hiding his face from view. He takes a few measured breaths, squeezing his eyes shut. “His name was Skip.” Peter finally says, so quiet Tony barely hears him. “He was my babysitter.”
A slow, creeping chill came over Tony.
“I didn’t have a lot of friends. But Skip was nice. He let me talk about science. Watched movies with me. He—he said we were friends.” Peter’s words are rough and hoarse as he begins to paint a terrible, terrible picture. “I used to hug him a lot, whenever I saw him. It…it was normal. But then he started hugging me, just randomly. He’d sit next to me, right next to me, when we watched movies. He—”
Tony rubbed Peter’s back, glad he couldn’t see his face. Tony’s eyes were wide, silent horror plastered across his face.
“Eventually, it wasn’t just hugs and sitting together.”
Tony squeezes his eyes shut as a single tear trails down his cheek.
“He…he always told me not to tell anyone. It was our secret.” Peter forces out, voice hitching and painted with revulsion. “May and Ben eventually found out. He went to jail. But even then, I never admitted it. Its been almost ten fucking years, and I’ve never even admitted it out loud.”
“God, Pete.” Is all Tony could get out, nauseated and cold.
“I trusted him.” Peter admits into Tony’s collar. “I thought he was my friend. And, he—he—” Fuck, Peter couldn’t even say it. A decade, and Peter still couldn’t say the words. He clutched Tony’s shirt tighter, shaking like a leaf. “And he’s out of jail.”
Tony’s arms are strong around him, pulling him close. “I’m so sorry, Peter.” Tony whispers. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
Peter was trembling. “I don’t know what to do, Mr. Stark. He—he’ll probably stay away, I don’t think he wants to go back to jail, and May would absolutely lose her shit on him if she ever saw him. She, she almost killed him, you know? Grabbed a tire iron. Ben had to stop her.” Peter gives a wet, humorless laugh. “But what if he doesn’t? I can’t see him again.” He said, panic overwhelming his words. “Mr. Stark, I can’t.”
Tony swept his thumb back and forth across Peter’s shoulder, a steady movement that the boy leaned into. “You won’t.” He swore. “I’ll make sure of it.” Tony’s gaze was soft as he looked at Peter, but there was an undeniable edge to his words, an underlying danger that Peter knew wasn’t directed at him in the slightest. “He won’t come within a hundred miles of you.”
It was easy to forget that Mr. Stark, the man who was teaching him to drive, who had a fridge stocked with lunches in case Peter got hungry, who spent hours side-by-side with Peter in the labs listening to him ramble about anything and everything, wasn’t just Mr. Stark. He was Iron Man, who built himself up from scraps in a cave, who knocked out en entire terrorist ring and flew a nuke into space. Even without the suit, Mr. Stark was made of iron.
Peter nodded, unquantifiably grateful but unable to speak, words getting caught in his throat and forcing themselves back down. He wiped at his eyes. “I don’t know what to do, Mr. Stark.” He found himself admitted. “I don’t know where to go from here.”
Because how could he just move on? Forget Skip and what he did to him, even though he knew the man would never come near him again, Peter was still picking up the pieces of himself, almost a decade later.
Mr. Stark was silent for a long moment, considering. Then, “I can’t tell you how to deal with this, Pete, I’m sorry. I wish I could, so, so bad, and just make everything go away. It’s what you deserve.” He said.
“What did you do?” Peter asked. He knew Mr. Stark had gone through terrible things, just like the rest of them. But the man was always so strong, defiant and unafraid. Peter desperately wished he could be like that. Like Mr. Stark.
“What I’ve had to cope with wasn’t anything like what you went though, but...I drank. A lot, and it fucked up my life. Started young, and by the time I was older shaking the habit was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.” Mr. Stark said truthfully. “I got my shit together eventually, started seeing someone for my anxiety. The main thing, I guess, was working to make it better.”
Peter looked at him questioningly.
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my past. Ones that I can’t undo. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making up for those, and, more importantly, making sure it never happens again.” Mr. Stark explained. “I suppose we all do that a little.”
He thought of Bucky, the unshakable determination he hunted down Hydra bases with, how methodical and thorough he was with wiping them off the map, making sure there was not even an ember to rise from the ashes.
Then, the ruthlessness with how Percy took care of people who hurt kids. Peter didn’t know much of Percy’s past, not as much as Tony and Bucky, but it was impossible to miss some stuff. A few visible scars on his skin, far too old to have come from anything other than his childhood.
“Pete, you’ve got your entire life to figure that out. And, no matter what you do, you’re gonna make it. You’re made of strong stuff, kid, stronger than I’ll ever be.” Mr. Stark spoke with raw honesty, like he really believed that Peter could ever measure up to him. “The further you go, kid, the prouder I’ll be. And I’m already damn proud.”
Those were the words that broke the dam, and Peter flung himself back into his mentor's arms, shoulders shaking as he cried. Mr. Stark just held him, tight and safe.
Wednesday, March 6th, 2018
4:53 PM
Lyon, France
Across the Atlantic, Spencer Saint-James just tried to stay out of the way.
He’d seen up close how Ross’s face had changed, slipping from the shadow of ever-present stress to a deep, horror-filled, heart-stopping worry. The entire time had scrambled up, stunned silent as they frantically got ready. Lee dragged Spencer away to get suited up, then into the transport vehicle, and he ended up sitting in the back of a van with six other people in HAZMAT suits.
After that, they were in a lab. He’d been waiting on a cold, hard metal stool when Lee breezed in without saying a single word. He was holding a few test tubes, filled with a crimson blood that shone oddly under the fluorescents.
Lee had placed them in a plastic holder, then turned to Spencer. “One word about what you see leaves this room, and I’ll kill you myself.”
Though he’d only known him for a few months, Spencer knew Lee didn’t make jokes. He just nodded.
Not even ten minutes later, he’d understood. Hunched over a microscope, staring at the slide, he got it. The commander’s blood was an incredibly rich red, seeming to get more and more entrancing the longer he stared at it. As he looked at the individual cells, the white, red, and the platelets, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something right in front of his eyes that he couldn’t see.
If he looked in one spot long enough, an odd sheen came over his vision, a soft golden light that made him dizzy. But every time he blinked, it was gone.
Despite it, he still ran through a myriad of tests like nothing was wrong. Because something was, or else Lee wouldn’t have brought it up, or he wouldn’t have this raw, shaky feeling every time he saw that strange sheen, or the commander would already be dead.
It’d been six hours since infection.
Most died in minutes.
The rest of the team was out in the field somewhere, unflinchingly running down leads with a new sense of desperation. Every time, they came back silent, just giving a single shake of the head. It was a terrible thing to watch. He wasn’t sure who got the better end of the stick; them, or him.
Barnes was the one he was most worried about, beside Jackson.
The man had barely said a word since they’d gotten to the hospital, his eyes dark and hard. Spencer knew, logically, that the Winter Soldier was long gone. Dead. But Barnes’s face, seemingly carved out of stone, harsh and set, he couldn’t help but wonder where the Soldier’s abilities ended and Barnes’s began.
To his left, Lee was still pouring over every square millimeter of the dispersal device, filtration mask on and tweezers in hand as he carefully took it apart. Spencer listened with half an ear as Lee made a quietly triumphant noise, and when he looked over, the man was moving to a microscope of his own.
He watched as the pathologist put the slide under the lens, leaning over to press his eye to it. Slowly, Lee’s brow developed a deep furrow.
“Come take a look at this.”
It felt like being in cryo.
The ice had crept up Bucky’s spine, curling around his shoulders and chest, traveled deep beneath his skin and into his lungs and heart, wrapped so tightly he could barely breathe.
Percy’s chest rattled as he breathed. Bucky couldn’t get the sound out of his head, the wheezing, shuddering breaths, each one sending jolts of fear down his spine.
The heart monitor blended into the background, white on white walls. People bustled about all around him, but he only had eyes for Percy. He hadn’t moved in hours, still in a fitful rest. He wished he’d wake up, but Bucky knew that rest was probably the best thing Percy could have at the moment.
Forget cryo. This was so, so much worse.
Lee and Spencer were getting nowhere. Frustration welled up within him, though he knew it wasn’t their fault. They needed something to go off of before they could make progress. And they had practically nothing.
Separated by a foot of glass, all Bucky could do was watch. Percy’s skin had taken on a sickly gray color, swoops of bruised purple-blue under his closed eyes. A bandage was tied around his inner elbow where Lee had taken blood, and an IV tube was tucked into the crook of his opposite arm.
His phone buzzed against his thigh, and Bucky took it out on instinct.
“Sergeant Barnes.” Spencer’s voice, not Lee’s, came from the other end. Bucky double checked the called ID, and it was, in fact, the pathologist's number. “Uh, he found something. Not completely sure what, but he’s getting really intense about it and told me to call you.” A moment of rustling, then, “Here, I’ll put you on speaker.”
Not even a second later, Lee’s frantic words, “Do you believe in aliens?”
Buckley blinked. Of all people, he expected something like that from Lee the least. Ross, maybe Dan or Mal. But Lee?
“Aliens?”
“Barnes, I–I got a sample off of the dispersal device, some sort of organic matter. I was testing it, running it through everything we had, and—” Lee cuts off, uncharacteristically stumbling over his words. “Barnes, whatever the fuck this is, it’s not carbon-based.”
Spencer inhales sharply over the line. “Not carbon-based?” Bucky repeats, stunned. Even the Chitauri were carbon-based. “I’m sorry, you think aliens are doing this?”
“No, no, of course not. That’s too far-fetched, even for me. If aliens attacked Earth, something tells me they’d go about it a little differently.” Lee said the last part incredibly dryly. “Besides, I’m pretty sure after Stark stared down a giant-ass fleet and tossed a fucking nuke into them, we won’t be having many visitors anytime soon. No, I’m sticking with humans behind this one. I just think they got their hands on some weird-ass E.T. bullshit.”
Bucky leaned back into his chair, free hand tightening into a fist. He gazed past the glass, at Percy’s unmoving form. The rise and fall of his chest was shallow, and the scent of antiseptic overpowered the subtle scent of their detergent, the lingering taste of the sea that seemed to follow Percy, everything else that reminded Bucky of home.
His jaw clenched. “I’ll look into it.” He said simply.
Both scientists were smart enough to not question him. “Right. We’ll call if we get anything else.”
Bucky hung up and slid his phone into his pocket, standing up. He cracked the knuckles of his right hand with his thumb, wading through the memories of a lifetime ago.
It seems he had a visit to make.
Notes:
summary if you skipped: peter tells tony about skip, and tony promises that skip will never come near peter again. also lots of hugs, and the line "the further you go, the prouder i'll be. and im already damn proud", which is emotionally important to me
spencer over here, discovering jesus while staring at percy's blood through a microscope
bucky about to b e a t some a s s
also get ready for some world-building i decided on: the chitauri are from a planet in the milky way, and to make stuff easier for me, everything organic in the milky way is carbon-based. so.
the amazing OceaniaRose made a subreddit! https://www.reddit.com/r/denimbeans/ for those interested! i'll be lurking :)
i need opinions! for tony, would you guys prefer ironstrange or pepper/rhodey/tony? im open to both, but im trying to figure out what would work best for this story (strange will be introduced either way though)
plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter Text
Wednesday, March 6th, 2018
9:43 PM
Paamiut, Greenland
“There you go, Mr. Jensen.”
The man waved off the cashier with a smile as he took his bags. “What have I told you, kid?”
She popped her gum, letting a put-upon sigh escape her lips. “Your last name makes you feel old,” Accompanied with a roll of her eyes, she added, “Which you are.”
Mr. Jensen gave her an unimpressed brow, and she returned it with a cheeky grin. “Best be off. Rain’s comin’ in an hour or so.” She said, tapping a painted nail on the counter.
The walk home was brisk, both in temperature and speed. The town was small, less than a few thousand permanent residents. It was quaint, which he liked. Not as cold as places further north, and the tourist industry was never stagnant enough to cause an issue. Mr. Jensen’s Kalaallisut was a little rusty, which was why he made it a point to speak to people in town for practice. The majority were quite friendly, and the end result was that he didn’t mind being in town as much as he’d expected.
He adjusted his grip on his grocery bags as he dug for his keys in his coat pocket, casting a look over his shoulder up at the sky. The girl at the shop, Asta, had been right—the skies were turning murky gray, thick clouds rolling in from the west, blanketing the sun and casting a large shadow across the town.
The moment Mr. Jensen stepped inside, he knew something was wrong. It was impossible to describe just how—but the feeling washed over him like ice. He shut his front door soundlessly, dropped his grocery bag on the ground, and drew his gun from its holster, hidden in his coat. Mr. Jensen held it in a confident, strong grip as he clicked the safety off, displaying his intimate familiarity with the weapon. His hands did not waver as he swept through the house, eyes tracking every slight movement, from the shifting of window-cast shadows to the rustle of papers from the warm air circulated by the central radiator.
As he grew closer to the end of the house, the hair on the back of his neck pricked up, sending jolts down his spine. As he rounded the corner into the living room, he zeroed in on the figure sitting on his couch.
He was upright, spine perfectly straight, eyes locked on Mr. Jensen the second he’d entered the room. “You don’t look like a Klaus.”
“I don’t know who the hell you are,” Mr. Jensen said lowly, “But it’s in your best interest to get out of my house.” No movement, not even the twitch of an antsy trigger finger. In a split second, Mr. Jensen entirely reevaluated. He knew that posture, that lethal stillness. Whoever sat on his couch, they knew. And nobody had ever accused him of clutching onto a dead bluff.
“If you’re here, then you know my reputation.” Mr. Jensen said flatly, not bothering to put a threat into his tone of voice when he knew it lay easily in his words.
Seemingly uncaring of the gun trained on him, the figure leaned to the side and flicked on a lamp, illuminating his side of the room. “And you know mine.” Bucky Barnes said, face unchanging at the threat. “You can certainly try to shoot me, Nick, but I’d rather not waste time.”
Klaus Jensen’s eyes darted to the vibranium hand curled in Barnes’s lap, and it was Nick Fury who lowered his weapon. “You better have a damn good reason for being here, Barnes.”
Truthfully, Nick wasn’t looking to fight the Winter Soldier. He’d gone through that before, and had escaped within an inch of his life. He fought the urge to rub his chest where the bullets had ripped through flesh and muscle as he stared down at the man who’d just about ended him.
These days, he’d heard Barnes was running with Jackson and his people. Trigger-word free, apparently. Because of that, he couldn’t come up with a single reason for the ex-assassin to be sitting in his living room. Barnes of all people knew the importance of a deep cover, and his very presence was jeopardizing the life Fury had spent the last two years building.
Barnes leaned forward, eyes intent and penetrating. “I want you to tell me about the Skrulls.”
Though it didn’t slip through his impeccable mask, shock rippled through the ex-Director. None of them, excluding perhaps Jackson, knew how deep Hydra’s infiltration went. Nick had assumed, or, hoped, that there were some secrets Hydra had not been privy to. Even the word Skrull had been redacted for anyone not above a level seven—but, he reflected with a severe frown, apparently they knew much more than originally thought.
Jackson and Barnes both apparently knew a lot they shouldn’t. From two different perspectives, sure, but that was the perfect way to get the whole picture.
Barnes didn’t seem to appreciate his calculative silence. “Now, Fury.”
“Give me a good reason.” Fury responded smoothly, eye narrowed. It had been three decades since the Skrulls had first touched down, and he hadn’t the faintest why Barnes was asking about them now. And Fury didn’t like when he lacked a vital piece of information like this.
Barnes suddenly stood, stalking halfway across the room before Fury could even raise his gun. The barrel pressed into Barnes’s chest as the supersoldier leaned into his personal space, giving Fury a better view of every microexpression that flashed across the man’s face. “How’s this,” Barnes all but snarled, “As I’ve already demonstrated, the world isn’t big enough to hide you from me. That seems like reason enough.”
The rage displaced on his face was uncharacteristic for someone of Barnes’s caliber. This was personal, Fury realized. Deeply so. He didn’t want to know what kind of person had somehow wormed their way into Barnes to make him react like this.
He remembered the damage caused by the Soldier when he was just a cold, unfeeling tool. He was not the least bit interested in finding out what the man was like when driven by his own primal emotions.
“It’s best if you sit down.” Fury eventually said. “It’s a hell of a story.”
“I don’t need you to tell me what I already know.” Barnes snapped. “I need to know if the Skrulls have been on Earth in the last two years, and if so, where and as who.”
The tone of his voice was edging on desperate. Desperate men were always the most dangerous ones, Fury knew.
But the Skrulls…what could he want with them? He doubted Barnes wanted to harm any of them, but he was struggling to come up with another reason why he needed this information badly enough to potentially blow Fury’s cover.
Did one of the Skrulls know something Barnes needed? Witnesses something, perhaps? Or—
It was then that Fury realized Barnes was alone. Every single piece of information he’d gotten about Barnes after he left Wakanda, every public appearance, he was accompanied by Jackson. Fury saw no reason for the pattern to break unless it was dire.
For now, Fury put aside his conjectures. “Pamela Hawley.” He said. “The EU General Affairs Council meeting. There were security concerns, and she was replaced by a Skrull for the day. Afterwards, the Skrull went back home. They’ve all been off-world since.”
Something sparked in Barnes’s eyes as he latched onto the information like a steel trap. “The whole day, or just the meeting?”
“The meeting, the hours before and afterwards. Hawley never left her hotel that day.”
Barnes nodded, his eyes flickering over Fury’s shoulder to the foyer. Fury turned to whatever Barnes was looking at, only to find nothing out of place.
When he turned back around, Barnes was gone.
You need to wake up.
Everything felt light.
It was like he was floating, laying on his back atop a calm, deep body of water. Gentle waves shifted him with the patterns of the water, soothingly rocking him further into his slumber. His lashes brushed against his cheeks, all the tension let loose from his shoulders.
Please. Please, wake up.
He could feel the sun on his face. The water was pleasantly cool against his skin, the rays above providing pleasant contrast. He soaked in the warmth, basking in the glow. He felt like stretching out further under it, but couldn’t bring himself to move from the immensely comfortable position he was in.
Wake up, wake up, wake up—
Mal was sitting in the back of a taxi, utterly exhausted, when her phone started buzzing. A weary sigh escaping her, she pulled it out of her jacket pocket.
As soon as you can, meet up at the apartment. -Barnes.
Her brow furrowed, but she leaned forward and apologetically asked the driver to switch destinations. He did so with a sigh and an uncomplimentary mutter in French about foreigners, which she politely ignored with a tight face.
The Trejo apartment, as absurd as it sounded, seemed a little less warm than normal when she walked in. Whether that was because of the lack of a human space heater she called a boss, or because the stress was finally getting to her, she was unsure. She’d been halfway across the city when Barnes texted, and, consequently, was the last one to arrive.
Dan had parked his chair at the far edge of the table. Lee was leaning over it, silent as ever, eyes running over the sheet of paper that had been placed on the wood, Spencer standing awkwardly to his side. Bridgette was standing on the opposite side next to Ross, both of them looking back across the table at Barnes. The supersoldier was leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed. Mal couldn’t help the gooseflesh that ran down her spine. They all liked Barnes; he was a nice guy, really. Sure, a little odd at times, but none of them were really in a position to judge. But Mal couldn’t help it.
She’d gotten a glance or two at what the Winter Soldier was capable of. Though she knew the Asset was very much dead, his memories were not. The power that rested beneath his skin, stretching and weaving into every muscle fiber and nerve ending, was very much roaring with life.
“I don’t want to know how you got this.” Lee’s voice broke Mal out of her thoughts.
Barnes raised a sole eyebrow, face still dark.
“I’m serious. Not a word.” The pathologist said evenly. “Not a damn word.”
That got her a single-shoulder shrug, like the request of no importance to him. “For the better.”
Mal stayed silent, holding her tongue, despite the curiosity gnawing at her. Ross and Dan caught each other's eyes, a thick silence passing in their gaze. Bridgette shifted her weight on her heels. Spencer was staring determinedly at the ground by his feet. Barnes and Lee looked at each other for a moment longer, two sets of icy eyes narrowed.
Lee tilted her head, something conveyed in the angle of her chin, the slight backward lean. The floor is yours.
Barnes broke eye contact, plucking up the sheet of paper with deft fingers. “I may have found the origin of the toxin used in the attacks.” Used on Jackson, his face screamed. For a man supposedly reborn in the ice, in that moment, he was heart wrenchingly easy to read in that one moment. Mal swallowed down bile. “Since whatever it derives from isn’t a carbon-based lifeform, I went to visit an…old friend who knew a thing or two about them.” The term old friend rolled off his tongue easily, but whatever lurked behind them was far from it.
Dan’s brow was creased, a slight furrow that she knew he’d picked up from their pathologist. His hair had gotten longer, shaggier, and now was tied back in a low tail. A few loose strands hung in his face, but he made no effort to brush them away. She didn’t directly ask him, but she had her suspicions as to why.
After the WSC attack, Dan had been in the hospital for a long time. Unconscious for some, awake for others. As Drs. Stark and Cho helped him deal with the massive amounts of nerve damage that had been brutally bestowed upon him, as the wounds healed and the stitches were taken out, as things just seemed to get worse and worse and worse, he never had an opportunity to think about the little things.
When he’d first gotten out of the hospital, after Secretary Ross and Barnes and Aspen, Christ, Aspen, he’d stayed with Bridgette and Lee for a few weeks. Mal hadn’t been there, but Bridgette, with red nose and glazed eyes, had told her what happened the very first day.
Dan had never really had a minute to look in a mirror up until then.
They’d all seen the stitches, the bandages, but he hadn’t. On some level, sure, he knew they were there, but he didn’t know how bad. The lines that had crossed his skin, the bullet wounds and the shattered glass embedded in his flesh.
The thick, knotted scar that now rested across his forehead, where he’d been slammed into the corner of a metal table.
Nobody mentioned it, out of respect and care for their friend, and out of the uneasiness that came with Lee’s piercing glares.
Mal didn’t have many scars. Bridgette, either. But the two of them were keen observers. Ross’s staunch refusal to wear anything cut above the knee, Lee’s preference of high-necked sweaters and collared shirts, and now Dan’s loosely tied hair.
There was Jackson, too, with his sunglasses and long sleeves, but there was little he could do to cover some of the marks that marred his skin.
“A species called the Skrulls. Shapeshifters native to the Andromeda galaxy, who apparently occasionally impersonate political figures on the behalf of Nick Fury and his compatriots.” Barnes reported. “Their only recent appearance was in the place of Pamela Hawley during the first day of the EU General Affairs Council meeting. Security concerns, and for good reason. Someone took a shot at her while she was stepping out of her car. Skrulls are made of tough stuff, and the story circulated was that the hit missed.”
“Let me guess,” Ross grits out. “It didn’t miss?”
“Skrull blood stained the concrete blue.” Barnes confirmed. “And, wouldn’t you know, the SHIELD agent that cleaned it up was someone I used to know very well.”
Hydra.
Mal sucked in a breath through her teeth.
“You think this is them?” Bridgette’s voice was undercut with fear, echoed in Mal’s chest.
Barnes shook his head. “This is far too unorganized. They’ve been hurting for money for a while now. No, I bet they sold it.”
“And if we find the buyer…” Ross said.
“We find our culprit.” Dan finished quietly.
Barnes nodded.
Get up. You need to get up. You must wake.
It was April, he was twenty-two, sitting on his couch, and he had just killed seven people.
His couch, an old, creaky thing that Piper had been immediately enamored with when she saw it in a second-hand shop, cradled his numb body. He was sitting on the edge of it, knees on his elbows and chin tilted down. He smelled like blood.
This wasn’t the first time he had killed somebody. This, however, was the first time he’d done it of his own volition. This was the first time he’d seeked it out, the first time he chose to do it, the first time he did it for money.
One could argue that all of those things applied to SHIELD, too. There had been no hand overlapping his, forcing his finger to curl and squeeze a trigger for the last two years. He could have left at any time.
But that was a lie. With SHIELD came knowledge, and with knowledge came security. He had spent the last decade getting blindsided by disaster after disaster, each time something new and infinitely worse. SHIELD was just a means to an end, so he would never have to come home and see his city destroyed, corpses lining the streets, the blood of humans mixing in the gutters with innards of creatures none of them had even previously believed in. Body parts, species familiar and foreign, had sat in piles that accompanied him the entire desperate sprint to his home, to his family. He’d done nothing but hold them, not letting go even as Estelle, his little estrela, told him about how a man made of metal had held them.
This was different. There was no other way to get where SHIELD got him, but there were other ways to get enough money for his sister’s medical bills.
One part of him whispered that this was just the same—they were desperate for the money, and Estelle’s life depended on it, the threat looming above their heads even more directly than with what lurked above the atmosphere. There was only so much he could do besides getting money for his family in the only way he knew how.
He stamped that down. His entire life had been dictated by other people, forces unseen and visible. Not this. He wasn’t going to let himself even think that this had been anything other than his choice. The idea that the Gods could control him like this, even now, was unthinkable. This was his choice.
He’d called Johnson, talked to Wade.
He’d put on that mask, raised his sword.
Like a vengeful wraith, he’d kicked open the door of the building, hadn’t even taken a full step in before someone was dead by his blade.
Nobody else. All him.
And the worst part was that he couldn’t even bring the smallest part of him to feel bad.
He mourned, yes, but for the woman he’d found, succumbed to illness, laying dead on the concrete of the basement. He mourned for the others, curled up in cages staring at his blood-soaked armor as he descended the hidden stairs.
He mourned for himself, that wide-eyed twelve-year-old boy, who should have crumpled up and threw away that parental consent form for a field trip to the museum where it all began, for the boy that should have just stayed home.
“Perseus.”
Percy didn’t even twitch as the overwhelming scent of the sea filled his apartment. “Dad.”
The God of the Seas surveyed the living room, Percy’s old couch and loveseat, the coffee table that sat between the two. The expressionless helmet that sat upon it.
Poseidon sat down on the loveseat. He picked up the helmet, a hand on each side of it as he brought it closer to his face. Black as the depths, smooth and without impression of a single facial feature. It was blank, empty. When the Sea God put it back down, he stared at his palms and fingertips, coated in residual crimson.
“Why?” Was all he asked.
Percy halted for a moment. Why? Of all things, he was asking why? Not why the mask, the name, his target? Just… why.
“Estelle is sick.” He said, devoid of emotion.
It had just been her arm hurting, first. Their mom had assumed she’d just hit it on the monkey bars at school and had forgotten about it. But it never stopped hurting. Nothing they gave her helped. She started getting tired. Estelle laid in bed for hours on end, her usual energy and cheer ripped from her. Then she started losing weight, too much too fast.
They caught it late.
Chondrosarcoma. A rare type of bone cancer, rapid-growing and spreading.
“You always could have asked for help, Perseus. You did not need to do this.”
Need. Something about the word ignited a molten feeling in his chest, crawling up to his throat. “Because I’ve always been able to count on you?” He said bitterly, injected a false humor into his words. “Because you’re always there for me and my family?”
He didn’t have to see to know the shock on his father’s face. “Perseus…” His tone was soft, but not the kind that put the demigod at ease. Disapprovingly soft, reprimandingly soft.
“Are you honestly going to tell me I’m wrong?” He demanded, words beginning to pour and rush out of him. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in two years. A wormhole opened up in the sky and an army was let loose on my city. The streets smelled like blood for months, my team spent a week shoveling ash that used to be human beings, we turned a park into a mass grave because some of the bodies we found were so badly disfigured that they were unidentifiable!” Percy’s voice steadily raised in volume as he spoke. “And you didn’t even check on us. Where were you? What was so important that you couldn’t even spare a minute?” And oh, Gods, he hated how his voice broke.
His father had nothing to offer him but a quiet, “I’m sorry, Perseus.”
The demigod waited for him to continue, but he never did. “I’m sorry?” He repeated, now gone deathly quiet. “That’s it? You don’t even have a reason, do you? Or, wait, let me guess—you just can’t tell me.”
The guilty lowering of his head was answer enough. Percy breathed out, closing his eyes as he tried to shove down his anger. “Typical. Absolutely fucking typical. I can be your sword, fight your battles and kill your enemies, but you can’t even tell me why I’m not worth a minute of your time.”
At that, Poseidon frowned deeply. “You don’t know all of what you speak,” The God warned.
Percy slowly looked up, jaw set. He wanted his dad to see his face, the bags under his eyes, the streak of gray in his hair, the scar that ran up his jaw just like it had Luke’s, the burns around his eyes. “What did you just say to me?”
The demigod didn’t give him a chance to respond. “I can’t sleep anymore. Did you know that? Maybe an hour or two, if I’m lucky. I wake up screaming and clawing at my own face, trying to make it stop burning.” He hissed, relishing in the way it made his father flinch. “I’ve had calluses on my hands from weapons since I was twelve years old. I can’t go anywhere, do anything, without wondering if the person in front of me is a monster under Mist. I can’t close my eyes without hearing the screams. I know exactly what I’m talking about.” He was desperately trying to quell that shaking in his hands as he spoke. “You don’t get to do this—you don’t get to come to my house and lecture me about my life.”
“Perseus—” Poseidon said.
Percy didn’t even give him a chance to speak. “No,” He said. “I’m killing monsters, dad, just like you made me for.” He punctuated each word with bitterness and vitriol. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
His eyes burned, prickling with unshed tears. “Well, guess what—it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m a monster in my own right, a monster of your own making that death just follows. That’s what they call me. Deathstroke, Toque Mortal, the touch of death.” He kept himself in check, voice not raising above a normal speaking level despite how much he felt like yelling. He knew he should calm down, but he was twenty-two years old, full of idealistic righteousness that had long been beaten out of him and overshadowed by anger. Because there was that second part—Percy wanted to kill those people. He’d wanted those men to bleed out on the cold, cold concrete. He wanted them to be scared, relished in their fear. Them and everyone like them, who stood above people and harmed them just because they could. Percy had met and suffered at the hands of far too many like them. He was a monument to their sins, their crimes coming back not just to bite them, but to rip their throats out with the fangs he had been forced to grow from a young age. “And not even the Gods can stop that now.”
To this day, he still remembered how he stayed on that couch for hours, forcing himself to breathe as the overwhelming scent of the sea slowly faded from his house.
In the distance, he swore he could hear a voice begging him to wake up.
Notes:
its bucky going Feral time, dear readers. we love an unhinged man
poor fury lmao, hes just trying to retired
everyone else: losing their shit trying to find a cure and also keep bucky from going on a rampage
percy, who's reliving random memories of his daddy issues for some reason while unconscious: 🧍anyways, he's some backstory of directly after his first mission as deathstroke, way back before the File
and estelle is fine now!! dont worry!!plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter 9: Guidelines
Notes:
TW: this is where the M rating comes in, and NOT in a fun way. graphic violence, though not really described, lies ahead
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Thursday, March 7th, 2018
4:53 PM
Stark Tower, NY
Natasha had expected to be alone.
Tony was a dozen floors below, putting out a fire in one of the R&D labs—literal or metaphorical, she wasn’t sure. She’d stepped out from her post-workout shower, toweled off her hair, and padded off to the kitchen to grab a snack, running through the words of a half-remembered song in her head.
To her surprise, though, there was someone waiting at the kitchen island.
Even more surprising, they were staring right at her. She knew for a fact she hadn’t been anywhere near loud enough to alert someone of her presence, especially not at this distance. But, here the person was, sitting with their back towards her but craning their neck around to face her.
“Hello.” They said simply before turning back to the open notebook on the counter. The scratch of a mechanical pencil on a pad of paper met her ears.
“Hi.” Natasha replied evenly, making her way into the kitchen to the fridge.
“Peter. He/him.” His pencil was flying across the paper as he spoke, scrawling a long column of what looked like some form of calculus to her. Not even once did the boy pause and think, to consider the next step. It came to him fluidly, like whatever he was doing was the easiest thing in the world.
“Natasha. She/her.” She, after some inspection, found some leftover takeout in the fridge with her name scrawled on the top. Natasha transferred the contents from the styrofoam to a bowl and deposited it into the microwave, her mind whirling.
The boy sure looked like Tony. The same brown hair and eyes, similar noses and brows. Peter’s skin was a tad fairer, along with being dotted with freckles, but that was easily explainable. What really sealed the deal was two things; one, how fast he was breezing through his work—Calculus 2, based on the textbook by his elbow, unopened and unused. Secondly, how blasé he was about her appearance. There were very few people out there who would shrug off the appearance of the Black Widow like he had moments ago.
When she turned to grab a fork from the drawer, Peter was, once again, looking directly at her.
His gaze, too, reminded her of Tony. Sharp and analytical, like he was disassembling her behind his brown eyes. The boy, Peter, didn’t look like much—he was fairly short and narrow, swallowed by the hoodie he was wearing. But she knew better than to write someone off based on their physical appearance.
“Have you apologized?” Was the first thing he said.
“Yes.” Natasha said immediately. “I’m going to try and make it up to him, in whatever ways I can.”
Peter’s face stayed exactly as it was. His features were soft, rounded and young, but his eyes were hard.
“You don’t believe me.”
“Fuck no,” Peter said plainly. He leans in, elbows on the countertop. “I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, so let’s make something clear. Mr. Stark is important to me. Fuck this up, and you’ll find out just how far I go for the people I love.” All of this was said casually, as if they were discussing the recent cold snap.
She found herself believing him. Behind the young, innocent-looking face, she could see something dark lurking. Something angry.
Natasha just nodded once. She had every intention of proving herself to Tony, and now, apparently, to his son as well. She may never gain back the trust she originally had—but she would do better. For Tony, and for herself.
Peter held eye contact for a moment longer before sweeping his finished homework into his bag. “Have a lovely day, ma’am.” He said politely as he left the kitchen. His steps held an incredible grace she recognized only in herself—combined that with his obvious parentage, she knew that Peter was dangerous. Maybe not at the time, but most definitely had the potential.
Definitely a Stark.
Friday, March 8th, 2018
3:52 PM
Lyon, France
Jackson had been in the hospital for over forty-eight hours, and they could tell Barnes was losing his grip.
He wasn’t slipping; far from it, really. He was as precise and dangerous as usual, but now something wild lurked beneath his skin, begging to creep out. He conducted himself with a lithe casualness, every movement graceful and undeniably deadly. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, face carefully blank.
It put Spencer on edge.
And considering the last few days, that was saying something. The horror that ran through the SWORD members like a newly sharpened blade once they heard what had happened to the Commander, sweeping through the abandoned school in full HAZMAT gear. Barnes just up and disappearing for almost an entire day, then coming back with a dark look in his eyes and a new lead on his tongue. And every time he closed his eyes, he still saw that blood under the microscope, golden glow searing into his lids.
The whole thing was so far out of Spencer’s purview it wasn’t even twistedly humorous.
He’d been all too happy to step back and let them figure out where to go from Barnes’s intel. A mere observer as they found the spot where the person the world thought was Pamela Hawley had been ‘almost’ shot. From there, tracking down the double-agent who’d cleaned it up. Miraculously, he was still alive—he’d so far escaped the attention of both the WSC and Avengers.
Unfortunately for the man, James Barnes had business with him.
Now, the supersoldier waited against the wall on the other side of the interrogation room, gazing inwards with an inscrutable expression. On the other side, Foxglove—-Ross, he kept reminding himself, was seated across from one Paul Levinston, eyes sharp. From what he was told, this was where the agent excelled, pulling every little twisted secret from a man before they even knew they were speaking.
Everyone else was in the conference room down the hall, going over every scrap of the man’s life that they had been able to get their hands on. Spencer knew he wouldn’t really be of any help, so he tried his best to stay out of their way, which left just Spencer and Barnes in the room.
As Ross continued to speak to the agent, Spencer's eyes wandered to the doorway. He could see across the hall, into the conference room, where the four sat around the table. Four. The infamous Ace, their tech man. Who, curiously, Spencer had not been introduced to in the months he’d been involved with the SWORD team.
For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. He’d been introduced to Barnes, the century old ghost of an assassin. He’d been introduced to Jackson, whose blood was emblazoned into his brain, the rolling waves of light that had somehow made him incredibly dizzy and the most serene he’d ever felt at the same time. The odd sheen that seemed so intrinsically familiar but also completely foreign—
Right. He needed to stay focused.
Casting another glance into the conference room at the assembled group, he scanned over Ace. The man looked normal enough; shaggy black hair in a low tail, a maroon sweater and scuffed sneakers. A pair of wire glasses sat perched on his nose, gleaming under the light as he wheeled his chair up to the table. He’d seen the man up and walking, ruling out complete paralysis—some sort of chronic pain or fatigue, maybe? Spencer tried not to speculate too much. It wasn’t his business.
For only a second he’d caught a glimpse of the man’s face. Once more, he looked quite average. His skin, uncovered by his loose hair, was relatively unblemished, unlike Jackson’s scarred visage. He held no particular scowl or dark look like Barnes. His eyes, mono lidded and a calming onyx, reflected none of that uncanny observance that was present with Lee. He looked quite nice, actually. And…well, average. From his cheekbones to the set of his jaw and brow, nothing in particular jumped out at Spencer as to why the secrecy. It frustrated him to no end.
Ross exited the interrogation room with a carefully composed demeanor that shattered as soon as the door was shut behind him. His shoulders slumped, mouth twisting. “Nothing,” He said. “I got nothing.”
He spoke loud enough to be heard across the hall, and, based on the reactions his words got, Spencer could surmise this was highly unusual. They trickled inwards, Tremor in the front and Ace in the back. Spencer tried not to stare at the man, lest he was caught fixing him with narrowed eyes, which would undoubtedly incur Lee’s wrath.
“I’m going to speak with him.” Barnes’s voice was like steel.
To his surprise, this was met with absolutely no argument. The various SWORD members just exchanged looks, then gave the supersoldier an eerily synced nod. Ross in particular had his jaw set, a new chip in his shoulder the shape of the man in the cell. By the minute it became clearer and clearer how far these people would go for one another, Spencer noted.
Not a single protest escaped any of them as Archangel unlocked the door for Barnes. As he passed her, he plucked the pen resting behind her ear with deft fingers, knuckles tightening around it as he entered the room and shut the door behind him. It slammed hard enough to shake the walls, and they watched as the man inside concealed a flinch.
Paul Levinston’s face drained of all color as he laid eyes upon the man stalking into the room. Barnes doesn’t speak a word to him. Instead, he pulls out the chair from across Levinston and kicks it against the wall, legs making a loud scraping noise along the floor as it skids. Hands, metal and flesh, wrap around the edge of the table, fingers digging divots into it as it's pulled away, leaving Levington exposed in the middle of the room.
They’d gotten their warrant mere minutes after as they’d set out a plan to find him—the French government was as desperate to find a lead on this as the WSC was. When they’d knocked on the door, weapons at the ready, Levinston opened the door for them without a fight. He’d seemed rather amused by the whole situation, even denying their offer to change into day clothes before he was escorted out. The entire ride there, he sported a patronizingly smug grin. It was then that they’d guessed there was little in the means of physical evidence to tie him to the attacks.
Barnes hadn’t come with them. It had been Ross’s idea, to see how Levinston would react before knowing they had Barnes’s insider information on him. He was their trump card, the only one they had left to play. It was a gamble, and a desperate one at that.
Levinston was still in his pajamas, basketball shorts and mismatched socks. It made him look raw, exposed. No doubt he was rethinking his earlier arrogance. Barnes circled the man like a predator, exploiting that vulnerability for all it was worth. His hands were cuffed in front of him, anchored to a chain embedded in the floor. Spencer watched as a single drop of sweat appeared on the man’s temple.
Standing directly in front of him, Barnes stopped circling. Instead, he crouched down, forcing Levinston to make eye contact with him. “You know who I am?” There was no arrogance in his tone, none of the grandeur typically associated with those words.
“Yes,” Is all Levinston is able to rasp out.
Barnes nods. He fastens his teeth around the cap of the pen he’d taken from Bridgette, pulling it off and spitting it out to the side without breaking eye contact. He touches the felt tip to Levinston’s knee, and the man flinches. Barnes pays him no mind as he begins to trace a simple circle around the joint.
“The Winter Soldier.” Levinston blurts out, as if another answer would saitate the man.
Barnes, beginning to draw a dotted line up the man’s thigh, looks up. “That’s not me anymore.” The ink is starkly blue against Levinston’s skin as Barnes resumes up his skin. He goes back to the knee, begins to trace down the shin and around the ankle. His movements are perfectly controlled, deadly calm. Levinston notes this with a drained face, shifting in his chains in an attempt to put some distance between the two.
“No, just the shattered pieces of him that got left behind.” Barnes continues as he moves to the other ankle, the hand not drawing holding the trembling limb still as he marks his flesh. “But items broken are often sharper than when whole.” His face is slack with concentration, a cruel imitation of serenity, as he bends over the man’s other knee, over the kneecap and up the thigh. Levinston looks towards the door desperately, but nobody enters to pull Barnes away from him.
Panic begins to flit into Levingston’s face, the unease mixing with the leeriness, and Spencer can see him begin to work himself up over Barnes’s words. The supersolider stands and moves to the man’s wrists, cutting dotted lines up forearms with a felt tip. “And you,” Barnes all but whispers, ice blue eyes, hard and angry, looking up at Levinston. “Found the one man who was picking them up and piecing them back into some semblance of a man, and you hurt him.”
The man begins to tremble violently under Barnes’s fingertips, his fate not yet sinking in but the implications of it seeping into his bones. “Stop that,” Levinston says, short and nervous. “Get away from me.”
Barnes ignores him as he marks his way up the man’s shoulder, circling the joins he meets along the way. “So now,” Unhurriedly, he speaks as if Levinston never had, “All that’s left is the monster that you helped make.”
Levinston struggles harder in his bindings to no avail. “I’m sorry,” He hurries out, “I’m—I’m sorry, please let me go,” He sounds manic. “Don’t, please,”
Barnes’s head slowly tilts to the side. “You don’t even know what I’m going to do.” He observed as he crossed to the other shoulder. “Why are you begging?” While true none of them knew the specifics of what was passing through Barnes’s mind, it was glaringly obvious of his brutal intentions.
“Whatever you think I did, it wasn’t me.” Levinston’s voice is wavering. “I haven’t hurt anybody, I swear,”
“Save your breath. I remember you.” Barnes begins the same process in reverse, down the arm, elbow to wrist with the pen. Levinston struggles harder once he realizes Barnes knows who he is, what he's done, yanking desperately on the chains. Barnes’s face doesn’t even twitch. Instead, he moved down to his chest, sharply defined lines beginning to connect the marks on his shoulders, sloping downwards in a Y-shaped cut that Spencer knows all too well. From his spot against the far wall, he gags.
Levinston’s chin is pressed to his sternum, staring down at the ink blooming across his skin. He’s shaking so hard Barnes puts his shoulder in an iron grip as he works, forcibly stilling him. The line trails down his stomach, right in the center. Barnes moves the pen off his skin, seemingly looking over his work. Any relief Levinston may have felt in that split second evaporates as the man’s eyes meet Barnes’s.
Spencer doesn’t know what he sees in his gaze. He doesn’t want to know. But in that moment, he can’t help but be aware that Paul Levinston is looking death in the eyes, its brutality and anger slamming directly into him. Tears begin to shine across Levinston’s eyes. “Please,” He cries out. “Please, oh, God, please,”
Barnes grabs a hold of the man’s chin, tight enough to bruise. His voice, by contrast, is extraordinarily soft, grotesquely gentle. Their faces are mere inches apart. “I used to beg.” He murmurs. It’s enough of an answer in itself.
Levinston lets out a gut-wrenching sob. “I’ll tell you everything, please, just—-just stop,” Levinson begs, hoarse and choked through his tears. Then, he screams out desperately, “Please! Get him away from me! I’ll talk! Oh, God, I’ll talk!”
None of the SWORD members move. They're about to watch something far, far worse than an execution. Spencer is now sure of it.
They all watch as Barnes brings the pen up and begins to draw lines around his lips, up his cheeks, tracing his eyelids. “They don’t want to hear what you have to say.”
Then, he steps back. Tucks the pen behind his ear, just like it had been on Bridgette. Levinston is nigh inconsolable, shoulders shaking violently and chest spasming. “Messy business,” He says, voice devoid of a single emotion. “Everyone always goes too deep. Personally, I think guidelines are often overlooked. Time consuming, yes, but very helpful.” Then, with a nigh a sound, he unsheathes a long, serrated hunting knife.
Levinston screams. It’s a sound of pure terror, and it rips up something down in Spencer’s very soul.
“Steady does the trick.” Barnes murmurs to himself as he advances. Levinston is writhing in his chains, pulling so hard against them Spencer is afraid he’ll dislocate his wrists. His struggle is so intense that he tips over his chair, falling onto his back. But the chains hold strong, and this only further immobilizes him.
Barnes pounces on him like a sadistic carnivore. He pins Levinston to the floor, looking him over as if trying to decide the best place to cut into him first. “You’ll live through the process,” He informs him tonelessly. “Not long after, but that doesn't really matter to me. I’ve learned not to go too deep. Your people made sure of it.”
As the supersoldier drives the tip of the blade into the man’s vulnerable flesh, Spencer looks away. Levinston’s sounds of pain are like a dying animal, churning his gut and making bile rise in his throat. Spencer looks away.
The SWORD members are deathly silent as the sound of another man’s agony overtakes them. Levinston is sobbing, begging and pleading for help that will never come. Bridgette’s eyes are watery, and she’s leaning into Lee. Ross is determinedly looking at the ground, Mal’s shoulders are drawn in. Ace, Spencer notes, has this far-away look in his eyes, like he’s barely tethered to the present situation.
They listen to Barnes peel back flesh from muscle for almost five minutes before Ross runs a hand over his hair, smooths down his clothes. He determinedly wipes at his eyes, then inhales deeply and shakily. With a startling evenness, he strides up to the door and opens it, seemingly with an idea. He sounds remarkably unconcerned when he speaks—if Spencer hadn’t seen him a second ago, the idea that this was a facade wouldn’t have even crossed his mind.
“Hey, Sergeant, we found something. That building down on Levette street where the others were yesterday—we’re pretty sure it’s their main base. Finish this up and suit up in thirty, alright?” Ross says smoothly. He checks his watch while he speaks, both to sell the act and to avert his gaze from the assuredly horrific scene that lies beyond the threshold.
They hear Levinston make a terrified, agonized noise. “Lev—Levette?” His voice is barely audible, cracking and trembling from his near-constant screams. “It’s not there, I, I can tell you where it really is,”
They hear Barnes’s voice from inside as Ross uninterestedly leans against the doorway. “I thought I told you to keep quiet.”
Levinston whimpers, and they hear nothing more from him. The man is obviously scared out of his mind—it’s obvious to tell. Spencer knew the man was a bad person. He’d been connected to the death of dozens of people, to a plot that had no intentions of stopping at the victims already claimed. Dozens dead, and they were all the test runs.
He knew Paul Levinston was a bad person. But a part of him screamed at himself to help the man, to pull him up and away from the supersoldier’s wrath. That despite everything he had done, the man was a human being, and nobody should be in pain like he was.
To do no harm. Wasn’t that the point of being a doctor?
Spencer swallowed and looked down at his shoes. If he did somehow find it in himself to barge in and get Levinston out of there, the consequences would be far worse than the alternative. They would lose their only lead. Jackson, hanging on by a thread, would die. Barnes would go off the deep end, for sure. And Levinston was a small cog in a big machine; taking him out of the equation wouldn’t mean the attacks would stop. Far from it. People would keep dying, the test phase would end, and the body counts would be in the hundreds of thousands.
He had to compare the weight of human souls. Levinston’s pain for the salvation of many. Could he do that? What gave him the right?
But, on the other hand, how could he not?
“Not at Levette?” Ross said skeptically. Then, rolled his eyes, annoyed. “Barnes, let the man up for a minute.” The shifting of chains and a body.
“They’re m–manuf–facturing it in a b–basement under a l–laundromat.” Levinston brokenly stutters out. “It’s n–near the ma–mall, just d–down the street.”
Ross kisses his tongue against his teeth. Behind his back, the SWORD agent’s hand flexes and clenches. “You don’t sound too sure,” He drawls out. Beneath the dismissive tone, he sounds like he’s trying not to throw up at whatever he sees that they can't.
“I swear!” Levinston says frantically. “Please, please,”
A put-upon sigh. “If you’re wrong, we won’t interrupt Barnes next time.” Ross informs him boredly. The agent turns and exits, and as soon as he’s out of view from the two men, he doubles over, a hand clutching his chest, and upturns his lunch into the nearest garbage can.
Mal immediately flits over to him and rubs a soothing hand over his back. Her hands are shaking.
Barnes himself exits a moment later. All of them turn to stare, oppressively silent. His face could be carved from stone, it had not even twitched. The blade in his hand is dripping, each time a drop hits the floor someone flinches. Wordlessly, he walks to the table against the wall and begins to wipe it off with a kleenex.
It’s Lee who speaks first. “Alive?”
Barnes doesn’t look up from his task. “Yes. I knew I wouldn’t get far.”
“And if Ross hadn’t come in and made that up?” Lee doesn’t sound disapproving, rather just curious. Morbidly so, Spencer can’t help but think.
“He’d break when I got to the face. They always do.”
Notes:
spider v spider: civil war
like yeah peter is Small but he can also bench a semi and WILL throw it at you if you're mean to his family
and for anyone wondering, yes, dan uses a wheelchair now. there was no way to really explain it in the fic without it being oddly placed, so: dr cho and tony's nanotech implant did help dan regain feeling and control of his lower body, but it couldn't just undo all the damage that was done. he has good and bad days for mobility, and sometimes uses a wheelchair or cane.
see, this is why you don't separate bucky and percy. percy kills the secretary of state and makes deals with omniscient elder beings, and bucky starts fucking peeling people
SWORD: yeah, barnes is a fun guy--
bucky as soon as someone won't give up information to save percy: Its Skinning Time
SWORD:
SWORD: ...yikesthe AMAZING MoonShadowPup has blessed me with some fantastic art! check it out :)
https://at.tumblr.com/alonedustspeck/705858359223599104/vy4mwub7hm1aplumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter 10: Liminal Spaces
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The carpet beneath his fingertips is soft. He runs his palms over it, a steady up and down motion. It’s comforting.
All the tension has leached out of him, leaving him a loose heap of bones on the floor. He barely feels awake, floating somewhere between lucidity and sleep. He’s never felt so light but so heavy at the same time—a slight breeze could pick him up and take him away, but there’s a thousand pound weight compressing his chest.
There’s cool skin on his forehead, roughly callused but gentle. Percy leans his head to the side, into the contact. He can’t help but feel like he knows this, this soft touch.
Fingertips smooth his hair back, brushing it out of his face. Whoever it is, they must be sitting on the ground with him, Percy lazily observes.
He feels warm. Underneath his skin, an embracing heat pulses, sending him deeper and deeper into a comfortable sleep.
There’s a low sound coming from somewhere. It’s nice. Inviting. He can’t tell what it is, but it makes him feel calm, a heavy sereneness. A thumb brushes across his cheek, under his right eye. The noise picks back up, this time a little louder.
It takes him a moment to realize it’s someone speaking.
His brow furrows and he rolls his head to the side, the simple motion taking an absurd amount of effort. Percy tries to make himself listen, to understand, but he can’t make out any words from the stream of noise.
“Can’t understan’ you.” He mumbles.
The speaking halts for a moment, but that brief silence is all it takes for Percy to fall back under Morpheus’s spell.
Friday, March 8th, 2018
6:38 PM
Lyon, France
Levinston gives them everything.
In thirty minutes, they have another signed warrant and are gearing up to get in the van. As they did, Lee had sat Spencer down with a bottle of water and a trashcan nearby in case he felt like throwing up. With a bit of help from Mal, Levinston was bandaged up and the floor was cleaned of blood. It wasn’t as bad as either of them had assumed—the man hadn’t even needed stitches. After, Lee had roused Spencer and the pair had gone to the opposite end of the building to get their safety gear ready, the blond keeping an eye on Spencer as they went. The young man had looked a little green since Barnes had done…well, what he had.
Ross had felt the same—it was impossible not to. It was to save Jackson’s life, he reminded himself. The fact alone did a great deal to settle his nerves.
Barnes hadn’t said a single thing since he’d stalked out of the interrogation room. It twisted something in Ross’s gut. Oddly enough, it wasn’t fear that bubbled up inside him. Maybe a touch of trepidation, sure, but most of it was just concern.
He’d have to be a complete idiot to not notice just how much Barnes and Jackson cared for each other. Sure, there were the big things like how Jackson went utterly batshit last August when Barnes had gone missing—Ross still remembered his dark eyes as he’d leaned into Aspen’s space, the gravel in his voice as he spoke, Anev, you’ll find that you have no idea what I’m capable of. How Barnes had broken Hydra’s programming for Jackson, had gone similarly bloodlust-crazy to protect Jackson in the Hydra base. Everyone knew about the big things.
It was the little things that really made it apparent to Ross.
It was how Barnes never, not even once, raised his voice around Jackson. How he took phone calls from a particularly aggravating officer outside when he was pissed so he could yell through the receiver. How whenever Jackson walked into a room, it was like Barnes was falling in love for the first time, clear as day on his face.
It was how Jackson, hardass, hyper-vigilant Jackson, had fallen asleep in the office one late night, curled up on Barnes’s chest. It was how he let Barnes guide him, a breathtaking trust in each step that made Ross’s heart clench to witness. How, one day, he saw Jackson take off his sweater, and when it pulled at the collar of his shirt, dog tags that most definitely did not say Jackson were hanging from his neck.
Ross didn’t know the full extent of their relationship. He never would. But he could tell that they meant the world to each other, and he was fully convinced Barnes would burn it down for him as well as build it back up. So, yes, he was a little worried. But mostly, as everyone buckled up and Mal began to pull out of the garage, he wondered what it would be like. How much Barnes must be hurting.
Two squad cars, three GIGN vehicles, and an ambulance with Lee and Spencer inside followed them. The officers, in plainclothes, park a ways away and inconspicuously enter the buildings surrounding the address Levinston gave them. They don’t have the time to clear everyone out, so instead, every window is shut, every door is locked, and the civilians are given strict orders to stay inside.
The National Guard arrives on the scene five minutes later, army vehicles careening around corners in their haste. They set up a perimeter around the entire block, sealing off roads and sidewalks. Half of the guardsmen stay to guard the blockade, the other hals joining the GIGN and SWORD members to surround the building.
Men set up on roofs across the street, rifles assembled and scopes focused on the innocuous laundromat waiting for them. The entire time, Ross watches Barnes out of the corner of his eye, equal parts wary and disquieted. The SWORD team is put in charge, Mal leading the tactical team while Lee orders around a select few guardsmen into setting up an emergency relief center in case any of them get hit.
None of them say it, but Ross knows that if any of them do get infected, there’s next to nothing they can do. Everyone who’s been infected has died almost instantly, painful and bloody. Save for Jackson, who Ross has seen crack concrete with his bare hands, but was still incapacitated and hanging on by a thread.
He can tell by the steely look in Lee and Spencer’s eyes, though, that they’re still going to try.
Ross’s hands are tight on the straps of his kevlar vest, resisting the urge to bounce on the balls of his feet as he sizes up the building in front of him. It appears to only be one storey, but, if Levinston’s testimony was correct, there should be a basement below, not on any blueprints they could find.
The lights inside are off, the sign on the door flipped to closed.
Mal, Bridgette, and Barnes all circle back around to him, faces hard and determined. Ross takes a steadying breath as the other assembled groups congregate behind them.
“Ready?” Bridgette whispers to them.
She gets no words in return, just grim nods.
The voice is back again, pulling Percy from the thick, soupyness of fatigue surrounding him. This time, it sounds different. He can’t pin exactly how, but it does.
Every word spoken sounds clearer and clearer in his head, until he can finally make out the words.
“You need to wake up.” It’s accompanied by a gentle tap to his face.
Percy can’t respond, his tongue leaden in his throat. He’s once again struck by the familiarity of the voice. He feels like the memory connecting to it is just out of reach, everything too weighty for him to reach up and grab it.
“I know you’re tired,” Softly, understanding. “I know. But you need to wake up. You’re needed out there.”
He wants to listen. He does, but he doesn’t think he can.
“They need you.” The voice says. A forehead touches his. “I need you.” The voice cracks. “Please.”
None of them object when Barnes steps forward to lead the raid. The GIGN and National Guardsmen blanch from under their HAZMAT masks when they get a good look at Barnes—whispers of le soldat reach their ears. Barnes doesn’t react in the slightest. Ross figures he must’ve had a lot of practice with stuff like this.
Barnes doesn’t wait for them to pick the lock to open it, instead reaching out and crushing the metal with his bare hand. The door swings open with an audible click.
Some of the Guardsmen directly behind them gulp.
Weapons raised, the beams of flashlights crossing over one another, illuminating the particles of dust falling through the air. Ross swiped a finger across one of the counters, leaving a dark streak of cleanliness in its wake. “This place hasn’t been open in a while,” He noted, voice barely above a whisper.
Barnes, his footsteps silent as a phantom he’d become known as, stepped around the counter and shouldered open the door to the back rooms. They filed in after him, eyes constantly flickering around the room and checking over their shoulders.
There’s not much in the back room—a metal table with two stools pushed off to the side, an old push broom propped up in the corner, an empty wooden shelf on the far wall. And next to that, is a door.
Barnes signals for them to stop. “You,” He says, pointing at the people in the back. “Stay here. Cover us. Everyone else, with me. Clear?”
A round of hushed affirmatives. Barnes nods, and quietly approaches the door. He holds up the hand not grasping his gun, counting down on his fingers. When he reaches zero, he drives his shoulder into the door and charges in, weapon raised.
The SWORD members are right behind him, the others behind them. They descend down a flight of steep concrete stairs. To his right, he can hear Bridgette mutter something about building code violations through her respirator. As soon as they touch down on the landing, they fan out, backs against the wall, encircling the room.
Tarps cover the floors and wall, and tables are set up across the room. Lab equipment Lee and Spencer probably were familiar with, but Ross had no hope to put a name to, was set up against walls and on workbenches. A large freezer is sitting in the corner, presumably holding some sort of samples. Glassware is crowded together on a shelf to Ross’s left, a set of tools in a box to his right.
There are only three people standing in the center of the room. They’re all wearing heavy duty equipment similar to what the SWORD team and company are wearing. Heavy duty chemical resistant boots and gloves, full coverage suits and masks. Their faces are covered, putting Ross on edge.
The instant they flood into the room, two of the three put their hands high above their hands, palms out.
The third, far back in the corner, doesn’t move.
“Hands up.” Ross orders, gun leveled at the third one.
Nothing.
“I said, hands up,” He snarls.
The two in front exchange nervous looks. “Max—” One starts.
“Get down on the ground, hands behind your head.” Barnes barks out. The two instantly comply, shaky.
Barnes signals, and Ross and Mal step forward, looking over the two, keeping a careful distance for the others to have a clear shot, just in case. Once they’ve determined neither of them have anything on their person, they step forward and pull their wrists behind their backs, cuffing them.
The one in the back—Max, they called him—doesn’t respond. The lighting in the basement is low, and Ross squints in an effort to better see him. He’s standing in front of one of the workbenches, hunched over something.
“Listen to them, man,” One of the ones on the floor gasps out. “Shut up,” Mal hisses at him. Then, softer, “Did you get that?”
Their earpieces crackle to life. “Max. Cross-checking any records for a Max associated with Levinston.” Dan’s reply comes swiftly. Ross can hear the faint clicking of his keyboard. A second later, “Maximilian Bauer, thirty-seven years of age, Austrian native. Parents moved to Bordeaux twenty years ago, brought him and his brothers along with him.” Another moment of furious typing. “Eldest brother, Elias, died this year. His name is on the lease for the building.” Dan says quickly.
“Thanks,” Mal whispers back. Then, louder, “Don’t make this harder for us. Put your damn hands up.”
A long, tense moment. Then, the man turns around. In his hand, he’s holding a single glass phial.
The room sucks in a collective inhale. “Sir,” Ross warns. “Put that down.”
Maximilian bares his teeth at them. “Why? So you can cuff me and shove me in the back of a car, make me disappear?” He barks out a trembling laugh. “No, I don’t think so. I refuse to kneel and die like a dog,” He spits.
Dan speaks up from their earpieces. “Bauer worked at a local university. Researched infectious diseases, believe it or not. He was fired—doesn’t say why, but his grant was taken away, he was even barred from the premises. A month before the attacks started.” Ross exhales through his nose, working that over in his head.
“And what do you think this will get you?” Ross asks calmly. “We all have protective gear on. You’ll get taken into custody either way.”
The man holds the phial up higher. “That won’t help. This stuff will eat through your respirators like acid, in minutes.”
From the floor, the two others freeze. Ross isn’t sure whether he actually believes the man, but he isn’t willing to take that chance. “This isn’t how this has to go down, Max. We can all walk out of here.”
“If you think I’m going anywhere with you people, you’re insane.” Maximilian replies angrily.
“What do you want, Max?” Ross asks, switching tracks. “Why are you doing this?”
“Oh, no. No, no, I’m not telling you that. Trying to get into my head, huh? Not happening,” Maximilian says. “But you want my demands? I want out of here. A helicopter, to take me wherever I want to go. And if any of you try to track me down, people will start dropping like flies.”
Christ, Ross realizes. He’s gone way further in the deep end than he had previously assumed. “You know we can’t do that. You killed over two dozen people, Max.”
Next to him, Ross sees Barnes shift. Not in a nervous way—the opposite, really. Barnes is staring down Maximilian like he did Levinston, right before going at him with a hunting knife. All their weapons are still raised, trained on the man. None of them dare shoot out of fear of the phial hitting the ground.
“I can kill you all. Right here, right now.” Maximilian reminds, loud and manic. “My mask will stand up. Yours won’t. I can kill you all.”
When Barnes speaks up, chills run down Ross’s spine. “And I,” He says, scarily calm, “Will kill you before you do.”
“You’ll sign your own death warrant if you shoot me,” Maximilian shakes the phial.
Barnes tilts his head to the side. “I’m confident I can catch that before it hits the ground. Do you think you can break it before I blow your brains out?” Barnes raises a sole, dark brow. “Because I don’t.”
“You’re across the room from me,” Maximilian blusters. “You don’t scare me.”
Barnes seems amused, in the way of an animal toying with its prey, right before biting down on its spinal cord and severing it. “I can move at upwards of fifty miles an hour. About seventy feet per second. And I’d say you're only about forty away from me.” As he lets that settle in, he adds on, “And, by the way—that tingling sensation running up your spine is inevitability. But the one down your leg? That one’s fear. I wouldn’t lie to the man with enhanced senses. Now, put down the phial.”
Maximilian’s hands shake, staring at Barnes with wide eyes. Ross can see the realization of just who he’s facing down begin to piece together.
“I will shoot you, Maximilian. I will kill you where you stand, take that phial, and not lose a damn night of sleep over it. You think your life matters to me? Paul Levinston’s didn’t.”
They all watch as Maximilian’s eyes widen in horror.
“We don’t need you, Max. Whether or not you die is up to you.” Barnes says, terrifyingly nonchalant.
Jackson typically led them, putting the fear of his Gods into whoever they faced down. But he was dying, because of this man, so now it was just Barnes, with the fear of the Devil to follow. The Guardsmen behind them are sweating, their breaths shallow in the face of the Sergeant. To their credit, their hands don’t waver.
Slowly, Maximilian reaches out, shaking hand meeting tabletop. The soft clink of glass phial meeting metal is relief enough to make Ross’s shoulders sag. The man puts his hands above his head, and steps away from the table.
“Please.” They say again.
Percy fights the urge to fall back under. Why does he know that voice?
He tries to think, but it’s like wading through molasses. He finds himself unable to picture anything, not a single memory to connect the voice to. Now that he thinks of it…he can barely think of anyone.
“You promised.” The voice whispers, choked up. “You promised everything would be alright.”
For a moment, the words elicit nothing from him. Then, the barest whisper, from deep within his own memory, his own voice. I promised you.
He recalls the cold. Snow. Pain, clutching a wound in his side. That same voice, cradling him. You came to get me. That’s all that matters.
Always will, Percy’d responded.
Something tugs at him, deep in his chest. The warmth that had previously cocooned him begins to dissipate, leaving pins and needles in its wake. He lifts his hand, a tremendous effort against his protesting muscles, flexing his joints. His head swims, and Percy blinks rapidly.
He could've sworn someone had been sitting next to him, but there’s nobody there. Percy pushes himself up onto his elbows, fog clearing from his head. He feels terrible, every part of his body aching as he tries to stand. He stumbles a few times, but as he rises, like cotton being pulled from his ears, a steady beeping sound unmuffles itself.
The second he properly gets to his feet, the world tilts on its axis, and the liminal space around him begins to crumble.
They’d left him alone after administering it. Lee had prepared the line, wasting no time to get the cure they’d fabricated into Percy’s bloodstream.
They’d prepared it astonishingly fast—as soon as SWORD had taken all three of the scientists out of the building, Lee and Spencer’s team had flooded in. They went straight for the freezer in the back, where a row of Skrull blood samples were lined up neatly.
After that, they’d rushed back to the lab to fabricate a cure. Bucky, on the other hand, had gone through the decontamination process and went straight to the hospital. As soon as he’d arrived, he’d been met with a grim-faced doctor. Percy’s breathing had gotten worse, and they’d put him on a ventilator. Bucky had scrubbed a hand across his face, eyes stinging. This was bad. On average, only two-thirds of people survived after being taken off a ventilator. And while he knew Percy was built stronger than the average person those numbers were based on, he also knew that Percy was harboring a bioweapon that had immediately killed every single person it had come into contact with.
He’d been allowed to sit in with him—not that the doctors could stop him if they tried. And he’d just waited.
It took the greatest scientific minds of France three hours to come up with a cure. Every prominent figure with experience in the area had been flown in and waiting on standby ever since they’d found out somebody had come into contact with the disease and was still holding on—and as soon as Lee and Spencer had returned with the samples, they’d set to work.
Lee had blown into the ICU like a storm, shoving people out of her way as she rushed into Percy’s room. Spencer was right behind her, both of them looking harried, but triumph shining in their eyes.
“This will weaken the Skrull blood in his system—his body will be able to clean it out in no time. We just need to wait.” Lee reported as she readied the line. As soon as it was connected and flowing, she looked over at him. Her eyes, that near-clear gray, showed an uncharacteristic amount of emotion. Much softer than he thought her capable of, she said, “He’ll be fine.”
They’d waited for an hour, in case of any adverse reactions, before he showed the first signs of waking. After that, Lee and Spencer had excused themselves, leaving Bucky alone with him.
Percy’s skin had regained some of its color, losing most of that sickly green-gray color that had flushed his paled cheeks. The circles around his eyes were still bruise-like, but the ventilator had been removed and every beep of his heart monitor fought back tears. The moment Percy shifted, the tiniest movement of his head, Bucky noticed. Frantic, he leaned over and gently cupped Percy’s face. “Hey, hey, you with me?”
It took too long for comfort for Percy to reply—but Bucky couldn’t bring himself to care, too overcome with the instant wave of pure relief that coursed through him. The demigod leaned into his palm, and his eyes flickered open.
Bucky’s shoulders trembling as he forced down a sob. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever see those beautiful green eyes ever again. He let Percy get his bearings before speaking again, brushing back a few stray strands of hair from Percy’s face.
It took a few minutes, but Percy became lucid enough to tilt his head up towards Bucky and smile at him, weak and shaky, but displaying those dimples all the same.
“There you are,” Bucky whispered. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Percy’s forehead. His skin was cold and clammy, but Bucky didn’t care. He was awake.
Notes:
GIGN is like an elite french tactical police force, for those wondering
in case you can't tell, i snatched the whole 'and i will kill you before you do' part from hotch in criminal minds <3 and bucky's quote about inevitability and fear is loosely from the show lucifer
percys awake :) can i get a yeehaw
maximilian: ill kill everyone here
bucky, lacking his emotional support bf and very much losing his grip on sanity and reality: (◉‿◉)=ε/̵͇̿̿/'̿̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿ ̿plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter 11: The Unanticipated Player
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunday, March 10th, 2018
11:46 PM
Lyon, France
They’d kept Percy under observation for the next forty-eight hours, under careful rotational watch, just in case he took a turn for the worse. But, with every hour, he improved. Minutes after waking, with some help, Percy’d sat up in bed and had spoken to them all for almost an hour before he was noticeably fighting to keep his eyes open.
By the end of the second day, he’d begun to demand to be discharged. The majority of the medical staff that had come into the room had tried to convince the demigod otherwise, but he remained stubborn.
“He has someone who will be staying with him, I assume?” The physician, Dr. Bell, asked quietly, as to not wake him, standing in the doorway.
Bucky looked up at her. “That’s me.”
She nodded, and, to his surprise, sat across from him. Interlacing her hands in her lap, her eyes met his. “Being put on a ventilator can have long lasting effects.” The doctor began gently. “Even weeks after leaving the hospital. It’s called post-intensive care syndrome; physical weakness and severe fatigue are common, as is a sort of…brain fog. Disorientation, recall issues, things like that, are all common. They’re caused by the medications used to sedate him while he was on the ventilator.”
His mouth goes dry. “For how long?” He asks quietly.
The doctor purses her lips. “There’s no sure way to tell. The general rule of thumb is that, for every day on the ventilator, at least a week of recovery. Luckily, Mr. Jackson was only on it for two days and some change.”
Bucky nods slowly, a tight frown on his face. He knew Percy’s heritage often helped him recover from things faster; concussions, illnesses, viruses. Would something like this be the same? He hoped so.
“What can I do?” His voice came out rawer than he’d hoped it would.
“Be there for him.” Dr. Bell said easily. “He’s going to need help, getting around and the like. But he’s also going to need a support system, emotionally. His stay was short, but being in the ICU is a traumatic experience. Nightmares are a common result, along with heightened anxiety.”
Christ, Bucky thought, rubbing a hand across his forehead. The last two things his boyfriend needed in his life; more nightmares, and more anxiety. He may have hid the latter better than the former, but it was easy for someone like Bucky to see. How enclosed spaces made him draw his shoulders in, and certain noises set his heart off like a jackhammer. How hard a time Percy had relaxing—not just physically, but with his powers. The constant vigilance, scanning his surroundings to ensure he wouldn’t miss anything a sighted person wouldn’t.
The first time Percy had asked him to guide him down an unfamiliar area, Bucky had almost burst into tears. Imagine that; the ex-Winter Soldier, tearing up in the middle of the street because his boyfriend offered him his elbow.
Dr. Bell’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Hey,” She said softly. “The hardest part is over. That’s the important part to remember.”
He could do nothing but nod.
Discharge was a bustle of people, in and out of the room. Lee had taken another batch of blood samples, promising this to be the last for at least a month. Dan had come by, accompanied by Mal, and had chatted quietly with Percy. Ross had done the same with Bridgette an hour later, bringing Bucky a styrofoam cup of coffee with them. Nurses and doctors had come in and out as well, going over charts and asking last-minute questions.
Percy, beautiful, stubborn Percy, had been unwavering in his desire to go home, despite how deep a frown his honest answers got him. Yes, his chest hurt. Yes, his head hurt. Yes, he was tired. As time went on, his resting face had grown more and more unamused. There had been one short instance where a nurse had attempted to check his pupils, shining a light into his eyes while Bucky laughed his ass off in the corner.
Percy had stuck his tongue out in his direction as the nurse began to apologize profusely, catching on. In that moment, looking at him, hair sticking up at every odd end and a hospital blanket pooling in his lap, Bucky had really felt like kissing him.
Three hours later, he was carrying his stubborn boyfriend up the steps of their apartment. One of the nurses had offered to go fetch them a wheelchair, explaining that Percy might need it for the first day or so. Half-asleep, Percy had politely refused, thanking her anyway. She’d hung back against the wall as they were preparing to leave, concern surfacing in her eyes.
Before Percy could even try to stand, though, Bucky was there, bracing a hand under his knees and the other around his back, effortlessly lifting him and holding him close to his chest. Percy has made an indignant noise, insisting he could walk himself, thank you very much. The nurse's eyes had gone wide, a hand covering her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Right.” She’d said aloud. “Well, then.”
The ride home had been a silent affair, Percy fighting to stay awake the entire time. It was noticeable how out of it he was. Percy was typically so lively, bright eyes and a sharp wit. Now, though, he seemed to barely be able to hold his head up. Bucky put him down on the edge of their bed as gently as he could, then ran a gentle hand through his hair, away from his eyes. “You alright?”
Percy nodded tiredly. “‘M fine.”
Bucky leans forward and presses his lips to his forehead. “Tell me if that changes, alright?.” He affirms as he turns to their shared wardrobe and hunts for Percy’s favorite pair of sweats. He doesn’t have to see Percy to know that the demigod is rolling his eyes. “Sure thing, mom.” He drawls.
He snorts, returning to the bedside with a change of clothes over his arm. “Now, I know for a fact you don’t talk to your actual mother like that.” With some help, Percy wrangles his shirt off and Bucky pulls the new one over his head.
As always, the scars running across his torso send a pang of sadness through Bucky. The claw and teeth marks, the bullet and knife wounds. The one that runs across his lower stomach, thick and knotted and makes Bucky wonder how he is alive every time he sees it.
“Would you?”
“Of course not.” Bucky says immediately. “Way too much respect, way too much fear.”
Percy laughs, and leans on Bucky for support as he pulls on his sweats. An arm around his torso to make sure he stays upright, Bucky can’t help but laugh too. “I’m serious!”
He has to help Percy take the step to get back to the bed. “She loves you,” Percy assures. “They all do.”
Something warm blossoms in his chest as he pulls a pair of fuzzy socks from one of their drawers. That was another quirk of Percy’s he’d come to appreciate—his endless collection of brightly colored and strangely patterned socks. The ones he was holding now were pink with yellow polka dots.
Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Percy’s legs into his lap as he unpaired the socks. The demigod offered no resistance, easily accepting Bucky’s help. He never seemed to have a problem with that, unlike some people they know. (Yes, he means Tony.) Bucky could go into some deep psychological bullshit about how Percy was forced to learn to accept help when he was young because his life often depended on it, and Tony was the opposite because he was never given the opportunity of a proper support system until he met Rhodes, but he wouldn’t. “All of them? All four-hundred and seventy thousand?” He teases.
Percy’s dimples flash as he drops his head back onto the pillow. “Shut up,”
The disorientation Dr. Bell mentioned doesn’t seem to be affecting him much, which loosens something in Bucky’s chest as he lifts Percy’s ankle to pull the sock over his foot. He was fairly sure part of it was a sensory thing for him—if Bucky was as finely attuned to the vibrations of the earth as Percy was, he’d probably want a slight buffer too. A snarky reply is on the tip of his tongue when he stops cold.
Scars criss-cross the soles of Percy’s foot, jagged and rough lines. They’re significantly faded, old. Bucky stares at them, and he knows that fights don't result in marks like these.
He’s bombarded with an old memory—somewhere humid and sticky, he’s standing in a tent as a man leans over another. The first man is yelling, angry Russian at the other, who’s cuffed to a chair. Bucky remembers it vividly—he’d tried to run. He’d been caught, and now he was going to be punished.
The Soldier had stood against the back wall of the command tent as the angry man had taken off the prisoner’s shoes and socks, taken a blade, and cut through the soles of his feet, again and again and again, until the man was sobbing and promising on his life to not attempt another escape.
They hadn’t believed him, and cut up his feet until he couldn’t even stand without almost passing out from the pain.
Bucky feels sick to his stomach. “Percy,” He says quietly, voice trembling with a fury that makes everything go still. “Who did this to you?”
Percy lifts his head from the pillow, frowns at his tone. “What?”
It's all too easy to see Percy sitting in that chair, wrist cuffed to the arm, a blade carving through layers of flesh and tissue as he screamed. “You have scars on the bottom of your feet, Percy.” Bucky says, edging on hysterically. “And I know for a fact you don’t get those in fights.”
The demigod looks almost confused, his dark brow knitted. “What are you talking about?” He pushes himself up into a sitting position, leaning into Bucky’s space. He sounds worried. “James?” Bucky takes ahold of his hand and pressed the pads of his fingers to the scars that line his soles. Percy’s mouth twists as he runs his fingers along them. He doesn't answer at first, perfectly silent and still.
“I didn’t even know those were there.” He says eventually, the truth a pain echoing in his voice.
“Percy, please tell me what I’m thinking happened didn’t happen.” Bucky breathes out, a thrumming fear settling in his chest, thinking of that prisoner’s agonized cries, how he screamed for help that Bucky did not give, even as the man looked him in the eyes and begged.
He watches as Percy’s confusion slowly melts away into something far worse. It’s only for a second, but his eyes flash with a type of pain Bucky has never seen on his face. His face drains of color, entire body tensing up. Just for a second, Percy looks absolutely terrified.
“I…” The demigod gets out. “I didn’t have any shoes.” His voice is distant, choppy. “The ground was rocky. I knew I was bleeding, but I didn’t think it was this bad.”
Bucky should feel relief at that—nobody held Percy down and went at him with a knife, over and over as he screamed and writhed. But looking at his face, the sheer terror that had struck him like a bolt of lightning, he’s not sure.
“Okay,” Bucky says, voice suddenly soft and careful. “It’s okay, darling, you don’t have to tell me.”
Percy blinks rapidly, pulls his shoulders in. “Okay.” He repeats quietly. Then, “I will. One day. Promise.”
He knows how seriously Percy takes his promises, and nods, momentarily speechless. “You don’t have to.”
“I will.” He says again.
Later that night, when Percy is curled up on his side, dead asleep, Bucky lays awake. Rain pounds on the roof of their apartment, lightning flashing in the distant sky out the window. That’s not what’s keeping him, though.
He knows Percy has been through a lot. They all have. He also knows that there are some things Percy hasn’t told him—and he’s more than okay with that. They both have things they don’t feel like sharing, and just because they’re together doesn’t mean they owe one another all their secrets. There are some things that just hurt, and talking about them to anyone can be hard.
Percy has those things, and so does Bucky. He’s glad Percy trusts him enough to feel like he can tell him about whatever happened one day, but that doesn’t stop him from wondering now.
What could have happened to Percy for that situation to arise? Walking barefoot on rock jagged enough to cut deep into his flesh, and for him to not even be aware there were scars wrapped around his soles? He knew Percy had first been blinded when he was a teenager, and had slowly improved up until—
Bucky closed his eyes. He couldn’t lie and say he didn’t feel guilty for Percy’s choice, making a deal with the Fates themselves to save Bucky, giving up the progress his eyes had been making for the last decade to save the man he’d only known for a few months. He wondered, some days, why the demigod had done it. But that was the thing—there was no why, not one beyond the simple fact that Percy cared about him.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever met someone as fiercely loyal to his friends as Percy. If it came down to it, Bucky knew Percy would have done the same thing for Peter, Tony, any of the SWORD members. He cared for people, stuck with them no matter what.
Percy was a horrifically good person.
Bucky looked down at him, face burrowed into his pillow. Percy looked peaceful like this, and Bucky hoped he would remain that way. He didn’t buy into the benevolence of any higher powers, especially not after hearing the smallest amount of Percy’s childhood, but he hoped that, just this once, they would at least take pity on the demigod and let him sleep through the night.
Monday, March 11th, 2018
3:46 PM
Stark Tower, NY
Natasha quite liked Peter.
When he wasn’t giving her a suspicious stare over a calculus textbook, he was quite pleasant to be around. He was funny, and was an excellent storyteller. He talked about his days at school and with his friends with endless enthusiasm, enough to bring a smile out of even her.
He was young, painfully so. She could barely remember being that young, and definitely didn’t remember every being that happy. But if anybody deserved it, it was Peter.
Tony had emerged from his lab to greet the boy, a soft expression on his weary face as Peter regaled him with stories from his latest AcDec practice. The last few days, a persistent shadow had been following Tony. She’d assumed it was because of Peter, the gap in contact between the two that he had told her about. But it had lingered, days after Peter had returned to the tower and a new understanding seemed to exist between the two.
Tony had pulled her aside and told her earlier that week.
Jackson was sick. Apparently, he, Barnes, and his team had gone off to investigate a series of bioweapon attacks, and he had gotten exposed. Natasha would forever deny the instant jolt of fear that struck her. SWORD was the Council’s best team. There was only one reason they would have torn them away from recapturing the lingering Raft escapees, and that was if the attacks were bad.
“What are his chances?”
She’d watched Tony scrub a hand down his face. “There have been no survivors so far.” He said it quietly enough to be a whisper, but to her, it may have been the deafening crack of a gunshot. She'd squeezed her eyes shut.
“How long does he have,” Natasha asked levelly, digging her nails into her palms to keep her hands from shaking.
At that, Tony had paused. Opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it. Then, “They don’t know. Everyone else died minutes after exposure. He’s been hanging on for almost twelve hours.”
Of course he was, Natasha wanted to say, hysterics bubbling up inside her. Jackson had never done anything the easy way; not a single SHIELD mission, hit, or fight. He seemed to live for defiance, against the sword of Damocles that was speaking up about Hydra’s infiltration, against Graves’s defamation of Barnes in the WSC chamber, against the President himself.
If anyone could stay alive out of sheer stubbornness, it was him.
“They’re working on finding a cure.” Tony had said after a long moment. “I’ll keep you updated.”
Natasha had nodded, quietly thanked him. He’d left after that, and she’d leaned back into the couch, staring up at the ceiling. She didn’t know anything about SWORD or its members, other than the high esteem the Council held them in. Jackson had done well for himself, that’s for sure. He was always made for more than SHIELD.
Like it had happened yesterday, Natasha remembered watching the footage from the Senate chamber. President Landry was a man that made her lips curl in disgust, blood boil and fists clench. How he’d gotten elected, she’d never know.
Clint next to her, the complete and utter shock that coursed through them as Jackson revealed himself as an Enhanced. Then, the letter, which she’d shared with her friend.
Jackson was blind. It plagued her even now—how could she not have noticed? Sure, Jackson was excellent at what he did, but so was she. Her and Clint had spent hours bouncing ideas off each other as to how the man did what he did. How he moved with such surety, in tune with the earth itself, his strikes always hitting true. How he always seemed to know exactly what his opponents were doing, sometimes even before Natasha picked up the telegraph of movement.
It got to the point where the Black Widow wasn’t the only one vying to know—just Natasha. All of the potential dangers of his Enhancement had taken a backseat to genuine curiosity, the slight wonder.
It was true Natasha didn’t have the overall best experiences with inhuman skill sets. Loki, who’d taken Clint not just from her but from himself as well. Hulk, who’d chased her through the bowels of the helicarrier, smacked her through the air like she was made of nothing, and the Soldier, who shot her in the arm and almost the head if not for Steve’s intervention the first time she'd fought him, and might have crushed her windpipe if not for T’Challa the second. The Maximoff twins jaw-dropping power, especially the wild extent of Wanda’s. Despite all of this, Natasha held no ill will towards the Enhanced. The majority of people with Enhancements were just that; people. Students, parents with children nine-to-fives, who just happened to be able to glow or fly or predict when the bus was coming down to the second.
A tiny part of her, one that she’d been previously sure had been stamped out, was in awe. The astonishment of watching Thor call down lightning, Spider-Man swing through the air, Vision float thirty feet off the ground. It was child-like and was not something she let herself indulge in, but it was there all the same.
She wanted to ask Jackson. How he did what he did, not just for strategic gain but just genuine curiosity as well. He’d seemed to warm up to her in his correspondence in Wakanda, and she was holding out hope that he might actually tell her.
He needed to get home first, which Tony had informed her with a weight off his shoulders, he would. They’d found a cure in time, and he was recovering and set to be back within the coming week.
Barnes would be coming, too. She was excited to see him, the real him, without the trigger words pressing down on his chest and constricting his lungs. The words themselves were gone, but the memories weren’t—she hoped he was happier all the same. The two ex-assassins had gotten along fairly well during their shared time in Wakanda. Barnes had been an overall pleasant, unobtrusive presence. They may not have talked often, but when they did, she’d enjoyed their conversations.
Her train of thought suddenly derailed as something came to her. It was mid-September of two years ago, right after the Gala shooting. She and Clint had been leaning over a computer, rewatching the footage, eyes glued to the fact that Jackson had lunged forward just a bit too fast to pass off. Then, Barnes, coming into the room, a frown on his face and an inquiry on his lips.
Once they’d explained, let Barnes see for himself, the man had offered, “Could he a be a mutant of some sort? Maybe that’s how he knew.”
And Natasha had shaken her head. “Fury would have known. Nothing gets past him.”
Natasha couldn’t help it—she tossed her head back and let out a breathy laugh towards the ceiling. It'd been two years since then, and it seemed like both the blink of an eye and a lifetime simultaneously. If only she’d known what she did now—and when had she started thinking Fury was infallible? Why had she? Because he’d gotten her, and she’d assumed that was something nobody else could?
But something had. Percy Jackson had gotten past him, her, the rest of SHIELD and Hydra. He’d been a player that Natasha hadn’t, nobody had, anticipated.
There was only one thing that she’d said that, looking back, had any merit. “He always did have authority issues.”
Not of the kind that resented not being at the top of the chain, but the kind that would gladly cut out rusted links, above or below. And, considering he’d called the President an ignorant motherfucker, all but admitted to killing the Secretary of State with his bare hands, then referring to the man as a fucking fascist to his face, before sauntering out of the chamber on live television, she was pretty confident in that observation.
Notes:
you cannot tell me the entire medical staff was not watching these two idiots like 🥺 every time bucky lovingly ran a hand through percy's hair a nurse fell to their knees sobbing WHEN IS IT MY TURN
gays, we did it, we finally got the classic “who did this to you”
for those who didn’t guess, the scars were from tartarus :)
natasha after meeting peter: small. baby :)
peter: *threatens her*
natasha:
natasha: even betternatasha at this point just thinks percy is fucking insane and has a deep respect for him because of it
and, for those who don't really pay attention to the dates i painstakingly put in here, its been like two years! percy arrived in stark tower in july of 2016, and this chapter took place in march of 2018! time flies when you keep almost fucking dying, huh
im sure many of you have heard about the solider poet king uquiz thats been going around
(https://uquiz.com/quiz/MYLbZ3/are-you-a-soldier-a-poet-or-a-king for those interested)
what do you guys think these characters would be and why? i've been thinking about it for a while and it's really stumped meplumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter 12: Strange Fruit
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, March 12th, 2018
8:28 PM
Lyon, France
The next few days pass peacefully. Percy sleeps a lot, either wrapped around Bucky or Mrs. O’Leary. The lingering fatigue hits him hard enough that he barely even dreams, waking with only a few half-remembered images and voices.
Bucky begins packing up their apartment, after refusing Percy from doing any heavy lifting. Percy, of course, tries to help anyways, which results in Bucky using his eighty years of accumulated stealth skills to box up furniture while his boyfriend sleeps.
Across the city, the other SWORD members are tying up loose ends, putting in job transfers or tendering resignations, keeping their identities and alibis airtight. Bucky drops by the autoshop to have a chat with his boss, spinning a tale of his sick grandmother he’s relocating for. His boss is sad to see him go, but wishes him the best all the same.
Bridgette takes lead on the case as it gets processed, scraping together Lee and Spencer’s findings into an indisputable brick wall of a prosecution. Maximilian Bauer and his partners are in custody, and the French government is getting the International Criminal Court’s Office of the Prosecutor to determine whether there was sufficient evidence of crimes of adequate gravity to fall under the ICC’s jurisdiction. And, thanks to Bridgette’s ironclad evidence gathering, there undoubtedly would be. The trial would take months, and keep their members busy, but Hanover was all for it.
They’d done their final official check-in with the WSC head earlier that day; through her mask of professionalism, the concern for Percy made itself known. Bucky’d given her the rundown of the raid, though she’d already read the reports they’d submitted. Percy hadn’t spoken much, still worn out, and Hanover hadn’t prodded him. In the very end, she’d just turned to him and asked if he was feeling alright. The demigod, curled into Bucky’s side, had given her a smile and told her he was going to be fine.
Afterwards, they’d ate lunch, and Bucky lightly coerced Percy into taking another nap. Naturally, he’d protested, but Bucky had whistled for Mrs. O’Leary to hop onto the bed next to him, and dropped a weighted blanket atop the both of them. Percy had been out in minutes.
The next few hours were silent, just Bucky moving around the apartment as he packed, accompanied by the pouring rain outside and Mrs. O’Leary’s rumbling snores. It was peaceful, and he used the time to decompress a bit, having been perpetually tense for the last few days.
Bucky knew Percy was made of strong stuff. He tore apart concrete with his bare fingers, flipped men three times his size over his shoulders, and responded to getting tased like one would with a static shock. Because of this, seeing Percy curled up in a hospital bed was all the more terrifying.
Percy was just so… constant. Warm embraces and soft smiles and a laugh that made something loosen in Bucky’s chest. His skin washed out with sickness, sweaters exchanged for a hospital gown, voice replaced by the beeping of an EKG; it was just wrong, deeply and utterly so.
Bucky let out a huff of air between his lips as he taped a box of books shut. There were things he’d miss about this place; the easy domesticity of a shared space, the sounds of the city muffled through the windows, the ease of not having everyone look at him and see a murderer. But, ultimately, he missed the tower. Tony, Peter, Pepper, Rhodey, he was even looking forward to seeing Natasha again.
Besides—waking up here, waking up in the tower, he’ll still be intertwined with the same person.
He checks in with Ross, who’s boarding his flight to Spain, dusts off the newly emptied bookshelves, and waters the plants in the windowsills. As he’s doing so, a pair of arms wrap around his middle, a face pressing into his shoulder blades.
“Hi,” He greets, a smile playing on his face.
Percy mumbles something against his shirt he assumes is a hey. Bucky puts the tiny watering can down on the coffee table and turns to envelop the demigod in his arms, resting his chin atop the familiar rats nest of inky hair. Percy, as always, fits easily into his arms, melting against him like he was made for it. Which, Bucky thinks, he might as well be. From the way his fingers perfectly linked with Buckys, the way his cheeks flushed whenever Bucky planted a kiss on them, to how every hug he got, no matter who from, seemed to be his natural state of being; what was Percy Jackson if not made to be loved?
They stay like that a while, just basking in each other's company and listening to the rain outside. Mrs. O’Leary is still snoring like a tractor from the bedroom, noises escaping through the cracked door, and Bucky huffs out a laugh, feels the curve of Percy’s smile against his skin.
A firm knock echoes from down the entryway, and they both still. Percy, a questioning frown on his face, pulls away from Bucky, his head tilted to the side in a way Bucky knows he does when listening. Then, a strange expression flashes over his face.
“What is it?” Bucky asks, voice kept low as a precaution. His hand itches to grab one of the daggers he keeps in the kitchen knife block.
His concern grows when Percy doesn’t respond, instead walking to the front door, a furrow in his brow. Bucky trails behind him, cautious and wary. His boyfriend halts for a moment, hand on the doorknob, and takes in a noticeably deep breath. When he opens it, it takes all of Bucky’s willpower to not choke on air.
The man standing in the hallway is tall and broad in the shoulders, his skin a rich bronze. A neatly trimmed beard, and black hair with gray shooting through the temples. Despite his casual manner of dress, the man gives off an aura of regalness, of wisdom in the lines around his eyes and power in the scarred appearance of his hands. What ultimately strikes Bucky, though, is his eyes.
Endless shifting greens and blues, crackling storms and gentle tides, all confined and compacted into an iris that could lure you in for hours.
He looks like Percy, incredibly so. The cut of his jaw, the set of his brow and nose, the inky color of his hair. For a second, when Bucky sees him, he sees Percy, older. But the longer he looks, the easier it is to pick out a few key differences—the shock of gray-white hair at the front of Percy’s hair is absent, along with the freckles that dot his skin. Percy’s cheekbones are a tad more prominent, the shape of his lips slightly different.
The man doesn’t even look at Bucky, his heavy gaze resting purely on Percy’s shoulders. The demigod’s voice is quiet in a way that is completely foreign to Bucky. “Dad,”
Ice crawls up his spine as Bucky stares at the God in their entryway. “Perseus,” His voice is low, surprisingly warm. He lacks the smooth, soft curls of an accent that tinge Percy’s words. “May I speak to you?”
Percy, still seemingly stunned, wordlessly steps aside to permit his father entrance. The God’s movements are precise and carry an otherworldly grace, setting off distant alarms in the primal parts of Bucky’s mind.
“Alone,” The God clarifies, finally looking over at Bucky. The simple look alone is like a thousand pound weight on his chest. It takes an absurd amount of willpower for Bucky to look up to meet the God’s gaze head on, unwilling, despite all rationale, to leave Percy unless by his request.
“He can stay,” Percy says. He seems to have found his balance, but he still seems more…subdued, than usual. Maybe it’s just the aftereffects of his time in the ICU, but Bucky can’t help but think he looks more tired than he did a few moments ago.
The God looks highly displeased, but before he can argue, Percy gives Bucky a strained smile. “James, this is my dad. Poseidon. Dad, this is my boyfriend.”
The God’s glower sets his hair on end. Bucky keeps his face carefully blank, giving the God a simple nod. Poseidon turns away dismissively a moment later, and Bucky doesn’t miss the downwards twitch of Percy’s mouth.
Percy doesn’t talk much about his father. He’ll go on for hours about his mother and Paul, his siblings and cousins, but is extraordinarily tight-lipped about Poseidon. Bucky never pushed him, but a small part of him is now wishing he had, if only for some context.
“What’s going on, dad?”
The immediate ruling out of a social visit makes Bucky narrow his eyes at Poseidon’s back. “I figured it was long overdue for a visit, Perseus. It’s been a while.”
“Sixteen months, yeah. Keep that up for another decade, and you might just break your record.” Percy sniped. Poseidon at least had the decency to look shamed. “I apologize for that,” He said, contrite. “I figured my presence would be…unappreciated, at the time.”
The demigod looked mightily unimpressed, but didn't argue, signaling that Poseidon was at least partially correct. “Whatever.”
“I hope to amend this—I came to extend an invitation to visit the palace. Tyson misses you,” The God continued.
Percy halted for a second, surprise flickering over his face. “Does Triton know about this?”
The God scoffed. “Oh, of course not. But if he can’t keep himself in line during your stay, Amphitrite certainly will.” Then, he gave his son a highly amused look. “Or perhaps you will use his skull to demolish the wall of my brand new game room once more.”
Looking entirely unashamed, Percy just shrugged. Then, a tentative smile. “I’d like that—visiting, that is. I’d rather not talk to Triton.”
Poseidon smiled, eyes crinkling. “Very well.” He cast a look around the apartment. “Good timing; you’re already begun packing, I see.”
Percy blinked in surprise. “Uh, yeah. We’re heading back to the Tower in two days.” Poseidon regarded his son curiously. “Do you have someone who can take whatever you leave behind to your residence?”
That got him a frown. “Dad, I…I can’t go, like, now. I have some stuff I have to take care of, first.”
“You’re still unwell, Perseus. I’m sure whatever it is, it can wait. Some time in the seas will do you good.” The God pointed out.
Percy crossed his arms. “It can’t wait, actually. And I’m well enough, thanks.” Then, “I do have a job, you know that right? Not one I can just take a few days off from at the drop of a hat.”
That pulled a reaction out of the God, a deeply ingrained frown making its way onto his face as it closed off. “You know how I feel about that, Perseus.”
Bucky could have sworn the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees as Percy’s voice turned chilly. “Feel about what, dad?”
Poseidon cast another look around the apartment. “This…this mortal hero business, Perseus. It’s dangerous.” Then, something raw in his voice, he turned back to his son. “I could feel your life force waning. You almost died.” He stressed, looking surprisingly upset at the notion.
His words had the opposite of the intended effect. Percy’s eyes narrowed, mouth setting in an angry line. “So, what, you’re just planning to whisk me off to live in the palace? That’s your solution?” He asked derisively. "Sixteen months. You haven't bothered to speak to me in sixteen months, and you think I'll just drop everything to go with you? You don't get to choose when to care."
"I always care," Poseidon said, hurt.
"Funny way of showing it." Was the reply, Percy crossing his arms.
Poseidon’s brow creased. "I only want to keep you safe, Perseus.” He said evenly.
That seemed to strike a cord in the demigod. “Yeah, safe, like you aren’t the entire reason my life has been in danger since the day I was born?”
A pause. “I did not mean for you to be the prophecy child,” Poseidon said quietly.
“You know that's worse, right? You figured it was alright to break your oath, just because Zeus already had? Thalia was going to be raised like a lamb for the slaughter, but, hey—as long as it wasn’t your kid.” Percy snapped.
“Perseus…” The God said warningly, seemingly out of patience. “I am trying to do this for your own good. I am trying to keep you safe." He repeated sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“From what?” Percy demanded loudly, tossing his hands up. “What could possibly be waiting for me that hasn’t already found me?”
It was at that moment, the God’s face betrayed him. He hesitated for a moment too long, and, just for a second, his eyes flicked over Percy’s shoulder, settling on Bucky. Bucky took an unwitting step back, lips parting in surprise. The God looked away, and Bucky stared after him, speechless.
For a second, it seemed like the miniscule interaction would go unnoticed by the demigod. But Bucky recognized the downwards tip of his chin, the way the corners of his lips twitched as he pieced the motions that were clear to him together. Percy’s voice dropped. “Did you just look at James?” He asked quietly. Louder, “ Did you just look at James?” He waited for no reply, having already gained his answer from the tell-tale beating of a treacherous heart. The demigod stepped into his father’s space, eyes dark and furious. “You do not get to step in here, into my fucking house, and accuse him of something, of anything.”
“He is dangerous,” Poseidon finally grit out, clipped and firm. “Whatever affections he may hold for you will not matter if he loses himself once more.”
“You think he’ll go back?” Percy reared back, shock and fury, the wind picking up outside with his motions.
"He has before." The God refuted angrily.
“The Soldier is dead, father.” Was insisted in return, indignant and upset.
“We both know,” Poseidon replied cuttingly, “That monsters will never truly die.”
For a long minute, Percy said nothing, just standing in the wake of his fathers words, as if seeing him in a whole new light. Bucky knew he was at least missing some context here, based purely on the hurt in Percy’s face. The room was charged with energy, the roaring of waves mixing and melding with the pounding of fuming hearts. Percy’s hands are clenched into fists, knuckles white.
“You’re still here, so I guess not.”
Poseidon’s face darkened. “What?”
Percy tilted his chin upwards in defiance. “I said,” He repeated, “He is far less of a monster than you. James isn’t the reason that I wake up every morning with the dying screams of children running through my head. James isn’t the reason I’ve had blood on my hands since I was a kid,” Every word Percy grew louder, until he was practically yelling in his father’s face. “Thanks to you, I know monsters, and he could not be further from one. And unlike you, he’s here. He’s been here, the entire time. James has saved my life and actually stuck around afterwards, unlike you, because he promised, and I actually believe him.”
Percy’s words were venomous, crafted by the fear of a child, the terror of a twelve-year-old, the all-consuming grief of a teenager. A part of him had always blamed his father; how could he not? When it was his father’s genes that made marrying Gabe the safer option, his father’s lack of involvement, of care, that let them bleed for years. His father’s oath breaking that made Hades send the Minotaur, that made him lose his mother. That made him carry the weight of the world, literally and figuratively, made him a pawn.
Outside, the Rhône and Saône rivers writhed, pelting with rain and frothing as the currents picked up. The sky darkened further, thunder ripping the clouds open and lightning tearing up the night.
Bucky, still standing behind Percy, had to force himself to stay still, knowing Percy wouldn’t want him to involve himself. Percy liked to fight his own battles, and, as much as Bucky hated it, he would respect it. That didn’t stop him, however, from picturing tearing the God limb from limb as he seethed. He had done more for less.
Bucky’s nightmares had always been silent. Through blood and broken bones, he had learned not to cry out. Percy was the opposite. Being torn awake, hearing his boyfriend screams like he was being slaughtered in the bed right next to him—Bucky had been terrified. Every time it happened, as he curled around Percy like he could protect him from the world, he wondered. Why did it have to be Percy? He’d searched desperately for someone to blame, to hurt, to take responsibility for hurting someone as wonderful as Percy.
He’d never considered Poseidon.
“I am your father,” Poseidon roared, finally losing his temper, the sky booming with his voice. The rain outside pelted down harder, turning from a drizzle to a torrential downpour.
“You are a cross to bear!” Percy screamed back, all semblance of calm gone. “You have no right to come here and judge James for what he was forced to do, when I’ve done so much worse! How is that different? Because what I did, I did on your behalf? Because monsters are alright as long as they're yours?”
The God's face turned an angry red. “You are my son, Perseus, and I will not have you referring to yourself in such a way—”
“Right, because I’m your precious demigod hero,” He said sardonically, eyes burning with unshed tears. Poseidon was often referred to as the ‘Father of Monsters’, his so-called ‘bad apples’ of children infamous. But nobody was ever concerned with the roots from which they came, for no healthy tree naturally bears strange fruit. As time went on, Percy believed less and less that any of his children weren’t monstrous. The cyclopes and the giants, the unspeakable beings that inhabited the Sea of Monsters. Triton, cruel and selfish, Kymopoleia, gleeful in her destruction, and Percy, the Pit Walker. None of them were strange fruit—they were all exactly what they were born to be.
“We both know you’ve never looked at me the same since the Pit. Don’t lie to me.” He waited for a rebuttal, but nothing came. Lip curling, Percy asked, “Was it the blood? Did you stop thinking of me as your perfect hero of a son after I started slaughtering monsters without raising a finger?” Percy laughed, loud and clear and furious. “No, you were never really bothered by the slaughter of the children that didn’t look like you. I bet it was Ahklys.”
Poseidon flinched at the name, and Percy, like a shark smelling blood, leaned in. “I bet it was when I found that Goddess and I hurt her just like how she hurt me. That’s what you’re scared of, that one day someone will hurt me, and I’ll just snap,” His eyes were alight, turbulent storms rolling across his irises, the energy in the room turning downright oppressive. “That one day, I’ll be just like Luke, but this time, you’ll lose, because you won’t have the virtue of being the lesser evil.”
The God stared at his son, unfamiliar and shocked still.
“You think James will harm me? How can you say that when the first person to truly do that was you, when you left my mother and I to suffer. You are an oathbreaker, Poseidon.” His shoulders tremble, his hands shake. Bucky has never seen Percy undone quite like this, before—an absolute wreck of wild emotion and rage . “You don’t get to do this, to, to come in here and lecture me on safety when nobody ever put me in more danger than you did. You cannot spend a decade putting a blade in my hand and sending me to fight wars like an adult, then turn around and try to monitor me like a child, when you ensured I never got to be one in the first place.”
“I did everything I could for you,” Poseidon seethed.
A damn broke.
“It wasn’t enough!” Percy screamed, tears making their way down his cheeks. “If you loved me like you said you did, you wouldn’t give a damn about your stupid fucking Ancient Laws!” His chest was heaving, his voice breaking. “I found someone that actually, really cares about me. You should be happy for me, what is wrong with you that you aren’t?” Desperation colored his words, raw and broken.
He was trembling. “Get out,” Percy breathed, barely audible. Then, a ragged, terrible scream, “Get out!”
Poseidon stared at his son. Then, once more, he looked at Bucky, who stared back, eyes hard and unfearing of him. He would not be cowed by someone else’s failure of a God, refused to be scared of a pathetic excuse for a father.
Poseidon disappeared in a whisp of the sea breeze, and Bucky held Percy as he dropped to his knees, tears flowing freely as the sky ripped itself apart, screamed and wept with him.
Notes:
poseidon's concern about his son vs. percy's two decades of pent up rage and daddy issues: GO
one of the main things i wanted to get with this chapter is that poseidon does lowkey have a point; percy did almost die, multiple times, because of his involvement with SHIELD and the avengers, and bucky, though unwillingly, did almost kill percy last year. but where poseidon goes wrong is that he doesn't get a say in percy's life, about him being in danger, when the reason percy's been fighting for his life since he was a CHILD is because poseidon couldn't keep it in his pants :/
i just have so many thoughts on percy's relationship with his dad. his dad loves him and wants to keep him safe, but ultimately, he never really did. and especially percy, who would break any sort of ancient laws the moment it would help someone he loves, finds this fucked up
specifically the "You should be happy for me, what is wrong with you that you aren’t?” kinda fucked me up to write ngl :/ its the wanting his dad to be there, to support him, but ultimately knowing that their relationship will never be like that, for me
and yes, bucky, if given the chance, would literally attack poseidon like a rabid dog
for fun art and forbidden wikihow links, follow me on insta @beansofdenim
plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter 13: Testaments of Love
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, March 12th, 2018
9:08 PM
Lyon, France
His eyes are rubbed red, puffy and irritated, Bucky notes. Percy, after the tears began to stop their flow, was uncharacteristically silent, nothing but the occasional muffled sniff escaping him. Bucky, too, didn’t speak, but for wildly different reasons.
He’d never been a faithful man. As a child, sure, he’d walk down the block to attend Shabbat services with his mother and father like clockwork, but once Rebecca was born, their attendance had become less and less frequent. In the throes of the Depression, his father began to work overtime, and as soon as Bucky was old enough, he’d gotten a job as well. They’d been well off enough to keep the two Barnes children in school, but not enough to turn away from a bit of extra money, just in case.
Bucky had begun to wake up early to make his way down to the docks, putting in the hours he used to spend in weekly services unloading and reloading ships with cargo. It was hard work, and he’d return home with calloused, splintered hands, but he endured it. Then, he’d enlisted, and he wouldn’t see the inside of a synagogue for a long, long time.
By the time he’d killed someone, he’d lost touch with any form of higher power. One second, he could be standing next to a man, helping him shoulder a shipment of rations into a truck bed, and the next, a shot was ringing out and there were chunks of his brain matter splattering across Bucky’s boots.
Stuff like that really made you get some distance with any God.
But they were real. Gods were real, and they were unbelievably, undeniably cruel. Bucky didn’t know why he’d even entertained anything different, Percy’s guttural screams at his father echoing through his head.
Because, really, who else’s fault could it be? If Percy was the son of an all-powerful deity, why the hell did he look like he’d grown up locked in a cage with wild animals? Why did he scream himself awake, clawing at the skin around his eyes? Why did he flinch away from loud voices and why did the mere smell of alcohol sometimes make him sick?
Bucky closed his eyes, trying to quell the roaring anger that tore up his chest. They were still sitting on the tile, Bucky wrapped around a limp Percy, wrung out and exhausted, both physically and emotionally.
“I hate him,” It’s whispered so quietly, shakily, Bucky barely heard him over the still-pouring rain. Before, it had been roaring thunder and the explosions of lightning that illuminated the entire skyline, volatile and furious. Now, the clouds had seemingly closed themselves off, releasing nothing but a dreary, steady downpour. “I hate him so much.”
Bucky lowers his head, burying his face into Percy’s hair, a million words running through his head but none of them escaping his lips. He wants to tell Percy that he should, that his father is worthy of his contempt and hatred. He wants to tell him that things will get better, even if he doesn’t believe it, because he wants things to be better for him, simply because Percy deserves it and not because his father is a good person. But Bucky doesn’t say any of that—none of it will help.
“I’m sorry for that.” Is what he says, terribly sincere. “You deserve better. So much better.” Bucky swipes his thumb across his cheek. “You know that, right?”
After a moment, Percy nods tiredly. “All the kids do. The Gods are terrible. All of them.” He says as he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, shoulders curling inwards. “But he’s my dad,”
Bucky looks down, staring at the tile flooring. “You love him.” He says simply.
“I can’t help it. There…there are times when I’m with him, it’s fantastic. Fighting beside him, it’s like being on a runner's high.” Percy says longingly, tapering off in memory. “Once, he took me on a tour of his kingdom, introduced me to everyone. We talked a lot, I–I even taught him how to play Uno, for the Gods sake.” Then, he deflates. “But, then again, my ribs had been sticking out of my body two weeks beforehand, so he might have just felt guilty.”
Alarm rings through Bucky. “Your ribs?”
Percy nodded tiredly. “He’d loaned me his trident—super powerful ancient weapon, big deal—to go fight this ancient Primordial. I ended up getting used as a stress ball, but we won in the end.” He shrugs. “I think he felt bad anyways.”
“Fucking hell,” Bucky swears under his breath. “Why didn’t he help?”
That gains him a moment of pensive silence. “That’s the thing, Jamie. He couldn’t.” Percy tips his head back, allowing Bucky to see his face. “Prophecies are a big deal—especially the old ones. The Romans had this one, they called the Prophecy of the Seven, that was given to Lucius Tarquinius Superbus.” Percy started slowly.
Bucky frowned, trying to recall the name. “The final king of Rome?”
Percy nodded. “In it, it decreed that seven demigods would band together to take down the Earth Mother, Gaia.” He licked his lips before continuing. “ Seven half-bloods shall answer the call, to storm or fire the world must fall. An oath to keep with a final breath, and foes bear arms to the Doors of Death.” He recited. The words echoed strangely, ringing in Bucky’s head as a shiver went down his spine.
“Sounds lovely,” Is what he got out.
Percy snorted. “Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction. And, lucky me, I was one of the seven. The thing about Prophecies, is that defying them has consequences a thousand times worse than any outcome of the actual prophecy.”
Something in Bucky’s stomach dropped. “What, so they just…hope for the best? They just make you guys fight for them, but can’t step in?”
“You’re assuming most of them want to,” Percy muttered. “The truth is, they can usually interfere to some level. They just don’t. But for a big one like this…the most my dad could do was lend me his trident.”
A Primordial being, the Earth itself, and the most Percy could get for help was a trident.
“I guess that’s why I’m such a mess about it,” Percy finally says. “He helped me when he could—sent Hippocampi on my second quest, kept the Ophiotaurus safe after my third, visited me on the fourteenth birthday and gave me something that really helped me out later. Hell, he even abandoned the defense of his palace to join the Gods in battle when I asked. He fought the Giants with me in the Second War, saved my life when I fell off the Acropolis. And…giving me his trident was a big, big deal; nothing like that’s ever happened before.”
Still reeling over the apparent Second War and falling off the Acropolis, Bucky nodded slowly. “He’s tried,” He acknowledged. “But it’s alright if you don’t feel like it was enough. You’re entitled to that.”
Percy sniffs. “He cares about me. That’s the worst part. Right before the fight with Gaea, he told me, when I was younger, he'd been prepared to start a war to keep Zeus from killing me. I…I believed him.” He says quietly. “I just can’t help but wonder if that’s changed since—” Percy cuts himself off, pained. “Since he found out what I could do.”
“The blood?” Bucky hazards a careful guess.
“No child of his has ever done something like that. Ever. In millions of years, Jamie, I’m the first one to ever discover and master something as fucked up as that.” He confesses. “It’s not really a surprise he might think there’s something wrong with me.”
If that’s the case, then Bucky thinks that Percy Jackson is the so-called monster the Gods were always afraid they’d make, owning the true extent abilities they gifted him. In the back of his mind, he wonders what it says about the Gods as a whole that though they see Percy as something terrible, they still piteously use him for their own ends.
It stinks of desperation and patheticness.
“Did you want to do it?” Bucky asks after a second. “Was it something you planned, or was it in self defense? Was it your choice?”
Percy opens his mouth, then closes it. “No,” He says. “No, I suppose not.”
It paints a sickening picture, being in a situation so desperate that one would have to resort to that. He doesn’t have to ask to know how Percy would have gotten there in the first place, though. Poseidon’s angry face is burned into his retinas, shrouded in red and making his fists clench.
“I think Steve feels like I'm a monster,” Bucky confesses to the open air. “Sometimes, he would see me sparring with the Dora, use my arm the way I was trained, and…he’d just get this look in his eyes, like he didn’t know who I was anymore.”
“Yeah?” Percy asks softly.
Bucky nods. “After I finished packing…he told me I shouldn’t leave Wakanda. He said Tony would lose interest in helping me, cast me aside, just like the rest of his broken toys.”
Percy stiffens against him, and, just for a second, Bucky’s sure the thunder outside has returned. “He said what?” It’s low and rolling, a reflection of the darkest depths of the storm.
Bucky huffs out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. He…I don’t think he meant it, not really, but…”
“He still said it.” Percy finishes. Bucky nods. “I think he’s looking for a Bucky Barnes that died eighty years ago. I think he expects that, once this is all over, I’ll be back to how he remembers me.”
“You deserve better than that, too.” Percy tells him, squeezing his hand.
Bucky gently tips his head against Percy’s. “It’s…I mean, I know what he did to Tony was awful. Unspeakably so. He was a terrible friend. But…I’ve known him since we were in elementary school. It’s just hard to reconcile.” He admits. “He lied to Tony about his parents, drove his shield through Tony’s suit and left him in Siberia to die. But…he’s also the guy that would start a fight with anyone just to get them to stop picking on someone else, even though he'd get his ass beat. He’s done terrible things, but he’s still Steve, who—" He breaks off for moment. "There was this boy in our grade. His name was Henry, and…and I told Steve I liked him, the way I was supposed to like girls. And Steve just hugged me and told me there was no supposed to about it, and he’d fight anyone who said otherwise.” His eyes sting. “I care about him still, even though he’s been an ass.”
Bucky still remembered that day—the thousands of tonnes that had been lifted off his shoulders with Steve’s acceptance. There had been a persistent, gripping fear in his chest like no other as he’d waited for a reaction. Logically, he’d known that Steve, raised by his deeply Catholic mother, might turn him away. But Bucky had been so desperate for someone, anyone, to know that he’d spoken anyways.
Steve’s reaction had been so… Steve-like, acceptance and a threat of violence against anybody who give him shit for it, Bucky’d almost cried. In a time where being who he was would get him thrown in jail, maybe even submitted to those awful tortures some tried to pass off as medical treatments, his best friend supporting him was all he could have asked for.
Teenage him would be stunned silent to see him now, curled up with his boyfriend, the man he loved and could hold and kiss in public, sitting on the floor of their apartment. It made something in his chest ache, in a good way.
Percy was silent for a long moment, before shrugging against him. “I was once told that you can’t give up on your family, no matter how tempting they make it.” Percy chewed on the inside of his lip. “But it’s also up to you to decide who counts as family.”
It was, wasn’t it? Bucky’s family was long dead—his parents, cousins, Rebecca. All gone. On paper, he was truly alone.
But every day, he came home to the most breathtaking eyes he’d ever seen, crinkled in a dimpled grin. Every day, he woke up and went about his day, left arm a testament to Shuri and Tony’s love. Every day, his phone buzzed with spam messages of all the dogs Peter saw on patrol. Every day, a SWORD member would be loitering around his workplace or in his apartment, offering a grin whenever they saw him. Alone was the furthest thing Bucky Barnes was. “I want him to be.”
They lapsed back into quiet, still leaning into one another, wrapped up in each other’s arms. Then, “That sucks for you, but know that if I ever come into contact with Steve Rogers, physical violence is my first option.” Percy quoted, corners of his lips twitching upwards as he smothered a grin.
Bucky gaped at him for a second, before jabbing him on the shoulder. “Christ, way to ruin the moment, you dick.” Despite his words, he was shaking his head fondly. “I can’t even believe you remember that, you were so sleep deprived.”
Percy went boneless against him, pinning Bucky down with his bodyweight as he grinned up at him. “Of course I remember,” He said grandly. “‘Twas the day you fell madly in love with me,”
That got him another shove, Bucky trying in vain to get Percy off him, though his attempts were hindered by his own laughter. “You were sitting on a counter in your pajamas, eating pizza and whipped cream. In your dreams.” He refuted.
He was still dopily beaming at him, even as tear tracks still dried on his freckled skin. “Yeah, and you joined me, the lovestruck fool you were.”
Bucky finally gives up on his freedom, instead wrapping his arms around Percy’s middle, pinning his arms to his sides. “Not how that happened, you looked so sad and lonely I joined you out of the goodness of my heart.” He declared, and, before Percy could argue otherwise, Bucky dug his fingertips into Percy’s ribs, making him yelp loudly.
The demigod flailed in his hold, shrieking laughter erupting from him as Bucky continued to poke and prod at him. “Stop it, you ass!” He got out, every other syllable interrupted by another bout of uncontrollable giggles.
“Hm,” Bucky said in mock consideration as Percy wiggled in his hold. “No, I’m good.” One hand snaked up under Percy’s arm, digging his fingers mercilessly into his skin, and Percy screeched, still laughing.
“I’ll fuck you up,” Percy threatened, though it was far from intimidating, considering how high pitched the words came out. Bucky swung a leg over him, trapping him further, relentlessly continuing as Percy’s laughter turned adorably wheezy. Percy’s back hit the floor, and Bucky loomed over top of him, grinning wildly, finally stopping in favor of using his arms to brace himself above his boyfriend.
Percy’s chest heaved, his hair a rat's nest from his wild struggling, face flushed and red. “I hate you,” The demigod groaned. Bucky’s smile was all too smug. “Well, if that’s how you feel—” He teased, moving a hand back to poke at Percy, who squeaked. “Nope! I take it back!”
Bucky instead rested his palm on the side of Percy’s face, then leaned down and pecked him on the lips. “I accept the terms of your surrender.” He said generously. Percy snorted, still boxed in by Bucky but seemingly unwilling to move. “Dork,”
“Jackass.”
“Nerd.”
“Your nerd.”
“Unfortunately,”
“You love me so much you can’t stand it.”
“Can’t stand you, more like.” Percy grumbled, the flush on his cheeks growing warmer as it spread down his neck. Bucky gave into his sudden desire to dip down once more and kiss it, pressing his lips to Percy’s pulse point. “Sure you do.” He murmured against his skin.
A beat. “Now that’s just unfair.” Percy huffed. Bucky hummed, pressing another to his throat. “Love and war, babe.”
Percy relaxed into his touches, any and all whispers of tension from earlier seeping out of his body. “Love you.” He said quietly as Bucky kissed his jaw. “Love you too.” Then, “Tired?”
A nod. “Christ, yes.” Percy grumbled. Bucky rolled off him, then put an arm under Percy’s knees and shoulders, effortlessly lifting him. This time, his boyfriend didn’t even object, just gave him an exasperated look. “You are aware of the fact that it’s my eyes that don’t work, and not, in fact, my legs?”
Bucky shrugged as much as he could without jostling his precious cargo. “What’s the point of having super strength if you don’t carry around your boyfriend whenever you get the chance?”
“...I don’t know, saving people from car wrecks? Breaking down doors? Shattering ribs?”
Depositing Percy down on the edge of the bed, Bucky just replied, “I think I like mine better.”
Later, when the lights were off and the two were lying beneath the covers, Bucky could’ve sworn he heard Percy mutter I like yours better too.
Tuesday, March 12th, 2018
9:32 PM
Lyon, France
“It’s late,” Spencer’s voice was hesitant as he hung back in the doorway, unsure whether or not to actually enter.
From her spot at the table, Lee looked up. Her eyes darted to the clock, then back to him. “How astute.”
The med student almost turned back right then, but got a hold of himself, entering the room and taking the seat across from his supervisor. “Are you going home any time soon?” He ventured.
Once again, a pair of pale gray eyes met his. “You don’t have to wait for me.” It was said plainly, but not dismissively. Spencer shrugged, resting his elbows on the tabletop. “It’s alright.”
The scratch of Lee’s pen on the paper was steady and oddly comforting, accompanied by the distant sound of rain and the ticking of the clock. Spencer rose to pull the blinds away, looking outside. “Looks like the storm is dying out,” He commented. “It was really coming down earlier.”
Lee paused, then continued her writing. “Was it? I wasn’t really paying attention.” She admitted.
Spencer nodded through his yawn. “Yeah, thunder, lightning, the whole nine yards. Didn’t seem to last that long, thankfully.” Lee nodded along to his words, though she didn’t reply. He didn’t mind—what he’d originally assumed to be a strong dislike of him had revealed itself to just be her naturally curt ways. As they were now, Spencer might even dare to call the two of them friendly with one another.
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
“I reserve the right to not answer,” Was Lee’s neutral response.
“Is everything alright?” He asked, eyeing her carefully for a reaction. “I mean…I know I haven’t been here long, but…” Spencer trailed off, struggling. “I don’t know.”
Lee’s pen was still, tip still on paper. Her jaw tightened, and Spencer almost regretted asking. He watched as the pathologist capped the ballpoint, and neatly tapped the stack of documents against the desk until they formed a neat pile. “There used to be seven of us.” Is what she finally said, catching onto his true question.
Spencer’s heart thudded. “What?”
“Last summer, one of our operatives betrayed us and helped Hydra capture Barnes.” Lee said stiffly. Spencer could easily tell there was much she was leaving out, but he didn’t want to prod her for more details than he already had, sensing the thin ice he was walking on.
Operatives. The word bounced around in his head, and something caught in his throat. “You guys were friends, weren’t you?”
Lee closed her eyes for a second, the backdrop of the storm slowly fading out, leaving nothing but the ticking clock to accompany her words. “Yes. I certainly thought we were.”
Notes:
welcome to the chapter we got;
percys daddy issues
buckys steve issues
some of the trauma of being gay in the 30s/40s
homos
lee and spencer :)so...yeah. poseidon does try to be a good dad; but 'trying' just sometimes isnt good enough. and, especially because he's so unavaliable, percy has no idea how poseidon really feels about him. did he really do everything he could for percy when he was on his quests? was his lack of interference actually keeping percy safe from zeus's ire? and, most importantly, does all of that even matter, when he hurt percy regardless?
anyways shout out to the pizza whipped cream scene from TLS if anyone remembers that
percy: im deathstroke, the sentinel, the hero of two prophecies. ill fuck you up.
bucky:
percy: do not.
bucky, slowly reaching forward to tickle him:
percy: NO.
bucky: : )hydra: we created the ultimate super soldier serum, the asset will be able to shatter bones with one hit, flip over cars, snap necks with the barest amount of effort-
bucky 'simp' barnes: hold boyfriend.,,.,,..gently lift..,,.,my insta is @beansofdenim if you wanna check out some fun character art :)
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 14: Right to Innocence
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Thursday, March 14th, 2018
10:32 AM
International School of Lyon, France
During the entire week school had been let out, not a single person had been told why. One moment, the students had been trickling in through the front iron gates, hands wrapped around the straps of their backpacks, and the next, sirens were going off through the PA system ordering them to evacuate.
Standing on the curb of the park across the street, silent as the dawn, the student body watched ashen-faced as an ambulance pulled up the gates. Then an armored SUV, then another, a third, armed GIGN officers spilling out of them, the thud of two dozen boots on pavement audible from the distance. Then the HAZMAT suits, the hastily erected decontamination tent set up in the courtyard, neon tape closing off entrances and exits.
Nobody even dared speak, to murmur to their neighbor, exchange wide-eyed looks with their friend across the grass. Instead, one by one, they were pulled aside and interviewed, tested, stuck in an isolated white room, parents on the other side of a thick pane of glass.
It took twenty-hour hours for them to be let out. Even then, they were told to stay home. Whether that was for their safety or everyone else’s, they weren’t told.
Louise had only come out of her room for dinner. The rest of it had been spent laying sprawled across her bed, arms folded across her stomach, staring up at the ceiling. Playing it over and over in her head, hearing Charlie’s frantic voice scream through the door as he slammed it shut, ordering them to go to the office.
How she, Ines, and Elias had stood frozen still before bolting back downstairs, skidding to a stop at the front office just in time for the sirens to start blaring.
The girl squeezed her eyes shut, put her hands over her ears as she rolled onto her side under the duvet, though it did nothing to quiet the frantic cries and sounds of the ambulance speeding down the street.
There was talk of school going back in session next week—and absolutely no word of Charlie. Instead, she, and all other students enrolled in one of his language classes, found themselves with a study hall hour in its place.
She shifted again, displacing the small pile of balled up tissues on the pillow opposite of her. It ate at her, gnawing at her chest as she thought about it. The school hadn’t reached out at all about her schedule change; even when she’d emailed her counselor, she’d gotten no response. Louise sighed, pulled herself up into a sitting position, and swung her feet off the bed. She padded soundlessly across her carpet, grabbed the water bottle her dad had left at her door an hour earlier, drained half of it.
Then, she sat back down on the edge of her mattress, stared at the clear plastic, tapped her finger against the cap. She knew her dad was worried about her, though he’d been kind enough to leave her alone the past few days. He’d taken the past few days off, but he’d had to go back in today, and was clearly a little nervous about leaving her alone.
Louise cast a glance at the overfull waste pin, crumpled tissues spilling over the sides. Not that she could blame him.
A sharp rapping at the door made her head snap up, brow knit. Louise stood, raked her nails through her hair to make it lie flat as she cautiously walked to the front door. When she stood on her toes to look through the peephole, she was greeted with the sight of a pleasantly pretty young woman standing in the hallway, long, darkly caramel-colored hair pulled back in a professional updo. Lousie opened the door a crack, and the woman stood at attention, pulling a badge out of her breast pocket. “Louise Bonnet?” Her voice was soft and velvety, and Louise found her cheeks coloring.
“Er, yeah. That’s me.” She said, slightly surprised she wouldn’t have to correct the woman on her name. “I’m with the Direction générale de la Sécurité extérieure. May I come in?” She introduced, holding up her badge for Louise to see.
After a moment of scrutinization, Louise relented. Bridgette, according to the name on her badge, smiled as she stepped into the apartment. “Was there something wrong with my statement?” Louise ventured after a moment, trying not to stare at the agent.
Bridgette shook her head. “Oh, no. It’s a bit more personal in nature, actually.” The woman cast a look around the room, then focused back on Louise. “Do you mind if I have a look around? For security purposes.” She explained.
“I, I guess not.” Louise stammered, eyes following the woman as she poked around the contents of Lousie’s living room. “Forgive me, but is something wrong?”
At the obvious panic in her words, Bridgette turned to her. “No, no, I’m sorry. Everything is alright, Louise.” She paused, checked her watch. “I’m just making sure it’s secure. You’ll get answers in a moment, I swear.”
Louise shifted uneasily, but nodded, drawing her cardigan tighter around her body. She didn’t speak again, continuing to watch the agent look over her apartment, run fingers under counters and inspect shelves.
What could Louise have done to warrant a DGSE agent visiting her home? Sure, a few people had been called into an interview after they’d been sent home, but they’d at least been sent a message about scheduling an appointment first.
Louise was so deeply stewed in her worries that she barely even noticed Bridgette walk to the front door and open it, stepping aside to let someone in. Nobody had knocked. It was the steady tapping of a cane against her floodboards that made her head snap up fast enough to hurt her neck.
Bridgette walked past her, offering a quiet I’ll step out. Louise only nodded wordlessly, eyes fixated on her visitor. Charlie stood in front of her, dressed in a crimson sweater and jeans, a leather jacket that looked a tad too large to be his overtop. It was strange seeing him out of the teacher’s uniform, but nothing compared to simply seeing him.
Charlie gives her a small smile. “Sorry to drop in on you like this.” He said apologetically. “But I felt I should speak to you.”
Louise blinked. “I—Are you alright?” She fumbled out. “I mean, we saw the ambulances and the GIGN cars and, well, we just all assumed the worst, then your classes got taken off our schedules—” She cut herself off. “What happened?”
Charlie exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twisting to the side. Starting off slowly, he spoke. “I…am sorry about that. But I do have to leave, Louise.”
“What? But—” Her shoulders slumped. “Why?”
He gave her a pitying look. “I can’t tell you all of it. Truly, I wish I could, because you deserve the truth. But I just can’t.”
Louise scrambled for something to say. “Is…is it safe? I mean…” She trailed off, sirens in her ears and emergency lights flashing in her eyes. Charlie’s face softened. “It is. I made sure of it.” The way he spoke wasn’t of someone offering comfort, but of someone stating a fact. Suddenly, the conversation seemed to take on a whole new context for Louise, who looked up at him with wide eyes. “What?”
Charlie just shrugged, clearly not going to explain further. “I’m sorry for yelling at you, as well.” He added.
It took her a second to even remember what he was referring to—way back, what seemed like forever ago, his terrified voice telling her to run. “It’s alright. You clearly had a reason.” She said immediately.
He regarded her for a long moment before nodding, seemingly deciding something for himself. “You’re a good kid, Louise. Never change.” She ducked her head. “Thanks, sir.”
The door creaked as it opened once more, and, instead of Bridgette’s reappearance, like Louise had been expecting, another man came in. It took Louise a second to figure out where she’d recognized him from—Charlie’s wedding photos. His husband came to stand next to him, easy and casual as he rested a hand on his waist. “Plane’s leaving in an hour,” He informed him quietly in English. Charlie nodded, leaning into his space. Louise couldn’t help the slight envy that welled up in her chest as she watched the two of them, but thoughts of Charlotte Allard and her colorful eyeliner had never seemed so distant.
Then, “You’re leaving today?” She blurted.
Charlie’s husband gave her an apologetic look. “I think you’ll have me to blame for that, Ms. Bonnet. Though we have enjoyed our time here, for my own state of mind I’d like to get us both back stateside.”
Stateside—wasn’t that typically an American military term? Louise tried not to let her face show her rapid development of thought; Charlie had taken care of something dangerous, something at the school, and now the two of them were disappearing like a whisper in the wind. While Louise would never pretend to know much about the American government, she couldn’t help but imagine some sort of involvement.
Her teacher’s lips twitched upwards in a barely perceptible smile, and Louise knew her poor poker face wasn’t giving her away, but her silence incriminating her. Graciously, he didn’t comment on it, though. “I’ve prepared lessons that will last you until the end of the year and adequately prepare you for your exams. I’ve also ensured my replacement will be able to help you in whatever questions you have about the course.”
Louise nodded, still stunned by the onslaught of information and implications this conversation was turning into. She only found herself able to say one thing; “Will you ever come back?”
Charlie sighed softly. “No,” Is all he said, smile rueful. “No, I’m afraid my teaching days are quite over, Ms. Bonnet.”
She went quiet, letting that sink in. She wanted to ask why, where he was going, what happened. Instead, she stayed silent. Charlie’s husband murmured something into his ear, in a language she didn’t even recognize. Charlie shrugged a single shoulder, and something unspoken seemed to pass between the two.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Charlie’s husband said, checking his phone. To his husband, “I’ll be in the hallway.” To her, “It was a pleasure meeting one of my husband’s students, Ms. Bonnet. He’s spoken highly of you.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” She said on instinct. His husband smiled once more, and looked back at Charlie over his shoulder. When he turned back to face her, Louise’s mind blanked as his face began to reshape itself. His brow grew more prominent, the peak of his nose shifting, a cleft appearing in his chin. Though his hair stayed the same, his eyes shifted, dark brown to ice blue.
Louise became rapidly aware that she was, in fact, standing a mere few feet from the Winter Soldier. A choked squeak of a gasp escaped her, and she slapped her hands over her mouth. In the blink of an eye, Charlie’s husband looked as he did when he first stepped into her apartment, and he calmly exited out into the hallway like nothing had happened. Louise whipped her head to stare at Charlie, thoughts running so fast they turned static. “You’re married to the ex-Winter Soldier?”
Charlie let out a loud bark of a laugh. “We’re not married, actually. Sorry about that.”
“Bullshit, there’s no way you aren’t in love.” She said immediately. Her cheeks reddened, and she bit the inside of her cheek. Christ, she needed to work on the whole verbal impulse control thing.
That got her a wide smile, all dimples and crinkled— green —eyes. “We’re together. Not married.”
Louise nodded, satisfied she wouldn’t have to track down the ex-Winter Soldier and berate him into asking her teacher out. Then, her brain leaping back on track, “Bucky Barnes?” She screeched. Charlie looked rather smug about the whole thing, really. Which…to be fair, Louise would be too. While she’d only seen him in front of her for a moment, she’d watched the news enough to come to appreciate the man’s profile. “He was here under a fake name.” Charlie explained easily, as if that wasn’t a completely insane statement.
“A fake name?”
Charlie tilted his head to the side, as if listening to something she couldn’t. Then, ignoring her shell-shock, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small square of paper between two fingers, and held it out, offering it to her. Louise accepted it numbly, flummoxed.
“Working on it, yeah?” He asked her, in lieu of a farewell. Louise stared up at him, suddenly standing in his classroom before everything went to shit, white-knuckling her lunch bag and staring after her classmate. “Working on it,” Louise confirmed, a small smile creeping up on her face. “Thank you for being my teacher, Charlie.”
From the doorway, her teacher grinned. “You didn’t really think Charlie Trejo was really my name, did you?” Then, like he hadn’t just dropped that on her, “And it was my pleasure, Louise. Truly.”
He stepped out the door, and she saw his partner— Bucky Barnes— take his hand, Bridgette falling in step with the duo as the door closed behind them.
Louise was left rooted to the stop, alone in her apartment, clutching the smooth, hefty piece of paper he’d given her. She finally looked down at it, the neatly typed letters and braille bumps beneath it.
Commander Perseus Jackson
Sentient World Observation and Response Department
A phone number was written on the bottom.
Louise read it thrice over, then threw her head back and laughed, delighted.
This time, they were sitting on a park bench, their backs to a great marble fountain, water bubbling musically. Though they typically found themselves in that grassy valley, wildflowers and a gurgling stream, dreams liked to shake things up every now and then.
Here, the sun was still in the early stages of rising, high enough to not be painting the sky orange, low enough to cast deep, dramatic shadows over the sprawling trees.
It’d been a while since they’d been able to talk—neither were exactly sure why, but each had their theories. It’d been ten years, after all. Maybe the deep, desperate need was finally settling into something more peaceful, more routine.
“I got into a fight with my dad.”
Annabeth turned to face him, concern etched into her eyes, feet momentarily stilling from where she was kicking at the mist curling around their ankles. “What? What happened?”
He leaned back against the bench. “He wanted me to come stay in Atlantis for a while. I…I mean, I was glad for it, I guess. But then he implied some stuff.” A beat. “About James.”
The architect next to him inhaled sharply. “About…” She trailed off, hesitant.
“He said, rather plainly, that the Winter Soldier would come back and would kill me.” Percy said tonelessly. “Monsters never truly die.”
Annabeth looked horrified. “Please tell me that’s not a direct quote.”
Percy’s silence was all the answer she needed. Annabeth shot to her feet, fists clench hard enough to turn her knuckles white. “That piece of shit!” She roared, kicking angrily at the pedestal of the fountain. She whipped around to Percy, eyes storming. “I swear to the Gods, Percy, if you want me to, I’ll kick his ass,”
He didn’t doubt it.
“Thanks, Annie.” Percy tipped his head back, tired. “But I think I already did enough damage.”
She paused, her rage momentarily waning. “Explain,”
Percy tugged at his hair, eyes shut. “In short? I told him he was the real monster between us, I—I yelled at him about the Pit, about Akhlys, called him an oathbreaker.” Then, “He told me he’d done everything he could for me. I told him it wasn’t enough.”
The silence between the two of them was deafening. Annabeth had been knocked clean out of her anger, nothing but pure shock crashing through her. She’d known, better than anyone, the resentment that ran through Percy’s blood. How he, like her, knew deep down that Luke had a point. That the reason they’d fought against him was because he betrayed the demigods, not the Gods.
She’d been there over the years, watching his shoulders and hands widen, spine grow straighter and eyes grow darker, everything that simmered beneath his skin. Annabeth knew the fury that rested within him.
But she had never really imagined it would be let loose.
Annabeth blinked, stared down at the neatly maintained sidewalk. “It’s because it wasn’t.” She didn’t have to look over at him to read the slight surprise on his face. “It wasn’t.” She repeated resolutely. “I mean, my mother guided me and helped keep me safe while I was on the run, but it was her fault I was on the run. Her fault that my dad wasn’t ready to raise me—I mean, they weren’t even in a romantic or sexual relationship, and she just…dropped me off! Her fault that I was attacked in my own bed, night after night, eaten alive by spiders and suffocated by their webs.” Annabeth’s voice steadily rose in volume. “Her stupid quest that sent us both down there.”
Her hands trembled. “They can say they tried, but you’re right. It. Wasn’t. Enough.” She spat. “If your father can’t face the truth, that’s on him.”
She knew his rage all too well, because it simmered and bubbled under her skin too.
“I’m just so tired, Annie. Of all of it. All of them.” He muttered. “Being their good little hero, the savior, the prophecy child. The one who defies all odds by just living, and my father speaks of monsters like he has any right.” His shoulders tremble. “Of course I’m a monster, it was all I ever could be,”
Annabeth did not contradict him. Not because she thought him terrible—the opposite, really. She knew he did not mean monster in the way most thought of when they heard the word; loveless, cold, nothing but hate in their hearts. No, Percy referred to himself as a monster and meant ruthless, meant powerful, meant defiant.
“All men alive know they’ve created a monster.” Annabeth finally said, without emotion. “All men dead know they’ve created one too many. He will never die, and he will never learn.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.” Percy said faintly. “I hope he can change.”
“But do you think he will?”
Percy did not answer. Annabeth sighed, cast a long look up at the clouds above. It had been a clear morning when she’d arrived here, turned quickly overcast as Percy stewed in his emotions. It wasn’t an entirely new thing for the environment to react to him—she remembered when they were younger, when he was particularly upset, the rain would fall a little harder, the currents would get just a little stronger.
These days, though, he’d gotten far beyond sprinkles of rain and winding streams. Nico, her other frequent visitor, had detailed some of it for her. Fresh out of the Pit, he was slaughtering Giants, reshaping the ocean around the Argo II, wielding the Trident. And now, he was tearing down buildings and flattening forests, scorching the earth a mile deep with his rage.
Percy was special. Always was. It wasn’t the strength of the Gods that kept him from going further, because she knew he could, as easily as he breathed he could be ripping blood from veins, liquifying insides, yanking corpses like marionettes. It’s him. His own morals, his own strength, his own humanity.
Though the right to innocence had been ripped away from him just like it had been her, he still held onto it the best he could. Not just for himself, but for everyone who would witness the true strength of Perseus Jackson, the Defiant, the God-Killer, the Pit-Walker. The wayward son of Poseidon, the hero who never really needed a God.
Notes:
*skips two updates* hey,,..,,hey.,...how yall doin
anyways enjoy louise and her emotional support teacher
PS it was absolutely ross and mal who convinced him to like.,,.'reveal' himself like that, just for laughs. and bucky never passes up a chance to be a dramatic bitch, so he was Inhanover: ok you can go home now!! good job :)
percy: I NEED TO MAKE LESSON PLANS OH MY GOD--
hanover:
hanover: he knows we'll get them a new teacher right
bucky: he's very dedicated alright???percy, spilling international secrets to reassure and cheer up his student who literally thought he's dead: trans rights
me writing annabeth: let! women! be! full! of! RAGE!!!!
her going from being a loving and comforting bestie to frothing at the mouth and ready to kill poseidon >>plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 15: SHIELD's Best
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday, March 16th, 2018
9:26 AM
Stark Tower, NY
Jackson and Barnes arrived with little fanfare.
It was early morning, and the tower was still in the early stages of waking. Peter had come over after school the day before, and he and Tony had been down in the labs until midnight, when FRIDAY kindly informed them if they didn’t go to sleep, both Pepper and May would be quite upset. Naturally, the two heeded her advice.
Now, Peter was sitting at the kitchen island on his third bowl of cereal, listening to the channel Natasha had flipped to when she’d stepped off the elevator, freshly showered but still in her pajamas. Tony had only emerged a moment ago, pouring himself a generous mug of coffee as he leaned against the counter. It was a clear, crisp day, weak morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. It had been steadily warming up over the past few weeks, getting near time to crack the windows during the day. Of all them, Peter seemed to be looking forward to the season change the most, eager to be able to shed a layer or two when he went out.
By the time Tony had finished his first cup, he seemed relatively awake. “Morning, Nat.”
From the couch, Natasha couldn’t help the warm feeling that blossomed at the nickname. “Morning.”
The engineer took another long sip of his drink. “Pete, how much have you had?”
Peter looked up from his cereal. “Four bowls.” He said, unashamed. Tony closed his eyes, exhaling. “When I told you that you needed to eat more breakfast, I meant things like eggs, bacon, protein. Not sugar.”
Around a mouthful, Peter shrugged and replied, “Didn’t want to wash a pan.”
Natasha snickered as Tony groaned. He pat the passing Mrs. O’Leary, sighing. “I’m going to start giving you raw cow’s legs like Percy gives her.”
Peter pulled a face around his spoon. “Please do not.” He, too, gave Mrs. O’Leary a quick pet as she passed him. The Hellhound made her way to the couch where Natasha was sitting, hopping up on the cushion next to her and sitting, leaning into the woman’s space, almost nose-to-nose. Natasha blinked, leaning back slightly to put some space in between them. “Uh…”
Peter looked over his shoulder. “Oh, that’s just Lea.” He said dismissively. “Percy’s dog.” Tony added.
That didn’t seem to soothe Natasha, trapped between a couch cushion and a 200-pound mastiff. Slowly, deliberately, Mrs. O’Leary leaned in further, her cold nose touching Natasha’s cheek. Then, the dog ran her tongue from Natasha’s jaw up to her temple.
Despite herself, Natasha made a small, grossed out noise. The dog seemed to find this amusing, tongue hanging out the corner of her mouth. Natasha rolled her eyes, reaching up to scratch its head as she wiped at her face with the corner of her other hand’s sleeve.
Pure silence from the kitchen. Natasha craned her neck to look at the two, only to see them shock still. “What’s wrong?” Natasha asked immediately.
“Percy’s dog.” Tony repeated. He narrowed his eyes at the canine. “Who should be in France.” A beat of silence, then Tony and Peter’s heads whipped to stare at each other just as the elevator emitted a soft ding.
Peter didn’t even look before vaulting over the island—a move Natasha just happened to miss, unfortunately looking in the other direction—and running for the elevator. He launched himself at Percy right as the man stepped over the threshold, crashing into his arms. Percy laughed aloud, dropping his duffel to lift Peter off the ground in a hug. “Hey, kid.”
Behind him, Barnes picked up his dropped bag with a fond look. Tony, at a more sedate pace, put his mug down on the coffee table and, to Natasha’s surprise, gave Barnes a warm smile. “Welcome back,”
Barnes grinned back at him. “Bored out of your mind, were you?”
Tony rolled his eyes. “Yes, the lack of midnight culinary affronts against God was terrible.”
As Barnes laughed, Tony, surprising Natasha once more, let Jackson pull him in for a short hug, Peter still clinging to him like a koala. “Nice to see you again.” Tony said, clapping him on the back.
“I’m sure it is.” Jackson replied easily. Tony smacked him on the arm, exasperated.
Natasha, from her spot on the couch, jolted. Somehow, caught up in the moment, she’d almost forgotten. The dog, still half on top of her, was wearing a blue vest. Though she couldn’t glimpse the words that were written on the side, she’d bet her life it was something along the lines of Guide Dog. She focused back on Jackson, noting how when he shifted to better support Peter, a vague outline was visible from his inner jacket pocket—a collapsible cane.
Barnes tore his eyes away from the still embracing two, looking past Tony to her. He smiled, and hesitantly gave her a small wave. She waved back, albeit awkwardly. Barnes then turned to Jackson, said something quietly to him that she couldn’t hear, and picked up both their bags, wandering off down the hall.
After a few minutes of chatting, Peter relinquished his hold on Percy, padding back into the kitchen to return for his fifth bowl of cereal. As soon as Tony heard the rustling of the bag, he gained a pained look and resolutely followed, probably to go make the boy some eggs. That left Natasha and Jackson alone—well, them, and the enormous dog who didn’t seem to understand personal space.
Jackson, still standing in the doorway, ran a hand through his hair, eyes closing as he exhaled. The tension that she had known to be ever-present in his shoulders slipped away, and Natasha suddenly felt like she was somehow intruding. He turned towards her, his face relaxed but the circles under his eyes dark. “Bad trip?” She ventured carefully.
Jackson gave her a short smile. “Not a fan of flying.” Is what he offered as he made his way to the couch opposite of her. As soon as he was sitting, the dog hopped off of Natasha’s legs and climbed up next to him. “Sorry about her, by the way.”
Natasha just waved him off. “She’s cute.”
That got her another smile, though just as short as the last. He really did look tired—Natasha did some quick math, trying to map out the trip he’d taken to get back to the Tower. He’d had a cover in Lyon, including somewhere his persona was leaving France for. It was a common practice to actually send an operative to wherever they were supposedly moving too. From there, they’d disappear, traveling to their true destination as their real selves. And, if he was telling the truth about not liking planes, it was likely he hadn’t had much sleep recently. That, on top of still recovering from whatever had gone down in Lyon, Natasha felt a pang of sympathy for the man.
She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. There were a million things she wanted to say to him, and she had no idea how to a put a single one into words. She wanted to ask him what had happened in Lyon, what exactly had happened with Ross and Landry, why he’d dropped correspondence for months the earlier year. How he could do what he did, how he fooled Fury, how he fooled her. About the file dump. About Hydra.
She wanted to ask about a thousand things, and apologize for a thousand more.
“Hey, Jackson?”
He didn’t turn to face her—another thing she’d have to get used to, but she could tell he was paying attention to her. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
Before he could say anything, she pushed onwards. “I should have believed you about Hydra. I knew you were a good operative, a good man. It was stupid of me to brush you aside like that. I guess…” Natasha hung her head. “I was SHIELD’s best. I didn’t believe that something that big could get past me and Fury.”
Something passed over Jackson’s face—regret, maybe. “They were good liars.”
“Yeah.” She murmured, memories of a mission report and an explosion running through her mind, Jackson’s accusations and Rumlow’s defense. “I just thought I was better.” Natasha shook her head, trying to pull herself from that particular chain of memories. She was there to attempt at making amends, not reminisce. “I should have known better. I do, now.”
When he smiled, it looked a little more genuine this time. “Good.”
Unable to stop herself, Natasha sighed. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice.” She whispered. What had slipped past her, what tells and mistakes and contradicting stories had she overlooked? It’d been glaringly obvious to Jackson, enough for him to stake his life on it.
The man yawned. His eyes were half lidded, exhaustion getting to him. Jackson took a moment to reply, and Natasha’s skin prickled with anticipation. She wasn’t going to be surprised if his next words were particularly cutting—after all, she’d witnessed the verbal execution of Landry. And that probably hadn’t been as personal as this. As he thought, he stood up, raked a hand through his hair. Jackson rounded the couch, going the same direction Barnes had, probably to go catch up on some sleep.
He hung back in the doorway. “Rumlow put mayo on his fries, Romanoff. There was clearly something wrong with the man.” Jackson stated flatly, promptly disappearing from view.
She choked.
Barnes had resurfaced a few hours afterwards, and she got a good look at him as he made himself a sandwich. His hair had been cut short, no longer hanging in his face like she was used to. He was clad in sweats and a purple sweatshirt with remnants of some sort of logo on the front. Natasha watched him around the kitchen, taking note of the ease his movements held and the overall lightness in his body. It seemed like a weight had been lifted from him, letting him move properly for the first time in years. About eighty, she’d guess.
It was a good look on him.
He’d made another sandwich, but didn’t eat it, instead walking off somewhere with the plate. Barnes rounded the corner in the direction of the room she was assuming was his—it was the one he’d gone to when they’d first arrived, at least. To eat while he read, maybe?
A few hours after that, she set off to look for Tony. She’d been meaning to ask him about Jackson’s SWORD team for a while, hoping she could get some basic information before she approached Jackson. Sue her, she was curious. When she asked FRIDAY, the AI informed her that Tony was down in the gym. She took the elevator down, and, before the doors even opened, she could hear the yelling.
“Yield, you little fucker!”
It…well, it almost sounded like Barnes. She’d never heard him yell like that, though.
“Eat shit!” Was the reply. And that…sounded like Jackson. The doors opened, and she was greeted with the sight of the two men fighting on one of the gym mats, and Tony standing off to the side, watching with a sort of resigned interest.
It was surprisingly vicious—Jackson drove his elbow into Barnes’s gut, knocking the wind right out of him, and Barnes slammed him down onto the mat. She drifted around the edge to stand near Tony, her question momentarily put aside in favor of watching. Jackson kicked Barnes in the face, Barnes punched him in the chest. At one point, Jackson swept Barnes’s legs out from under him, only for Barnes to take him down with him. From there, it devolved into wrestling, twisting arms behind backs and pinning legs.
“Stop struggling, you nasty fucking urchin,” Barnes grunted as Jackson broke his hold.
“Tell me how the mat tastes, bitch,” Jackson hissed back, getting Barnes in a headlock.
Tony looked incredibly tired. Based on his reaction, this wasn’t too unusual of an event. And considering the friendly air between the two that she’d witnessed when they’d first arrived, the animosity wasn’t real. But, watching as Jackson shoved Barnes’s face into the mat, taunting him, she couldn’t help but wonder a bit. She and Clint were never this bad.
“You stubborn fucking asshole!” Barnes.
As her presence, Tony looked over at her, taking in the slight concerned furrow in her brow. In a dead voice, shoulders slumped, he informed her, “They’re flirting.”
“I’m going to kick your ass so hard you’ll wish you were never born!” Jackson.
It was almost like a dance—albeit a crude, violent one. They countered each other perfectly, moving around hits and tackles before even she could tell they were coming, as if they’d long since learned each other’s tells.
She’d never really gotten a chance to watch Barnes in a fight—she knew he had spent time sparring with the Dora, but she’d always left them to it. This was the first time she’d seen him in action since…Leipzig, she supposed, but even then, they were mostly separated. The only other time she can think of is when he was trying to kill her. So this is a nice change of pace, despite all the cursing and screaming.
There’s no doubt about it—Barnes is excellent. She knows all too well the power that goes behind each of his strikes, enough to rip through metal and turn concrete to dust. But in spite of that, he still remained firm on his feet, leaving no openings. He used his size to his advantage, forcing Jackson on the defensive again and again. There were eighty years of precision and control in every strike, sending a slight chill down her spine, making a phantom bullet wound in her arm twinge.
Jackson, though, was the surprise. She’d known he was good—he had to be to hold such a high SHIELD ranking. His style was unique, unfamiliar to her. He fought with his legs more than his arms, powerful kicks that somehow never seemed to compromise his balance. Jackson was brutal, aggressively pushing forward with the rear leg and never wasting time going for the limbs, instead focusing his energy on the torso and head. Like a swordsman, she realized. He was surprisingly flexible, executing moves that made even Natasha a little leery to escape Barnes’s holds.
And, she reminded herself, he was doing this all blind. Even now that she was paying attention, she honestly couldn’t tell. His head was tilted down ever so slightly, but that could just be written off as him trying to protect his face. Jackson always seemed to know what Barnes was going to do before even Barnes did, moving out of the way just in time.
At some point, Peter stepped out of the elevator, holding what looked like a math assignment. Eyes glued to the fight going on, he made his way over to Tony and her. “Again?” The boy asked, curious. Tony just sighed.
Peter held up his assignment into Tony’s view, asking a question that, honestly, Natasha couldn’t even hope to understand. Tony seemed to get it well enough, and the two were pulled into a discussion, speaking so rapidly that, even if she knew what they were talking about, she probably wouldn’t have caught anything. Their demeanors were remarkably similar, especially now, and Natasha couldn’t help but wonder. Tony Stark’s so-called ‘playboy days’ were long since over, but about sixteen years ago? She looked at Peter out of the corner of her eyes, taking in the similar hair and eye colors, how they both talked with their hands and got the same little furrow when they focused.
Normally, she would’ve dismissed the thought entirely, so sure of herself that a secret as big as this wouldn't have slipped past her. But she most definitely knew better now.
Back on the mat, Barnes finally pinned Jackson, a forearm braced over his throat. Jackson bared his teeth at the man like a wild animal, oddly sharp teeth mere inches from Barnes’s face.
Barnes’s cheeks were flushed—they must have been going longer than she’d thought. Even throughout Leipzig and the glimpses she’d caught of him returning from runs and spars with the Dora, his face had never even been slightly red. She’d honestly begun to think it was a supersoldier thing. But his cheeks were certainly red now, so she supposed not.
“I win.” Jackson said, satisfied. His b ack against the mat, he shifted. Not to try and throw Barnes off like Natasha’s first instinct would have been, but seemingly to let Barnes more comfortably settle his knee on the mat. “I pinned you,” Barnes replied dryly, brow raised.
The unspoken agreement that the fight was over lingered over them, and Barnes put up no fight when Jackson wriggled his hands free. Nor did he seem to mind when Jackson settled them on his thighs. “Seems like a win to me.”
Natasha’s eyes widened. Her eyes darted to Tony and Peter, who were still engrossed in their conversation, not even looking in the pair’s direction. She almost said something, but thought better of it. Instead, she stood in silence as Barnes, who was valiantly trying to keep a straight face, cracked, letting out a short peal of laughter.
Then, he leaned down, and kissed Jackson soundly on the lips.
Natasha couldn’t help the surprised noise that spilled from her, immediately clapping a hand over her mouth. They didn’t seem to hear her, which considering the fact that they were…otherwise occupied, made sense. Tony, though, momentarily halted his speech to throw a look over his shoulder. Then, to Natasha, “Sorry. They’re shameless.” Like it was nothing at all, he went right back to his discussion with Peter.
Robotically, she walked out of the gym and back into the elevator, trying to process what she’d seen. Barnes and Jackson…
As it reached her floor, the only thing that came to mind was Barnes’s soft laughter, Jackson’s smile right before their lips met. It left something surprisingly warm in her chest, and, as she stepped out of the elevator, Natasha smiled.
Saturday, March 16th, 2018
4:05 PM
The Hub, NY
Though Hanover had given them the next week off, Ross found himself sitting in the bullpen with Lee and Jackson, silently filling out the last few reports. Mal, Dan, and Spencer were probably still asleep—all their journeys back home had been separate, through wildly different modes of transportation, and those three had definitely drawn the short straw. Ross had been lucky, getting on a plane straight to New York instead of having to make multiple false stops like the rest of his team.
Lee had left a day before him, and though he’d had a tougher time getting home, had more time to catch up on sleep. Jackson, too, had arrived earlier that morning, and had hopefully slept since then. Bridgette was still in Lyon, and would remain there for the next week or so, finishing up everything on their ICC case. It sucked, not having everyone home, but Ross would take what he could get.
He’d been tempted to ask, multiple times, about Spencer. Truthfully, Ross liked him—though he was quiet and fairly reserved, he seemed like a good person.
But, then again, so had Aspen.
They all had their reservations about someone new on the team. Dan, in particular, was who Ross was worried about the most. Anev had hurt them all, but Dan the most. He had his good and bad days, sometimes able to walk around with them for hours on end. But it was the other days, where he couldn’t even stand without his breath catching in pain, that made Ross spiral.
How could they have not noticed? All the clues had been right in front of them; the coincidences and the insider knowledge that the other side always seemed to have, how Aspen always preferred to stick it alone out in the field.
Ross rubbed a hand over his face, flipping the page he was working on, tapping his pen restlessly on the side of the table. He liked Spencer, really. But he just wasn’t sure if any of them were ready for a new team member, especially not so soon. He thought about asking Lee, who’d spent the most time with their provisional recruit so far, too, but figured it could be a topic for later. Instead, he continued filling out his final reports, for once content with the relative silence that fell over them.
At one point, Jackson stood to grab something from the braille printer in his office, leaving Lee and Ross with the steady scratching of pens on paper. He looked up at the blond, who seemed quite content to work with his headphones secured over his ears. Suddenly restless, Ross leaned back in his chair, craning his neck behind him to see if Lea had paid them a visit. Finding nothing, he sighed, and spun around in his office chair.
The clacking of heels echoing down the hallway at first made him think Bridgette had come home early, but the thought was quickly tossed aside. Bridgette definitely would have at least called. No, instead, a tall woman rounded the corner, dressed in a sharp pair of slacks and a blouse, hair pulled back in a neat, professional bun.
She strode into the bullpen, and stopped in front of Ross’s desk, looking down at him. She pinned him with a look, and his mouth went dry as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. There was an air of regality around her, almost downright oppressive. He looked her over once, suddenly uneasy, before making eye contact.
Her eyes were a deep, piercing gray, stare cold and detached. And when she spoke, her voice was even chillier. “I’m looking for Perseus Jackson.”
Notes:
mrs o'leary vibe check: COMMENCE
the rumlow mayo fry line has been sitting in my brain since i started this series. thats literally 642 days. almost two years, ive been waiting to write that one line.
disclaimer: i dont believe everyone who eats mayo fries is 100% evil, but i DO believe they are in need of a psych eval. stay safe out there <3"And considering the friendly air between the two that she’d witnessed when they’d first arrived" girl FRIENDLY?? nat....bestie...
natasha, this entire chapter: :O
plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter 16: Pride
Notes:
TW: description of domestic violence. if you want to skip, just skim over the entire section where Lee and Percy talk until "“He loved me. Some might say that’s why he did it."
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday, March 16th, 2018
4:14 PM
The Hub, NY
Jackson descends the stairs into the bullpen, halting on the last one. He seems to recognize the woman immediately, something steely crossing his face. Ross watches him straighten his tie and run a hand through his hair, causing a few strands to fall loose in front of his face. “Ross, Lee,” He says calmly, still focused on the woman. “Would you mind sitting in my office for a moment?”
The two agents exchange looks across the bullpen before Lee nods. “Okay.” She says, and Ross knows her well enough to catch the uncertainty hidden under her typical monotone. Ross haphazardly shoves his laptop and the first few papers he can reach into his bag before skirting around the edge of the bullpen, keeping a healthy distance between himself and the gray-eyed woman. He’s unsure why, but something about her puts him on edge. Lee follows at a slightly more sedate pace, taking a moment to neatly stack everything she was working on. When she passes Jackson, he quickly puts a hand on her shoulder and murmurs something into her ear. Lee’s brow creases, but she says nothing, just nodding and following Ross up the steps.
A large bookshelf spans the back wall, and Ross picks out things ranging from hefty books of UN and WSC proceedings and past rulings to what looks like copies of The Lord of the Rings—which Ross would bet aren’t his. Now that he’s looking, a fair number probably aren’t Jacksons. He can see a few texts on what appears to be entomology, and a couple in arachnology, which he strongly suspects to be Lee’s. He knows that sometimes she takes refuge in his office when down in the bullpen is overwhelming, probably to read.
A few plants dot the room, looking vibrant and well-maintained. The carpet is soft, and the entire room smells faintly of the commander, like the sea and lavender. It’s quite a pleasant room to be in, almost enough so to distract Ross from what’s happening on the other side of the door, back down in the bullpen.
Even though they shut the door, they could hear the woman’s voice as clear as day. “You must speak to him, Perseus. His domain is on edge with him—storms have been battering above his city for weeks.”
There’s a slight pause, and Jackson’s voice is uncharacteristically small. “Has anyone been hurt?”
“It has not reached that level,” The woman says. “But the Council is getting uneasy. You must remedy this.” She urges him.
Ross can imagine the way Jackson’s face tightens before he replies. “You know I can’t do that, Athena.”
“Why is that?” She sounds sharp, disapproving, and Ross reflexively straightens. “Do not let your pride get in the way of this, Perseus. This is far too important.”
…Pride? Jackson? He resists the urge to bark out a laugh. The commander was a million things—sharp-tongued, impertinent, brazen, even. But prideful? That was probably the last attribute Ross would ever credit him with.
“Are you honestly standing here and calling me prideful?” Jackson said, voice low and words deliberate in a way Ross knew concealed anger. “Out of the two of us, you attributed pride to me? I sincerely hope you have more self-awareness than that statement displays.”
Something crackles in the air, putting the hairs on the back of Ross’s neck on edge. “One day, your tongue will get you in trouble, Perseus.” She warns him. “And I am aware of my faults—it is you who seems to lack that. Your father cannot afford to be in this state, not with all that rests on his shoulders. That is something we both know.”
Jackson’s father?
“I can’t believe I have to say this, Athena, but that is not my fault. He came face to face with his shitty choices and actions, and now he’s throwing a fit like a child.” Jackson said bitingly. “He can come to me for once in his goddamn life if he wants to fix things. If you’re expecting me to apologize to him for telling him the truth—”
She cut him off. “I’m just asking you to speak with him, Perseus. That’s all.”
“I’m tired of having to be the one to put in the work, Athena.” Was his tired reply. “You said nobody is getting hurt? Great. Not my problem, then.”
Based on the moment of silence, the woman, Athena, seemed rather shocked by his reply. “Perseus…”
Movement—likely Jackson pushing off the desk he’d been leaning on. “I’m serious. I’ve given up far too much to just keep going like this. I’m at my limit.”
Another bout of silence. If Ross had to bet, Jackson probably had that look on his face, the same one he wore in front of Landry and the WSC, like his face was carved from marble. Resoluteness.
Athena looked at him for a long moment. “We’ve all lost,” She said firmly, loud and harsh enough for Ross to hear even if he wasn’t in the vicinity. “I understand that, but that doesn’t excuse—”
“Don’t you dare speak to me of loss,” Jackson hissed out. Ross’s eyes widened at his furious tone. “You know nothing of it, not in the way I do.” Even from Jackson’s office, Ross could feel the way foreign energy seemed to crackle, oppressive and heavy.
“My daughter is dead!” Athena suddenly snapped, spitting fury, her composure crumbling. Her eyes flash, dark and furious. Ross suddenly feels like a great weight presses down on him, covering every inch of his skin, burning and tingling and begging him to run. “I know loss.”
“Yes, she’s dead!” Jackson bit back, voice trembling. “She’s dead and has been for almost a decade. She’s dead, but your other children aren’t, but I know for a fact you haven’t spoken to them in years.” Ross’s head snapped to the side at the sound of rain, and he quickly crossed the room to peek out of the blinds. Sure enough, the sky had darkened, the wind whistling and rain unleashing itself onto the pavement outside. “You lost the daughter you abandoned, the daughter you let feel unwanted, the daughter that lived in constant fear of her life for years because you didn’t protect your children from your enemies. The daughter who was forced to run away, who was homeless at seven fucking years old!” Outside, thunder clashed, ramping up with Jackson’s rage.
Logically, Ross knows the commander has a temper. He witnessed the man lose it at enough senators and officials to understand it. Never on his own behalf—for Dan when he was denied access to an elevator, Lee when a meeting speaker kept trying to order her to take off her headphones, Bridgette, when a councilman kept leaning into her space, and, God, for Barnes, anytime something about the Soldier was insinuated. It is, frankly, a terrifying display, but one that Ross typically appreciates.
This, though… whoever the two are speaking of, it’s clearly a deep, deep sore spot.
Ross risks a look through the small window next to the door—the woman and Jackson are standing but a few feet from each other. Jackson’s back is towards them, but Ross can see the rolling gray in the woman’s eyes, eerily similar to the clouds taking over the sky outside. When the thunder sounds once more, her eyes, just for a second, dart up to the sky, then back to Jackson. Ross can’t help but note the almost apprehensive look in her eyes as the wind picks up, the calculating and speculative look she gains. Almost imperceptibly, she leans back.
“You lost her, but I lost my best friend. I lost the girl I’d grown up with. I lost my mortal point. I lost Bianca, and Zoë, and Lee, and Castor, Charles, Michael, Silena, Ethan, Bob, Damasen. I lost my childhood, my ability to sleep through the night, my vision. Do not talk to me about loss!” He roared. “You had to hear that she died. I had to listen.”
The woman stares at him like she’s truly never seen him before. Then, she’s gone.
Ross stands at the door, limbs locked stiff. A million thoughts overlap at once, each screaming for attention. That woman, whoever she was, called him Perseus—strange enough on its own, considering everyone either called him Percy or stuck with Jackson, but also, along with the rest of their conversation, implied some sort of familiarity.
They also spoke of Jackson’s father. Truthfully, based on how Jackson, who spoke of his mother, step-father, and little siblings often, never mentioned the man, Ross had just assumed he wasn’t in the picture at all.
Then there was the part about his domain. And Jackson, sounding almost scared, asked if anybody had been hurt. It was beginning to piece together in a way Ross most definitely didn’t like. Jackson had said something to his father—not anything unwarranted, based on the woman’s reaction—, and the man hadn’t reacted well. And if Jackson was worried about the man hurting someone because of it…
Ross swallowed.
He was so lost in his conjectures that he barely noticed Lee slip past him and return to her desk. Down in the bullpen, he saw Jackson stalking off somewhere down the hallway, phone in hand. Ross, now alone in the office, raked his fingers through his hair and slumped down onto the couch opposite the bookshelf.
“Christ,” He muttered.
Lee was sitting at the edge of his desk chair, headphones tucked securely over her ears, staring down at her hands. She tapped the pad of her thumb against that of her forefinger twice, then twice against the middle, then ring, then pinkie, before repeating the process all over again, focus intent and nonexistent at the same time.
Despite her ears being covered, she looked up when Percy entered the room. He hesitated for a moment in the doorway before coming to sit across from her. “I’m guessing you two heard all of that?”
Lee, after a second, slid her headphones down to her neck. “Yes.” She said, voice quiet and flat in her typical manner. He sat down across from her, his shoulders drawn inwards in a way that was unfamiliar to Lee.
She looked down at her desk, completed a full revolution of taps, then up at him. “Your father doesn’t seem like a great man.”
Percy leaned back in his chair, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “I…” He always tried to remain detached at work, separating the Commander from Percy. It was far too easy, to just put everything aside for a moment to get work done. He cared for all his team members dearly, and would take a bullet for each and every one without a second thought, but they didn’t often talk about more personal things like this. It was a bit different with Lee. Maybe it was the fact that he’d known her longer than the others, or maybe it was how frank she was with everything. Ross’s words still played through his head, and Percy shrugged. “I don’t know.” He said, choking on his honesty. “When we first met, he was prepared to go to the ends of the Earth for me. He gave me a lot.”
Lee looked back down at her hands. Completed a set of taps. “But?”
“It was his fault I needed those things in the first place.” He rubs a hand over his face, and, to his horror, finds his voice thick and eyes stinging. “When I was a kid, he was…everything. But now, I guess I’m just realizing how shitty he’s been.” It wasn’t all his dad’s fault—he was, to some extent, limited by Prophecy.
But other things, like leaving them with Gabe, disappearing from Percy’s life for almost years on end…that was all his father.
“I get that.” Lee offered.
Percy blinked, caught off guard. Lee never, not even once, had mentioned her family to him. To anyone, he was fairly sure. “Yeah?” He asked.
She nodded, then rested her chin on the palm of her free hand. “Truthfully, I think you just need to decide whether or not it’s enough.” At his frown, she elaborated. “Was he there for you enough? Did he care enough? Did he try hard enough?”
Percy tried to respond, but it died in his throat.
“If you don’t mind me saying, it seems like you need to figure that out.” She said, “It’s a hard, hard thing to think about, but there’s not really a way around it.”
He focused back on her, a crease in his brow. “Speaking from experience?”
She completed three rounds of taps with the hand not under her chin.“My parents married young.” She finally said. “My mom worked at the little general store the town has, and my dad met her because he was going in to buy bandaids.” A minute shrug. “He got into a lot of fights, you know? It used to be this big joke; in a village of less than a hundred people, my dad still managed to find someone to fight every other week.”
Percy leaned in, elbows resting on the desk as Lee talked. It was strange to hear her be so open about her personal life, but, then again, he was never the most forthcoming with his own.
“They weren’t really ready for a baby, but they did their best. My dad…he was amazing. Taught me how to skate, how to shoot, drove to the next town over to take me out for ice cream every Friday after school. He was a good dad.”
Lee never talked much about her childhood. Sure, a few lines here and there about growing up isolated, growing up in the cold. He knew she was Norwegian, and grew up somewhere with a large percentage of Russians and Ukrainians. He knew she spoke all three languages, plus English. He knew she’d moved away as soon as she could.
He never knew why.
“Not everyone was super understanding about,” She loosely waved her hand over herself. “Again, small village. Not a lot of autistic people there. I couldn’t be in large groups, or under fluorescent lighting, or anywhere too loud. I hummed to myself and flapped my hands and rocked back and forth when I sat. I carry a pair of headphones everywhere I go. Some people thought I was a freak.” She said it far too easily for Percy’s liking, and he frowned. She must’ve seen his expression, because she shrugged and added on, “I didn’t care. It wasn’t the majority.”
Five more rounds of taps. “He saved up for weeks to buy me a pair of headphones, the really nice noise-canceling ones. I had to wear them a lot, even slept with them on sometimes. He was always understanding. Even learned some Sign with me to communicate when I had them on. Everyone thought it was funny; my tough, angry dad, being so gentle with me.”
“He sounds nice.” Percy commented quietly after a moment, head tilted to the side. Lee nodded. “Yeah.” She agreed distantly. “He was everything to me.”
Lee tugged lightly on a stand of her hair, adjusted the headphones around her neck. “It wasn’t really the same with my mom. She was out a lot. Worked late shifts, was always gone when I was home. We just…never connected. I barely knew her.” Then, “She…she wasn’t okay. Had a lot of outbursts. Yelled. She was almost manic sometimes.”
Another round of taps. “Surprisingly, a borderline bipolar mother and a father with an extraordinarily short fuse didn’t work well. They were like strangers to each other on a good day. My mom would be gone weeks at a time, usually spending the night at a friend's house instead of at home while my dad stayed to take care of me.”
She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “One night when she was home…” Lee shook her head. “I don’t know if she was having one of her episodes, or maybe she was high or something, but she just lost it. I could hear her screaming at him from my bedroom. It was late, and I had school in the morning, so I just put my headphones on and locked my door so I could sleep.”
Lee, to his surprise, rubbed at her nose and sniffed. Her face tightened. “I didn’t even wake up until it was over. I got up to use the bathroom, and it was quiet, so I’d figured everything was fine. But when I walked out of my room, there was a patrol car outside and an officer standing in my living room.”
Something cold washed over him.
“I still don’t really know what happened. They wouldn’t tell me much. My mom had said some stuff about me, had gotten all up in my dad’s face, screaming at him and—” She broke off. “I guess that’s the thing about marrying someone who grew up solving their problems with their fists. Sometimes, you’re their problem. And sometimes, they kill you.”
Percy could do nothing but sit there, horrified. Lee, still staring at the desk, went on. “The worst part of it, I guess, is I had no idea how to feel. Neither of them was in the right, at all. My mother hated me, I’m pretty sure, and I’m definitely sure she was saying some awful stuff about me that night. She got violent when she was having an episode like that. But he didn’t need to bash her fucking head into the counter.”
“Jesus…” Percy exhaled, feeling sick.
“He loved me. Some might say that’s why he did it. But I never really saw it that way. He did love me, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from doing that. He loved me, but not enough to stop himself.” She looked up at him, those pale eyes seemingly staring straight through him. “People who love you don’t have limits like that, Percy.”
He leaned back in his chair, stomach rolling. “I had no idea,” He finally said. Lee just shrugged. “I try not to talk about it.” She said simply.
Percy nodded and didn’t try to continue that line of conversation. He rolled her words over in his head. Enough. Did his father truly try enough? Did Poseidon try to be there, did he try to help him? Did he really?
Percy had no idea.
“You said a lot, back there,” Lee commented. “A lot of names.”
It took Percy a second to realize what she was referring to.
His own voice echoed back at him, unrestrained and furious. He flinched. “I did.”
Lee completed two more sets of taps before speaking again, eyes downcast. “And your vision.”
Percy closed his eyes, exhaling. “Yeah.”
Then, far quieter than before, “I don’t know who she was,” And Lee most definitely wasn’t talking about Athena, “But I’ve been through enough guilt to recognize when something is weighing somebody down. Whoever she was, you should probably talk about her.”
He felt like his heart leaped up into his throat.
None of the Seven had asked how she died. They couldn’t, not when they could barely even look at Percy without flinching. Not with his gaunt cheeks, bloodied hands, the skin around his eyes melted clean off. Then Gaea happened, and then he was swept away into his father’s palace, and then the funeral, and none of them could even speak about her without breaking down.
He never told anybody how she died. Frederick Chase asked, once, and Percy had lied to him and told him it was peaceful and quick.
He’d never wanted to lie to anyone about it again, and nobody asked.
It was almost funny—he spoke to Annabeth herself like clockwork, but could barely speak about her. “Yeah,” He said quietly. “I guess so.”
Lee stayed with him for another half hour, still continuing that steady rhythm of tapping her fingertips together in a way that became almost soothing. When she walked by him to leave, she rested her hand on his shoulder, just for a second. It was brief, but it almost said more than she previously had.
Percy sighed and stood, cracking his neck to try and relieve the stiffness that had set in. Gathering his stuff, he eventually walked back to his office to start locking up. To his surprise, though, he passed Ross on the way. The agent was sitting at his desk, mindlessly fidgeting with a pen, taking it apart and putting it back together in a never-ending loop.
He locked his office door behind him and shoved his keys in his pocket. As he passed Ross’s desk, he gently rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. Ross’s head snapped up, eyes wide.
“Are you alright?” Percy asked softly. “I’m sorry you two had to hear all that.”
Ross gave a weak shrug. “I’m sorry you had to participate in all that.” He returned. “That lady sounds awful, whoever she is.”
Percy couldn’t help the way his lips twitched upwards, even as he shook his head. “Yeah, I wouldn’t go saying that out loud if I were you,” He cautioned. Ross just shrugged again. “You talked to Lee?”
The demigod nodded. “I did,” He acknowledged. “She just…gave me some stuff to think about.”
Ross hummed. “She usually does.” Then, he set the reconstructed pen down and focused entirely on Percy, a slightly pained smile on his face. “If you’re in the mood for some more traumatic backstories and the wisdom they give, I’m ready to impart it.”
Percy huffed out an exhale. “You know what? Lay it on me.”
“I completely cut my parents out of my life as soon as I moved out.” Ross started with. “I got to college and dropped contact. Haven’t spoken to them since. Not them, or any of my family, actually.” He looked down. “After I did it…I’d honestly never felt more alone. It was terrible.”
He unscrewed the tip of the pen, then reattached it. “It took me a really long time to stop regretting it. They were horrible to me, but they were all I ever had. But then I realized I deserved better, you know?” Ross set his jaw. “Their love was conditional, so it wasn’t love at all. They wanted their daughter, but I just wanted to be happy. I chose myself instead of pretending to be someone that never really existed to please them.”
Ross leaned back in his chair. “What I’m saying is, whatever you and your dad fought about…if he’s looking for a kid that he hasn’t had in a long time, that’s on him. If he hasn’t noticed you’re not that person anymore, that’s his fault. Not yours.” He concluded. Then, “Cut the bitch out if you need to. Mail him a rotting pig’s head, or whatever.”
The soft snort of laughter that slipped out was completely unintentional, and Percy covered his mouth. “Sorry,” He said, biting back a smile. “You’re right. Really, you are. But…well, I’ve already mailed him a decapitated head, so…”
Ross stared at him for a long time. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
Notes:
you guys really thought i'd let the SWORD members escape traumatic backstories?? r e a l l y ?
theres a lot more where that came from :)pov athena realizing she pissed percy off enough that a literal storm started up outside without him even noticing: o_o
percy burning godly bridges left and right <3 <3 <3 <3
ross and lee telling percy their childhood traumas: you sly dog, you got me monologuing.
plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter 17: To Be Bored With You
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The sun fell over his skin like a layer of sheer cloth, the air heavy and tired. He’s on his back, knees bent over the edge of whatever he’s laying on to let his legs dangle over the edge. The surface is hard, but not unpleasant, especially with the warm rays kissing his skin.
He feels like he could melt away into the surface beneath him, become part of it and stay there for an untold amount of time. It’s that sort of comfort, the one that seems never ending but finite at the same time.
It’s a feeling he’s used to this feeling, by this point. The thick, syrupy flow of time, the calm feeling that presses down on his shoulders and chest. The shallow breaths that come with near-sleep, the heaviness of his limbs.
Then, Percy opens his eyes.
Abruptly, it peels off of him like shedding a coat, leaving him strangely aware of his surroundings. The sharp drop beneath him, the frothing sea below the outcrop of rock he’s found himself on. The sky is split open, bare and cloudless, baking the cliffs and sand beaches down where the tide comes in.
The waves crash against the rock face beneath him, and he’s so attuned to the movement that he stumbles.
He rolls his shoulders, feeling lighter and lighter by the second. His heart picks up in his chest, a quick staccato that seems to get louder with each beat. It feels like he’s waiting for something, tensing for arrival. For what, he doesn’t know, but the feeling persists.
Percy gets to his feet and is made acutely aware that he’s not wearing shoes, able to feel every groove of stone beneath him. He smooths a hand down his side—he’s still wearing his pajamas, he realizes.
The wind whispers over the waves, up the cliff face to meet him. It tugs at his hair, ruffles his clothes.
Hello?
Sunday, March 17th, 2018
4:14 AM
Stark Tower, NY
Bad days were common between the two.
Days Percy woke up screaming, days Bucky woke up unable to do anything but stare blankly into the distance. Days Percy clutched at the burns around his eyes. Days Bucky clawed at the metal of his arm.
Percy was torn awake by a thunder, a booming drum that rattled his bones. It sounded in his chest, in between his ears, all consuming and encompassing.
“Jamie,” He rasped out, breathing ragged and stuttering. Barely awake, he grabbed at his partner, hefting himself up onto his elbows. “James, wake up,” Percy said blearily. His boyfriend, as always, was laying dead still, the only evident signs of distress the war drum of his heartbeat in Percy’s ears.
After a moment, Percy reached out and dropped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, giving him the gentlest of shakes. Bucky woke, like he did most things, silently. His eyes shot open, and, just for a second, he tensed beneath Percy’s touch.
The demigod leaned back, settling back on his knees. Bucky sat up in bed, the blankets pooling around his waist, his hands clenched in the sheets.
Percy leaned back against the headboard, trying to gain control of his own thoughts. He wasn’t sure why that dream had felt so strange—it was far from the strangest he’d ever had. Everything had felt normal. The sun, the wind, down to the stone he’d been laying on.
“Sorry I woke you,” Bucky said gruffly, a hand unconsciously rubbing at the shoulder where metal met flesh. He did it often after nightmares—Percy doubted he even knew it was a habit of his. Percy shook his head, drew his knees close to his chest. “Glad you did.”
Something in his tone made Bucky look over at him, a deep crease in his brow.
“Weird dream,” Percy muttered.
“Weird like…” Prophecy. Bucky trailed off.
Percy shook his head. “No, no. Just…weird.” He finished awkwardly. Then, “You?”
Bucky’s fists tightened around the sheets. “Karpov.” Is all he said. Percy dipped his head in understanding, his jaw clenching. He’d hoped, against his common sense, that the completion of BARF and the removal of the trigger words would stop the constant night terrors. It had provided some relief to his boyfriend, thank the Gods, but not enough to stop him waking up like this. The constantly revolving nightmares; the war, his transformation into the Soldier, his time under Hydra’s thumb. And, more recently, Percy.
It weighed over the both of them, the dreams set in the Hydra base in Alaska. Bucky closed his eyes and saw him drive a blade into Percy’s side, only this time, he did it again, and again, and again, ruthless and detached, until the man he loved was nothing but a cooling corpse. Percy saw himself, not stopping himself from bloodbending as he had. One wrong move, and the Soldier doubled over, a spurt of blood between his lips, falling into the snow and not getting up.
“You going back to sleep?” Bucky asked.
Percy tugged at his hair. “Probably won’t be able to,” He admitted. He usually couldn’t after nightmares—and while what he’d dreamt was certainly no nightmare, it left something strange resting beneath his skin. “I’ve got work, anyways.”
Though he didn’t seem too happy about it, Bucky nodded. “I’ll take Lea out.” He offered, standing from the bed. It was, in his own words, agreeing that the chances of falling back asleep himself were slim.
Percy smiled up at him tiredly. “Thank you,”
Bucky bent over and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Love you,” He said against Percy’s hair.
“Love you too.”
Work was…fine, he supposed. Lee and Ross, the former more successful than the latter, carried on normally, not giving away anything to the others about what had happened with Athena. He appreciated the attempt at normalcy, as pity-driven as it probably was. Less than an hour into the day, a persistent headache had made itself known, a steadily throbbing pain bundled up in his temples, and he went to use the bathroom only to find one of the sinks busted, water spilling out into a puddle on the tile.
Percy crouched down, ran his finger along the pipe beneath the basin. It was definitely a burst pipe—he just wasn’t sure why or how. It had been cold recently, but nowhere near cold enough to make anything ice over. After a moment, he just sighed and stood, resolving to call a plumber after he turned off the water supply, meanwhile using an idle flick of the hand to keep more water from spilling out.
Or maybe just casually mention it to Mal, who would whip a soldering kit from her desk and take her lunch break to go buy copper pipes.
As he walked back into the bullpen, half a mind still on the pipe, keeping the water at bay, he reminded himself of another thing he had to do; make a choice about Spencer Saint-James.
He, like the rest of the team, had been sent back to the US through a convoluted paper trail that would be nigh impossible to follow. Unlike the rest of the team, though, he had not yet made an appearance at the Hub. That was Percy’s doing, though—the man was still a probationary member. Technically, he was only signed on to work under them for the Lyon investigation. Hanover, however, had been making hints about keeping him on the team in the future. Whether that was as a part-time operative called in when necessary, or as a fully fledged team member, that was up to Percy.
It was something to be decided by the group, Percy settled on. He’d bring it up once his headache abated. In the meantime, he shut the door to his office and put a pair of headphones over his ears, doing his best to drown out the sound of his coworkers down in the bullpen.
Distantly, he heard Mal make a noise of surprise, and the telltale scraping of a chair being dragged across the floor for her to prop it in front of the bathroom door, making noise about grabbing her toolkit. Percy exhaled through his nose, a fond expression curling onto his face as he leaned his head back and relaxed, rubbing his temples.
Sunday, March 17th, 2018
3:53 PM
Stark Tower, NY
The hair on the back of Bucky’s neck had been standing straight up for the past ten minutes. He forced his eyes to continue along the pages, ignoring the artificial chill that rolled down his skin, the heavy feeling of a warning bearing down on his shoulders. Bucky turned the page robotically, timing perfectly aligned with the time spent reading the pages previous. He’d have to go back and reread a chapter or two once he could focus, but for now, he just kept up the facade.
In the living room, he heard Peter’s chatter fade down the hall, disappearing with a mention of finding Tony to ask about a project. It was only then that Bucky permitted himself to look upwards, meeting the searing gaze of one Michelle Jones.
The girl, perched on the back of the couch, continued staring, unflinchingly. For once, her poker face was unneeded—she was far from scared of Barnes. At first, she was, unashamedly so. She’d have to be an idiot to not be. But as time passed, her uneasiness settled into an idle curiosity, in part due to Peter’s relayed stories of the man, bringing a sense of normalcy to the ghost of an ex-assassin.
She’s seen the way he looked at Peter, the rapt attention he paid when Peter spoke of his exploits as Spider-Man, not smiling and engaging with questions as Tony did, but very clearly paying attention to the boy in a way MJ knew few did.
Why, she could never understand. How someone could overlook Peter Parker was beyond her.
The other reason was Percy.
The thing about MJ was that she noticed things that few, perhaps none, did. She was paying attention when, months ago, before Toomes and Ross and Landry, Barnes would watch Percy, staring at him and looking like he was truly remembering what it was like to smile. MJ saw that. She saw how Percy leaned against him and it was like Barnes melted, falling apart and putting himself back together for his boyfriend. She saw that, too, and she saw the way he looked like a completely new man every time Percy walked into a room.
MJ saw it all, and her chest clenched to the point where she couldn’t breathe, every single time.
Now, he was looking back at her, and she got a glimpse into what it was like to have her own eyes on someone. Blue as the frozen wastelands he’d died in, piercing enough to make her want to duck her head.
Instead, she pulled her courage close to her chest and stood, walked into the kitchen and sat across from him at the table. MJ folded her arms on the tabletop, rested her chin on them while looking up at Barnes. The man slipped a bookmark in between pages and silently put the paperback down.
Darkest brown eyes met palest blue. “You love Percy, don’t you?”
His answer was immediate, but not rushed. “Yes.”
Barnes did nothing to elaborate. He didn’t need to, MJ supposed. It was that simple.
She sighed, her hair flopping in front of her eyes as she tilted her chin down. Quiet, she asked, “How did you know?”
He said nothing for a moment, giving her a considerate look. The man mimicked her posture, arms folded with his head resting on top, bringing him down to her eye level. “I thought about dying.”
MJ frowned, brow drawing down.
“He was the one who was supposed to kill me.” Barnes continued conversationally. “If I turned back into the Soldier, Percy was the one who they were going to send to put me down, for good. I found out, and I made him promise he would do it. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Never did.”
MJ’s chest tightened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Barnes said distantly. Then, “I asked him about it, when I found out. And he told me the truth. Didn’t even hesitate. I suppose…it just made me realize how good of a man he was. It was a horrible thing to have to tell someone, but he did it anyway because I deserved to know.” He shrugs, a slight, barely perceptible movement. “Once I started noticing, I guess I just never stopped. How he never hesitated to defend his team members, how much he looked after Peter and checked in on Tony. And at every BARF session, he was right there, and when he told me he believed in me, he meant it.” Barnes’s lips curved upwards in a smile she’d never seen the likes of on his face. “For someone who’s been through so much, he still manages to be completely genuine and cares so much about everyone. How could I not fall in love with him?”
MJ stared at him a long time, his words falling on her shoulders and constricting her chest. She thought of a sunny smile through a split lip, reddening freckled cheeks, a soft voice cooing at a street dog being pet with split knuckles. Suddenly, her throat felt rather tight.
Barnes’s eyes were still on her. “What’s this about, MJ?” He asked, surprisingly gentle.
Her nails dig into her palms. “I…” Her voice fails her, and she thumps her head forward into her arms. “I think I like Peter.” She says, muffled.
She doesn’t look up at him, but she hears the exhale. “Alright,” He says simply. “Do you want to talk about it?”
MJ grumbles. “You’re going to be all sappy about it.” This time, she does peek up to look at him, to see his wide grin. “You’re damn right,” He says, unashamed. “Being around him is like breathing for the first time. I wake up every day just so I fall in love with him all over again.” Barnes says it so easily, so devotedly, MJ feels something in her chest tighten. “I love the shit outta him, MJ.”
“Yeah, like that,” MJ said, voice thick. She tried to muffle her sniff into her arms, but to no avail. Barnes, still level with her with his chin on his folded arms, leaned in. “What’s wrong, kid?”
She drew in tighter on herself. “I don’t know what to do,” She said honestly, squeezing her eyes shut. “I like him so much it’s stupid, but he and Ned are like, the only friends I’ve ever had, and I can’t fuck this up, Barnes. Peter’s so nice and sweet and he’s such a good person, and I’m just not. He deserves so much better than I’ll ever be able to give him, and it hurts.” She chokes out.
The look he gives her isn’t quite pitying, just…sad. “That’s not true, kid. Percy told me about when Toomes attacked the school. You refused to leave Peter when he was hurt, even when he begged you to. You half carried him out of the school, stood by him after the Rhino attacked.” Barnes prodded. “It was brave. You cared about him enough to stay. That’s gotta be worth something.” He looks at her, the intensity of his stare heavy. “You, Michelle Jones, are a good person.”
She recalls it like it was yesterday; the ash burning her lungs, her own blood sluggishly leaking into her eyes, frantically wiping it away with one hand while trying to rouse Peter with the other. How Peter forced himself up, put himself between the Hydra agents and the rest of them, even bleeding and barely able to stand, still trying to save them. The split second before Toomes collapsed the ceiling, the look on his face when he made eye contact with her. The terror, and, far worse, the apology.
MJ didn’t try to hold in the sob that followed his words. Barnes, after a moment, unfolds his arm and offers a hand across the table. After a second, MJ takes it, and he squeezes her hand, far more gentle than she knows him capable of.
“Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise, kid.” He told her.
Nodding, MJ wiped at her face with the corners of her sleeve. “Thanks,” She said, subdued. He’s still looking at her, eyes concerned and brow furrowed, when she looks up at him. He, like her, is smart enough to know there’s something deeper than just Peter inspiring this. Foregoing the inevitable cautious questions and verbal tip-toeing, her mouth twists. “My dad came back. Guess I wasn’t like he remembered.” She says by way of explanation.
Barnes gives her hand a squeeze, and she knows he’s entirely serious when he tells her, “The cops would never catch me, you know.”
Despite her wet cheeks and red eyes, MJ laughs. “I believe it.”
It falls silent between them after that. It’s…comfortable. MJ has always been rather quiet; she’s the type of person content to be in the background, to watch and not participate. It’s how she first noticed Peter, why she paid attention to him. At first, that is. Her motivations are noticeably different now. She was quiet, the shadow to the brilliant sun Peter was. It’s for that reason she decided to speak to Barnes instead of Percy—they were similar in that regard. Content to stand from afar and watch with soft eyes and a barely noticeable smile.
As gross as it was, the two of them almost gave her hope for herself. Watching Barnes’s guarded face completely drop when he spoke to her about Percy, the surety in his words reflected in his eyes. She squeezed the hand he’d offered her one last time before releasing him and standing, hearing Peter’s footsteps in the distance. Her back to him, almost out of the kitchen, she asked, “What’s it like?”
He didn’t reply for a moment, staring down at the tabletop while trying to figure out how to compress the experience that was loving Percy Jackson into a few sentences.
“It’s so fucking boring, MJ.” Is what comes out. “It’s waking up in the middle of the night boiling hot because he’s so damn warm all the time, being annoyed at him but still getting up at dawn to take the dog out so he can sleep just a little longer. It’s arguing about stupid little things and helping him with his tie in the mornings.” The words tumble out of him, raw and honest, a sincerity MJ had never quite heard from anyone before.
“It’s…it’s thanking everything out there that he’s in my life, yeah, but it’s mostly just spending my spare time putting things back on their shelves because he leaves shit everywhere. He annoys me so much sometimes, but I love him so much it doesn’t even fucking matter, because he’s infinitely more important to me than the fact that he literally never puts his cane where it goes and I keep tripping on it in the middle of the night.”
Barnes looks up at her, and it strikes her just how at peace he looks right now, sitting in the kitchen. “He’s insufferably selfless, he can't stay on track to tell a single story to save his life, and he’s goddamn annoying to cook with because he’s so judgemental about spice choices. And every day, I get to live knowing that I’ll get to come home to him, because he’s decided that he’s going to care about me on purpose.”
He looks up at her, and a million things left unsaid, unable to be turned to words, sit in his gaze. “It’s all of that. It’s the best thing in my life, and it’s so goddamn boring, MJ. Being in love is so boring, and it’s something I wish on everyone.”
MJ, for the first time in her life, understands. She thinks of how the breath gets yanked from her very lungs when Peter beams at her, but also of how she packs an extra granola bar or apple every day to give him, how she carried ear plugs in her pockets and a spare web cartridge buried under a little bag of pads, just in case, in her backpack.
It’s so boring, and she wants it so bad.
“Thank you,” MJ finally says, and Barnes just nods at her.
The elevator door opens, and Peter steps out, already going on about something he and Tony are building, asking her opinion and telling her new ideas, barely even pausing to take a breath, and throughout it all, MJ stares at this boy.
God, she could get used to being boring with him.
In the meantime, MJ nods along and sits across from him on the couch, propping her chin in her palm and settling in to listen.
Notes:
I LIVED BITCH
if you people cant tell, i ADORE mj, and strongly believe that she deserves to have a nice little breakdown with a local cryptid russian man. gay rights.
mj's garbage dad when his daughter isnt the super happy bubbly six year old he remembered: :obucky being down ASTRONOMICALLY bad
mj seeing percy babytalking lea while bucky angstily reads a book in the background: !!!! advice !!!!
plumbing baby, goodbye
Chapter 18: Devils
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, March 19th, 2018
1:52 AM
Queens, NY
Peter had long since become accustomed to the scent of blood.
Truthfully, it was such a common thing for him that his association of it wasn’t entirely negative. It was something that was just there. He lived in one of the most crowded cities in the world and went to a school that boasted shoulder-to-shoulder mobs in the hallways—the amount of people he brushed past on a daily basis, it would be a complete anomaly for someone in that crowd to not have an uncovered paper cut or scrape. At some point, Peter had gotten to a place where it was just normal. Smog, street food, cigarettes, and a little bit of blood. It mixed and melded and was barely even noticeable, most of the time.
Most of the time.
Sometimes, when Peter closed his eyes, it was all he could smell. Sickly powerful iron, drowning him. It was Ben, staining the sidewalk red. Percy, under the rubble in Ontario. Sometimes he didn’t know their names, their faces, just that he couldn’t save them.
And sometimes, it was like this.
Peter dropped down into a crouch, the lenses on the mask tightening with his eyes. “Karen, limit input for a moment.” He requested, swiveling his head to take in the city below. Sound around him dimmed to a bare whisper, the city lights dulling. Peter tossed himself off the building, attaching a line across the street and swinging over. From there, he crept across the rooftops, getting closer and closer to the East River.
“Is something the matter, Peter?” Karen asked after a moment.
“I certainly hope not,” He murmured in reply, squinting at the buildings across the water. “Give FRIDAY a heads up, would you? I’m crossing.”
“Of course.” A beat. “You don’t typically leave Queens on patrols.” Karen noted.
Peter took a running leap off the building, yanking himself upwards with a web and landing on the side of the Williamsburg Bridge. He paused there, stopping to take everything in once more, climbing up the suspension cables to the top of the tower for a better vantage point. Lower Manhattan stared back, and Peter couldn’t help the feeling that crawled down his spine.
With another web, he found himself sailing through the air, sticking the landing soundlessly in a small park, grass cushioning the drop. Peter spun in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the origin of the sensation in the back of his skull. It wasn’t much; flat grass with soccer nets set up on the far side, a bike rack beyond the fence.
He circles the park twice over, waiting for the familiar feeling of his sixth sense to overtake him. Unsatisfied, he webbed himself upwards onto an adjacent apartment building. From there, he went across the street and around the block, stopping and listening for anything. He checked parking lots and poked around alleyways, waiting for—for—
He wasn’t quite sure.
Over the years he’d been acting as Spider-Man, the warning sense that rested in the back of his head had become a constant companion. He knew how it felt, what it detected and how much time he had to react. How it screamed and quieted.
And right now, standing once more in a random park in the Lower East Side, it was completely silent, as if it, too, was waiting for something.
He found himself latching up to the top of one of the goalposts, pulling himself up with one arm and crouching atop the metal pole, sticky feet and inhuman balance making sure he didn’t even wobble.
“Peter?” Karen’s soft voice made him snap his head to the side, drawing his shoulders in. He felt completely exposed, all of a sudden, in the middle of the park, elevated atop the goal. “My sensors have detected no abnormalities. Is something wrong?”
It took him a moment to formulate a reply. “Maybe. I…” A frown. “Maybe.” Peter repeated, frustrated. It was cloudless enough for him to be able to look back across the water, squinting in the area of his apartment building to debate whether or not to turn in for the night. But something, some quiet whisper in his mind, told him to stay out. It was tense with anticipation, curled and tight.
It was a feeling that didn’t leave him, staying heavy in his gut even as stood atop the post and swung away from the small park, up into the East Village and then switching west, away from the river and Queens. He had Karen turn off dampeners, letting the full might of the city hit him. He didn’t make any stops, continuing to swing across streets and in between buildings, occasionally glancing upwards into the dark sky.
Peter finally halted on a rooftop somewhere on East 36th street, dropping down to sit on the ledge. He propped his chin in his palm, crossing his legs and sticking securely to the brick. It was getting even earlier in the morning, and he knew he should cross back over the river and go home soon. He technically had a while before his curfew, but that was only applicable if he promised May he would nap after school—which he would, he kept his promises, especially to May, but it took time out of his day he’d prefer to use for things other than sleep.
MJ had been cracking down on AcDec practices with their next competition coming around the corner, and while Peter was pretty confident on the material, especially since Mr. Stark had been helping him study, it was always good to get more time in. Or in the labs, where he was working on a new web combo—supervised by Mr. Stark in the creation, by Percy or Sergeant Barnes in the application. (The man had been trying to get him to call him Bucky for the last few months. Peter figured he’d drag it out a bit longer—maybe try to weasel a favor out of it…? Percy absolutely knew what Peter was doing, and seemed to be too amused to try and stop it.)
Peter had been finding himself with less free time these days. While his dedication to patrolling was about the same, time-wise, he was now part of the Avenger Reserves . Ever since Mr. Stark had gotten the green-light, training of all sorts began to pop up in his schedule like clockwork. They were careful not to overwork him, which he appreciated, but it was still more than he was used to.
His expanding social circle had also crowded its way in. Ever since Toomes and the Rhino, the rest of the team finding out about everything Peter was involved in, it seemed easier to breathe around them. It was like an invisible barrier had finally been torn down, and Peter found himself spending more and more time with his peers, outside of Ned and MJ. It was a bit of a sad thought, but Peter had never really had a friend group. Just one or two close ones. He didn’t find himself minding the new development, though, even when Cindy and Abe’s fighting got them politely removed from the third establishment in a month.
A lot of it was new; Percy and the Sargeant’s training, going out with his friends, being able to drop in and out of AcDec practices and be able to tell the truth about his whereabouts. Even his time with Mr. Stark was different, in a way.
The man hadn’t brought up that night in the lab, when Peter had flung himself into his mentor’s arms, soaked through with rain and knuckles split deep enough that not even his healing had completely taken care of it.
Mr. Stark hadn’t brought up Skip. Not even once, past that steely promise that the restraining order would hold. That Skip would stay far, far away.
In the days immediately afterwards, Peter could see the sorrow in Mr. Stark’s eyes. Not pity, but deep, unrelenting sadness. It split open his mentor’s face, weighed down his shoulders and dulled his eyes. Peter didn’t bring it up, much like Mr. Stark didn’t broach the topic of just how far Skip had gone.
Peter had broken and told Ben and May when they got suspicious, when they asked. Before Mr. Stark, Peter had never just…told anybody. He wasn’t sure how he felt, even weeks afterwards. Free, maybe, but definitely not lighter. In his more optimistic moods, Peter compared it to seeing a light at the end of the tunnel. It was far, it was dim, but it was there.
All he needed to do was get there.
He looked up into the sky once more. Even with all of Peter’s enhanced senses, the stars were still a mystery to him, obscured behind a weighted curtain of light pollution and smog. Peter wanted to see them, one day, outside of FRIDAY’s projections, outside of Vision’s stories of a new constellation. One day, Peter wanted to look up and see everything, Orion and Cassiopeia, Hercules and the Hydra, Pegasus and Centaurus. He wanted to see the Huntress in all her glory. He wanted to look up and see Perseus looking back down at him.
Peter looked away from the sky, back to the stretching skyscrapers surrounding him. His eye caught the Empire State, tall and distinct against the skyline. Peter looked away.
After checking the time, he decided to give in and call it a night. He swung back to the river's edge, then along it, dipping in and out of alleyways and tucking into perfect rolls across roofs. He touched down on streets, executed perfect flips hundreds of feet in the air. A million things pressed down on his chest, but in moments like this, when it was just him and the whistling of the wind, he felt as free as he ever could.
South, back the way he came, using his webs to catapult himself over entire blocks, relishing in the feeling of being completely weightless, even if only for a small moment. It was pure chance he was looking when he shot over to his destination, eyes set on the Williamsburg bridge once more.
The park, a small patch of grass, barely visible from his altitude, seemed to stare back. That feeling was back in full force, and this time, his spidey-sense was a low thrum to accompany it.
He stopped cold on a ledge across the street, staring down at it. “Karen,” He breathed after a second. “Give Mr. Stark a heads up. On my way home, something’s wrong. I’m going to check it out.”
That got him a short hum as she sent the message. “He is asleep at the moment—the Commander, however, is awake. Would you like me to inform him, or shall I wake Mr. Stark?”
Peter crouched down on the roof, eyes never leaving the park. “No, it’s fine. Don’t wake him.” He said, distracted. Why Percy would be awake, he had some idea, but it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind. “Do you smell that?”
A pause. “I can detect no unknown substances in the air.” Karen said helpfully after a moment.
“There’s something there.” Peter replied, only half hearing her.
“I agree.” A low, gravelly voice contributed from behind Peter. He whipped his head around, limbs locking up and tensing as he prepared to launch himself off of the building, only to meet the eyes of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, standing above him.
Peter had only seen him before; under Mr. Stark’s instruction, along with his own self-preservation instincts, Peter had stayed far from Hell’s Kitchen. Unless it was to get to the tower, he hardly even crossed the river. He’d heard the rumors, occasionally witnessed the bloody aftermath of his rage.
He hadn’t even been out as Spider-Man—just Peter, walking out of a subway station with a camera around his neck. All it had taken was one wrong turn and he’d been face-to-face with the Devil facing off against a pair of men. The takedown had been efficient, quick, and absolutely brutal. The crack of one of the men’s twisted elbows rang in Peter’s ears like a gunshot.
The Devil hadn’t even turned to look at him. “Did you take any photos?”
Peter, who’d been subconsciously clutching onto his camera, vigorously shook his head. Daredevil seemed to believe him, at least, and just like that, the man was gone.
He was just about as he remembered him; strong, broad shoulders and wrapped knuckles, wrapped in crimson kevlar armor. The mask covered all of his face and head, save for his mouth. A pair of batons were strapped to his hips, and the faint scent of blood clung to him.
Deranged, the news had called him. Unknown, Mr. Stark had cautioned. Dangerous, Sergeant Barnes had concluded.
Ruthless in his execution, unflinching in his mission, Gods know whatever that is. Percy had put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. Don’t test his conviction, Peter.
How silent had the man been, for Peter, who’d been taught to track heartbeats and breathing, who could hear footsteps from half a mile away, to not notice him? The only thing that stopped Peter from flipping around and immediately webbing the man to the wall was the sudden lull in the persistent whisper in the back of his head. Peter rose slowly, eyes never leaving the man. He didn’t yet dare to move away from the ledge, a safety net and an escape route all in one.
“Bit far from Hell’s Kitchen,” Peter finally said, voice coming out mechanical and filtered through the mask. The man had definitely heard him speaking to Karen before, but Peter held on to the hope that his whisper disguised his voice enough.
“Across the river from Queens.” Daredevil returned stoically.
Peter’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re here to start something, I’ll punt your ass into that river so hard the fucking bridge will collapse.” He hissed out, the cautions he’d been giving running through his head like a mantra. There exists a delicate balance between a warning and a challenge, Percy’s voice ghosted in the back of his mind.
For some reason, this made the Devil smile, a sharp flash of white against the shadows cloaking his face. It was unsettling, but Peter didn’t budge. Karen stayed quiet, but he knew she was one aggressive step away from sending out an alert.
“Who’s the Commander?” The question was sudden, unexpected enough to make Peter falter. “I’m sorry?”
“You were speaking to the person in your mask. The Commander. Who is he?” Daredevil repeated himself, words slow and even. Savoring them.
Peter, in turn, took his time to answer. “None of your business, that’s for sure.” He returned easily. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned his back to Daredevil and returned to looking over the park. He forced himself to stay still as he felt Daredevil approach, come to stand next to him on the ledge. “You smell it, don’t you?”
It took Peter a moment to filter it out. It was familiar, the underbelly of the city, always present. But almost never in this smothering, heavy capacity.
Blood.
“I do.” Peter confirmed. “Are you coming?” He could feel Daredevil scrutinizing him, but pretended not to notice, keeping his eyes glued forwards to the park and his voice level. When a reply didn’t come, Peter took a step forwards into a free fall, catching himself at the last moment. He touched down on the grass for the second time that night.
There was little he could do to describe the wrongness that permeated the air. It raised hairs along his arms, the back of his neck, down his spine, trickling down along with the icy feeling of his spidey-sense, beating like a war drum. But when he listened, he could hear nothing but distantly passing cars and the heartbeat of the man approaching him.
The Devil tucked into a roll and landed a few paces behind Peter, standing and walking past him in a move so fluid Peter was almost jealous. They walked, near soundless, to the fence that blocked off the park. Peter kept half of his mind on the man accompanying him—there was just something about him that seemed achingly familiar. How he moved, the almost imperceptible way he shifted his weight and tilted his head as they searched.
Peter poked through the grass, walked across the fence. The scent of viscera overpowered anything else, making it almost impossible to pinpoint just where it originated. He squinted, looking around. It was dark enough he was barely able to see a few feet in front of him, and the realization made Peter freeze.
“The streetlights are out.” He said quietly.
The Devil paused and turned towards him. “What?”
“I was here. Half an hour ago, no more.” Peter swiveled, pointing to the lamps posted across the park and down the street. “All of those were on. They all worked.”
Daredevil frowned, tilting his head. The motion didn’t go unnoticed to Peter, the feeling of familiarity poking at him sharply. “What are the chances of all the lights in just one area going out all at once?”
“Considering the section of the grid we’re in is way larger than this, and the street lamps are all connected in parallel…” Peter trailed off and shook his head. “Cutting the power wouldn’t work. It’s like all of the individual bulbs went out.”
The deep crease in Daredevil’s face showed just what he thought of that. After a second, Peter found the nearest lamp and attached a web to it, hanging upside down from the top and gently prying off the cover to access the bulb inside. He tapped it once, then experimentally screwed it to either side. “It’s completely dead.” He marveled.
Peter dropped down back onto the sidewalk. The sense of strangeness had returned at full force, and Peter, now standing at the edge of the park, felt something almost…liminal pass over him. Something in his hindbrain told him to turn back.
Instead, he steeled himself and took a step into the grass. Immediately, the smell. It was strong enough that he could practically taste it, fresh split blood, warm and thick on his tongue, and Peter held back a gag. Daredevil was right behind him, and, strangely enough, seemed to be forcing down a similar reaction. Peter plunged forward, squinting through the darkness.
The pair skirted the boundary of the field, sticking close to the fence and out of the open. Peter forced his breathing to steady, because quick and sharp only invited more of rancid stench to invade his lungs. Daredevil took a step ahead of him, his head twitching to the side and a deeply disturbed twist to his mouth.
“There’s something tied to the goal.”
It was with those words that everything started to fall apart. Six words that, though neither of the men standing on that abandoned soccer field knew at the time, would be the start of everything. Something much, much bigger than them.
Suddenly, Daredevil’s hand shot out and caught Peter’s shoulder. The sudden grab made him flinch, twisting out of the way of the man’s grip and bringing up his hands to defend himself, but he halted once he saw how the other man was standing. Perfectly still, almost ramrod straight, his focus entirely ahead on the rusted soccer goal across the field. Slowly, Peter turned to it.
There was definitely something there, but Peter was clearly missing some key information, why Daredevil was rooted to the spot, face like stone. Peter, hesitantly, reached into a small pocket sewn onto his side. What he pulled out was small, and could have been easily mistaken as a small coin or token of some sort.
Peter firmly pressed his thumb into the middle of the small circle and lobbed it towards the goal. A soft, high-pitched beep sounded, and then it began to glow. Light emanated from the small flare, at first just enough to illuminate the grass around it, but rapidly expanded across the pitch, up the fence, and, most importantly, the soccer goal.
What was shown to him was something that, no matter how he aged, how he changed and grew, Peter would never forget.
Wrists were lashed to the upper beam parallel to the ground, spread out wide. The head hung low, the body bare. Blood, half dried and congealed, flooded out from the throat and down the front, pouring down the legs and feet, dripping off of blue-tinged toes into a crimson puddle in the grass.
Daredevil’s hand gripped his shoulder, preventing Peter from stepping forward. “We don’t go near that thing.” He said lowly.
Normally, Peter would have argued, but every single nerve in his body was screaming. Standing there in the grass, the Devil at his back, Peter had never felt smaller. His eyes couldn’t leave the scene in front of him, blood and metal and rust and something burnt. His skin crawled, his throat went dry, his stomach dropped.
In his years as Spider-Man, he had seen many terrible, awful things. This was far from his first body. But displayed like this, tied to the goal post like a monument for all to see, bathed in their own blood when Peter had been in that very spot, under that same goal post, not even thirty minutes before.
There was something on the stomach. Beyond the copious stains of fresh blood, there was something darker there, an imprint of something Peter couldn’t quite see. Daredevil hadn’t yet released him, but Peter found himself not quite minding. The contact was solid, keeping him in place against the static that had enveloped him. His spidey-sense was thrumming in a way it never had, somewhere between an incoming storm and a bullet being fired right at him. A warning, a premonition, a prophecy.
He shuddered.
“Karen?” Peter croaked out. “Call the Commander.”
Notes:
>:)
plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter 19: Code Banksy
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, March 19th, 2018
2:37 AM
Manhattan, NY
The first time Percy met the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, he was twenty-three and carrying a duffel over his shoulder, a sheathed sword wrapped securely in clothes zipped up inside. He was picking at blood that had crusted under his nails, stepping through puddles and gutter runoff as he walked home.
Rainfall had introduced itself early to the city that year, and the streets, despite the drainage infrastructure, sat under a few centimeters of water. The sky had given a short reprieve, even allowing a small amount of sunlight to escape the gray clouds, weak as it was. The streets were as close to barren as they got in the city, citizens hiding away from the poor weather and late night. Even then, the screeching of taxi wheels and heavy feet splashing through water overlaid the night. Percy, as usual, went fairly unnoticed. Especially now, the night concealing his figure and, despite how carelessly he walked through the collected flooding, his feet were soundless in the water.
He turned a corner, pulled his bag up further on his shoulder. Earbuds dangled from his coat pocket, the last few seconds of Wade’s rambling message put on hold as he crossed the street, completing his third loop around the block.
Above him, lurking across rooftops, a dark figure paused in a crouch. Percy tried to pay them no mind, stepping casually into the convenience store on the corner. Once inside, he ducked behind one of the aisles, momentarily considering calling Wade back, just in case. Ultimately, he decided as he picked up a plastic cup, it would be best not. He loved Wade to death, but subtlety wasn’t his most prominent quality. Stealth, sure, but definitely not subtlety.
If whoever was tailing him was SHIELD, Hydra, or whatever terrible mix his life had become overrun with recently, they might have tapped his phone, as well. Dragging Wade into this would just be unfair. Percy sighed and zipped up his jacket, his phone tucked away snugly in the inner pocket. Before stepping out into view of the windows, he rolled his shoulders, tense and wary.
Percy walked out of the store, doing his damndest to feign ignorance about his pursuer, one hand in his pocket and the other holding onto his purchase.
He only made it down the turn of the nearest alley before he was cornered. A hand shot out, grabbing the back of his jacket, yanking him backwards and shoving him roughly against the brick. Percy violently shoved down the instinct to crush the fingers twisted into his collar.
The man in front of him was definitely a fighter, that was for sure. Despite the adrenaline inducing moment, his breathing was steady and deep, heart rhythmic. The moisture lingering in the air gave Percy a particularly clear insight of his appearance; broad, strong shoulders and arms, a strong stance and wrapped knuckles. Gunpowder and metal lingered around him, the smell of blood and aggression intertwining the two. One thing, and one thing only, kept Percy still. Sure, he could tell the man was bleeding from his knuckles, widened and strengthened from years of hard hitting, and bruises bloomed across his body in various stages of healing. Despite all that, though, the man had no gun.
Percy didn’t know of a single SHIELD or Hydra agent that would be caught dead without a gun.
“You hurt someone,” His voice was low, almost animalistic in its growl.
For some reason, Percy found himself not even considering lying. “I did.”
“Who,” The man snarled.
“What’s it to you?” Percy replied levelly.
“Who do you run with?” The man demanded in return.
Percy opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it once more. “Are you asking me if I’m in a gang?” He couldn’t help the astonishment that slipped into his voice. “Gods, no! My mother would kill me!” Percy exclaimed.
The tightening hand on his collar suddenly loosened, the man’s brow furrowing. “Your…mother?” He repeated slowly, skepticism clear. He regained his grasp, refocusing. “What are you doing here?”
Percy slowly raised a hand, pointing in the vague direction of his house. Oddly enough, he noted, the man didn’t even turn his head to see where Percy was pointing. “I live here.” Percy had told him flatly.
That got him another severe once-over. Then, finally, the man released him, taking a step back. “You’d do well to watch yourself.” Was his final warning. Then, to Percy’s astonishment, he jumped up onto the lid of a dumpster, easily pulled himself up onto a fire escape, and scaled up the wall on the other side of the alley. Disappearing over the ledge of the roof and leaving Percy standing in the alley, bewildered.
The demigod, after a moment, just sighed and took a sip of his drink. “This city gets crazier every fucking day,” He muttered, turning on his heel.
If only Percy knew how true that would get in the coming years. Which, eventually, led him to here, sitting at the kitchen island in the middle of the night, forehead resting against the cool marble. He’d taken some painkillers almost an hour ago, but the persistent throbbing around his temples hadn’t lessened in the slightest.
He’d had a strange dream again. Even for his standards, purely because he couldn’t remember it all. Just that he’d bolted awake, head pounding and whispering words he didn’t understand floating around his ears.
Percy, for as long as he could remember, had always been able to remember his dreams. He wasn’t sure what was changing, but as he tilted his head to press his other temple to the cold counter, he didn’t really want to do heavy thinking at the moment.
James was still sound asleep, thank the Gods. Percy wasn’t sure what would have been worse—taking away the few precious hours his boyfriend got, or stressing him out as he fretted over Percy.
Percy knew he was worried. About the headaches, the nightmares, how little he’d been sleeping. That all three were probably connected. It was a shitty situation turned into a vicious cycle; his head hurt bad enough that he couldn’t sleep, which caused stress that made the headaches worse, and when he finally passed out the nightmares woke him right up again.
He fucking hated it.
(The voice still rang through his ears. It sounded like a whole other language. But a few seconds of clarity grabbed him by the shoulders, jolting him and making his head hurt enough that he wanted to throw up, a faraway whisper, asking him ‘who are you, who are you, who are you—)
The only upside so far seemed to be that he was awake when Peter called him.
“I need you.” Was all the boy got out. Percy downed a glass of water and stood, throwing on clothes and grabbing his jacket while a voice in the back of his mind asked who am I?
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
Matthew Murdock never really wanted to fight. Coincidentally, nobody around him wanted him to either. His father, the nuns, all the way to Foggy and Karen. Nobody liked how Matt came home, bloody knuckled and bruised. Nobody liked how he couldn’t leave well enough alone.
Well—Stick had wanted him to fight, but that didn’t matter much anymore. He’d wanted a soldier.
As it had turned out, Matt wasn’t quite cut out for that. Stick made that clear for the both of them.
Foggy didn’t understand why Matt did what he did. Over time, he had come to accept it, but never understood. Matt didn’t blame him. It was easy to judge, to be angered and saddened, when you were somebody who couldn’t hear people crying out for help all around you. When one didn’t lay in bed at night, listening to screams and pleas, knowing you could get up and help them right now, it was easy to not understand.
Matt, truthfully, hated the fact that he himself understood.
He didn’t like what it did to him, contrary to popular belief. He didn’t like the bruises, the blood, the pain. He didn’t like Foggy and Karen’s worry, he didn’t like the scars that marred his own skin.
He really didn’t like the things that his nightlife had shown him.
And Matt really, really, didn’t like standing in the middle of a park on the edge of the East River in front of a disfigured, strung up corpse, next to Spider-Man, who sounded so, so young.
After making his mysterious call, Spider-Man had gone completely silent. Matt was fairly sure he was staring at the body. A part of him wanted to speak up and urge the kid to look away, but he knew it would be useless. Matt couldn’t erase the image already seared into his brain. Instead, he focused on the vigilante next to him. Previously, Matt had assumed that Spider-Man was a solo vigilante, like him. He had some association with Stark, but that was about it. The mention of a commander threw him off—it seemed unlikely to Matt that Spider-Man was somehow involved in the military. But why would he have such a man’s phone number?
He got his answers much faster than he would’ve originally thought.
There was no roar of a car engine or screech of tires to announce the man’s approach, rather, rapid footsteps and a booming heartbeat. It was…strange. Matt didn’t know why, but there was something about this man, how he held himself, how he moved, the way his heart echoed in Matt’s ears that was different.
It set the hairs on the back of his neck on end.
The man—the commander, he had to be—entered the park. He seemed perfectly awake despite the time, instantly approaching Spider-Man and settling a hand on his shoulder. Spider-Man seemed comforted by it, leaning into the touch and relaxing, just a bit.
Matt could tell the moment the commander noticed the horrors that lay under the goal. His entire body locked up, breath hitching, the beginning of words dying out. Even over the thick taste of iron that permeated the air, Matt could smell the bile that rose in the man’s throat.
The commander’s hand tightened on Spider-Man’s shoulder. “I’m calling this in,” The commander said after a moment. His voice was surprisingly soft, a touch raspy. Then, quiet enough that any other man wouldn’t have been able to hear it, the commander added, “Go back to the tower, kid.”
Spider-Man nodded, taking an uneasy step back, eyes still fixed on the cooling corpse before turning and flinging himself into the sky.
Matt was fairly sure he wasn’t supposed to hear how the commander’s voice trembled when he ran his hand through his hair and spat out an impassioned “Fuck,” under his breath. Then, he pulled out his phone and made a call.
The person on the other side of the phone sounded groggy, but instantly alert when the commander spoke. “Spider-Man called in a Code Banksy. We need a quarantine. Complete blockade. Can you get everyone else?”
A moment. Then, “We’ll need all hands on deck.”
The commander nodded, contemplative. He turned, facing away from the goal. “Do it.” He said decisively. “We’ll need as many as we can get.”
“I’ll pull your location. We’ll be there ASAP.”
“Thanks, Echo.” The commander replied tiredly before hanging up.
Then, he looked at Matt, who had his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed behind the mask. Spider-Man, for all the good he did, was still an unknown. Bringing in whoever this man was, whoever Echo and whatever Code Banksy was, set Matt on edge.
Matt knew people. Knew how they sounded, the creaks of muscles and inflating lungs, the feel of skin rough and smooth, the smell of perfumes and hair products and blood and sweat and tears. He knew how they walked, shifted weight and moved, how they took in the world around them.
He could read people in what lingered, the ill-fitting hand-me-down coat that rustled too much, the foreign scent that stayed on their skin after spending time with someone, how they relaxed or tensed at differing environments.
Matt knew humans.
The man in front of him, on paper, ticked all those boxes. His breathing and heart were normal. His clothes smelled like an inoffensive, unperfumed detergent, his skin and hair only faintly of soap, displaying a use of unscented products. Unlike his clothes, his skin held the scent of another person. It was faint but deep, from long periods of close contact.
Matt wasn’t sure why that surprised him—of course the commander spent time around other people. All people did. The commander was just a person. Therefore, he followed the same rules as the rest of them.
But why did the mere thought feel strange?
The more he focused on the commander, the more strange he felt. “Code Banksy?” Matt finally asked.
The commander’s face was tight. “Public display.” Was all he said, jerking his head towards the goal post. Matt’s stomach churned. Lord above, have mercy, please not this be something this commander had dealt with before. Please do not let this be something that was coming to Matt’s city.
Please do not let this be something that had already been there, something that had already taken root. Something that Matt had missed.
“Can you tell me what happened?” The commander asked, his voice regaining its level qualities. Matt jerked his head to the side, shifting his weight back in preparation. “Why don’t you tell me who you are, first.” He demanded.
“Commander Jackson of SWORD. Sentient World Observation and Response Department. Based in New York for convenience, but we work under the WSC.” The commander didn’t offer a hand.
Shit.
“People call me Daredevil.” Matt replied flatly. Jackson just nodded. “Did either you or Spider-Man touch the scene?”
Matt weighed his options for a moment. He avoided the police at all costs, same with SHIELD, when they were around, and the Avengers when they were still together. His anonymity, unpredictability, were as much his armor as the suit he wore. Logically, he should avoid speaking to this commander, back away and look into this on his own, though it wasn’t even in Hell’s Kitchen.
But this, whoever had done what lay in front of them…
Matt didn’t truly believe in evil on Earth. He believed in the sick, the twisted, the misaligned. But he didn’t believe a human being could be truly, utterly evil.
What was in this park made him reevaluate that.
Less than half an hour window, the street lamps are all mysteriously dead, the complete lack of a trace of any person, let alone the multiple that would be required to get a corpse up there. The pure brutality of the act.
Something about this was wrong, beyond the obvious. Beyond the heinous crime, the revolting and horrific display. Something was so, unbelievably and honestly wrong.
“No.” Matt said. “We didn’t get within a dozen feet of it. Spider-Man messed with the street lamps on the sidewalk beyond the fence. They’re all dead.”
Jackson sucked in a sharp breath. “How?”
“He didn’t know.”
The commander’s nails bit into his palms. “What happened.” It wasn’t a question. Matt didn’t even bristle at the tone, far too strung out and horrified to be properly angry. “I came across Spider-Man on a rooftop overlooking the park. We both smelled blood. We came to investigate. He pointed out the streetlights. Then we…” Matt clenched his jaw. “We came across it.”
Jackson was silent for a long moment, taking in Matt’s words. When he finally spoke, it was only one question. “What were you doing all the way over here?”
One problem arose at his question—Matt truly had no idea. He had been on patrol, taking care of a small ring of drug runners when he’d felt it. It was indescribable, a shot of ice down his spine, something heavy weighing on his chest, an incomprehensible voice whispering into his ear. He didn’t even know where he was going, just that there was something there.
He’d come across Spider-Man crouched on a rooftop, speaking to somebody on the other end of that mask, and had thought, maybe, that was it. But then Matt tasted the viscera in the air, and he knew better.
Jackson seemed to note his apparent loss. “Daredevil?”
“I…” Matt croaked. “I don’t know.”
He could practically feel how heavy the commander studied them. The moment the man broke away, Matt felt oddly lightened, as if his gaze held physical weight. Down the street, he could hear the screech of heavy tires. “You should go, Daredevil.” The commander said quietly. He reached into his coat, and pulled out a small piece of cardstock, offering it to Matt. “But…we need to talk eventually.”
Matt took it. He didn’t try to pretend and read it, nor try and actually puzzle out what was on it, not in front of the commander. Instead, he slipped it in a small pouch on his hip. “Eventually,” Matt repeated, voice hard. The sound of the car was getting closer. “You’ll need to give me some answers.”
The commander just nodded.
Matt scaled the fence and was on a rooftop halfway down the block by the time the car pulled up to the curb. Down below, he heard a voice, Echo, most likely, begin to order the others to block off the park. Matt stuck around a moment longer, gleaning all the information he could. Jackson and Echo took charge over the others—all whom they referred to by code names. Archangel, Tremor, Foxglove, and a man called Ace on the coms.
One last man got out of the car. He seemed more unsure than the others, awkward and out of place.
He was haltingly referred to as Neon.
Only once Matt was in the privacy of his own home did he pull out the card he was given. He ran his fingers over the hefty paper, preparing himself to try and feel out the ink and inevitably give it to Foggy to read out, only to find braille scrawled on the backside.
For a moment, fear washed through him. The commander couldn’t know, could he? If so, would he really print out and carry a business card just in case he ran into Daredevil? There was no way he could’ve predicted them meeting just then.
No, he couldn’t know. There was no way.
But still, uncertainty was curled in his gut as he ran his fingers across the card.
Commander Jackson
Sentient World Observation and Response Department
And under that, there was an address.
Notes:
daredevil: i will literally beat the shit out of you if you're here to hurt anyone
percy, freshly returned from a literal contract killing, mouth tinged blue from his slurpee: :0matt, internally: okay so something about this guy seems Not Human, very unsettling
matt:
matt: i can smell the homo on him though-many of you asked, and now spencer is officially back! under the codename neon, because he's obnoxiously ginger (he's their token for diversity <3)
matt and percy really embodying the spider-man pointing meme here
y'all: so about that body???
me, writing a couple thousand words of Matt Murdock The Fucking Mess: huhplumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 20: File: 3/19/2018, 3:14 AM, Neon
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, March 19th, 2018
7:48 AM
Stark Tower, NY
Percy awoke to a hand resting on his forehead, rough skin and cold palms.
“What happened?”
Percy blinked, a hand coming up to rub at his temples, something that was quickly becoming a habit for him. “What?” He asked, voice still thick and slow with sleep.
Bucky’s brow gained a small wrinkle. “I woke up and you weren’t there.” His boyfriend said, keeping his voice hushed. “Came back in from my run and you were in bed. Fri said you got a call from Peter last night.”
A whole new level of pain made itself known, building pressure behind Percy’s eyes. He hissed, hand coming up to cradle his face. “Last night?” He echoed, using his other hand to grab at the bottle of water on the nightstand. Bucky, after a moment, pressed it into his palm. Percy took a long drink, then pressed the cold metal to his forehead.
“Percy?” Bucky prompted after a long moment.
“Huh? I—sorry,” He shook his head, a gesture Percy immediately regretted as his head throbbed. “Um, Peter called. He’d—he’d come across something on patrol. Needed help.” He recalled.
A beat. “Mhmm…” Bucky dragged out. “Knew that part, love.” He says, tipping his head forward to lean into Percy with a small smile.
“Right.” Percy mutters. “Jesus, right. There, there was a—” He halts suddenly, feeling oddly chilled despite the fact that he’s still very much bundled up in bed. For a second, there’s nothing in his ears but the sound of his own blood rushing. “Kid found a body, Jamie. Tied up and displayed in a park.”
Bucky is far too well-trained to show shock outwardly, but Percy can feel how his hand tightens, just for a second, around his knee. “Fuck,” He whispers. “SWORD’s getting involved?”
“There’s something about it, Jamie.” Percy says in lieu of response. “I…I don’t know what it is. It just…” He trails off, distant. Nobody is in the room but the two of them, but Percy has the blood-curdling sensation of hands pressing down on his shoulders from behind him.
“Percy?”
His chest feels heavy.
“Percy, love, are you alright?”
He blinks. “Yeah.” A swallow, dry and painful. “I’m…yeah.”
Bucky stands from where he was crouched, hand sliding up from Percy’s knee to rest against his chest. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Is all Percy says, freeing himself from the blanket draped over his shoulders as he moves to stand. “Just having trouble getting it out of my mind, is all.”
Bucky takes a step back to let him, a worried twist to his mouth. “The scene?”
Percy readies a reply, it’s waiting on the tip of his tongue, resting just past the seam of his lips. He never gets anything out. The second he’s on his feet, he stumbles, knees buckling and giving out beneath him. Bucky is at his side in a second, arms wrapped around his waist before he can even register that he’s falling. His panicked voice whites out for a second in Percy’s ears, the sound of static and distant waves overlapping his senses. It's not until his palms are pressed against their sheets does he hear him.
“—fuck, I’m calling Tony. Percy, darling, can you hear me? Jesus, say something—”
“James.”
It’s a precious thing, how he halts like the word is a command of its own. Then, two hands, familiar rough skin and smooth metal, are on either side of his face. “Oh my God,” Bucky breathes, tipping his head forward against Percy’s. “Fuck.”
Percy sags forward, letting his boyfriend support him, cradling him close. Bucky’s heartbeat is like a Legion war drum.
“What was that?” Bucky’s voice is painfully close to a plea. “Love, what happened?”
“I think…” Even to his own ears, Percy’s voice sounds distant. “I think I need to sleep for a bit longer.”
Shit, Bucky almost sounds like he’s crying. “Yeah, yeah I think so too.” An arm braced around his shoulder blades tightens. Then, muffled into Percy’s hair, “You scared me.”
The responding flinch is out of Percy’s control. “‘M sorry.” He whispers. “Can’t sleep, lately. Headaches.”
“They’re that bad?” Bucky asks, pained. “Sometimes.” Percy replies into his chest.
A kiss is pressed to the top of his head. “Lay back down.” Bucky says firmly, gently pressing on his shoulders until his back is against the mattress. “I’ll be back in a moment, alright?” He doesn’t give Percy a chance to respond, disappearing down the hall.
Percy turns his head, pressing his face into the pillow. Truthfully, it’s not the first time he’s outright collapsed like this—a memorable SHIELD mission in which he was awake for almost three days, a drawn out hunt with Wade when he was already running low on sleep, and a particular day in the Legion after the file leak all come to mind. (And the Pit, every step dragging, his body giving out on him what seemed like every hour, his knees and hands shredded with the jagged, glass-like rock he kept collapsing onto. He kept getting up, drawing on any strength he could find, forcing himself forwards and forwards and forwards—)
Bucky presses two pills into his palm. Percy swallows them dry.
The mattress dips next to him and cold fingers rest over his closed eyes. “Go to sleep.” Bucky urges him quietly.
It isn’t long before Percy drifts off.
—
The SWORD building still gives him chills.
Bucky can’t help it. He walks into the bullpen and can’t help but see Mal in her chair, chin on her knees, eyes drifting from the clock to him to her phone, where he knows she watches Percy’s tracker make its way to Midtown High School. He drifts past Lee’s desk, and it's like he’s sitting there again, watching Bridgette draw her shoulders in and stare at the neatly arranged contents of his borrowed desk. A little further, and it’s Ross, feet on his desk and his jaw clenched.
A tiny spot of blood on the carpet. It’s Aspen Anev’s wide, cobalt-blue eyes, meeting his as Hydra storms the building.
Bucky finds Lee in the lab down the hallway, settled over a microscope, sterile gloves and white coat. Her head snaps up at his presence, dark, bruise-like circles swooping under her eyes. She frowns once she sees him, head cocked to the side. “What do you need?”
That was one thing he appreciated about Percy’s resident forensic pathologist—the unashamed bluntness.
“The scene Spider-Man called in last night. What do you know about it?”
He receives a slow blink. “A fair amount, by now.”
Bucky looks at her, brows raised. A moment passes, then a few more, the two staring at each other in silence. Then, “Oh, do you want me to tell you about it?” Lee asks. Bucky just nods. The pathologist gives him a strange look as she stands, discarding her gloves into a bin at the edge of the table.
“It’s not much.” She says, moving to a filing cabinet on the far side of the wall. The file she pulls, while not thin, isn’t quite full either. Handing it to him, she sits back down. “All the DNA at the scene belonged to the victim—still trying to get an ID on them. A couple small bruises here and there, but they were older, not likely to be done by the killer.” She pauses, picks out a photo from the folder with two deft fingers. It's the crook of the elbow, waxy, pale flesh under harsh lighting.
Bucky looks down at the photo. “Track marks.” Some newer, some half-healed and a few scarred over dot their inner elbow.
Lee nods. “An addict, definitely. There wasn’t much in their stomach, either. No ligature marks besides the ones that held them up, so I don’t think they were held anywhere.” She pulls another one, showing deep rings of bruising around a pair of stick-thin wrists. “My running theory is that they were grabbed off the street and taken directly to the park, tied up and killed there.”
“Just like that?”
She hums. “It’d be fairly simple, given I’m correct. Empty stomach, track marks, and the state of their hair all point to the fact that they were probably homeless. If they were staying somewhere near the park, it’d be quick to knock them out and drag them there. Or they could have been lured with some sort of offer of food or shelter.”
Bucky frowned. “But if they were really killed in the park like you think, wouldn’t they run the risk of anybody interrupting?”
Lee tips her head in acknowledgment. “There was enough blood for me to be certain they were killed after being tied up. It was night, cold, in a tiny, secluded park…” For a second, her stony face falters, muscles in her cheeks pulling downwards. “But someone seeing them was still a very real risk. The fact that they chose to do it just shows confidence.”
He looks down, test results and notes spread out. Photos, close-up shots of rope-burned wrists and small scabs, a sunken, pallid face. He flips through them quickly, taking in each of the clinical pictures. “Are there photos from the actual scene?”
At that, Lee gives him a strange look. “Why?”
Bucky doesn’t answer that question, because he himself is not completely sure why he asked that. “Are there?”
Slowly, Lee reaches under the tabletop and flips a switch. Light emanates from a small port on the corner, pixels forming into a sidewalk and road. She flicks at it with two fingers, and it rotates, turning away from the street, to two unmarked SUVs and a half-constructed barricade. Tall chain link fences are covered in a tarp, a notice about pesticides slapped on the exterior facing the sidewalk. “Stark likes giving us new toys.” Is all she offers, pinching and pulling her fingers apart to move inwards to the far side of the park.
Abruptly, he understands Lee’s utter certainty of where the murder happened. Bucky is deeply familiar with blood, spilling and coagulating and drying to skin in a way where it can never be scrubbed away, but this…
He stares at the blood-soaked front, the open throat and bowed head. The sticky, crimson grass. The world around him goes silent, his own breathing echoing in his chest and ears, and he’s struck with the sudden feeling that he’s missing something. Slowly, he looks up at Lee. “What was the cause of death?”
“Exsanguination.”
The feeling grows in both pressure and intensity, spreading down to his stomach, cold and heavy. “I want to see the body.”
“Barnes—”
The muscles in his jaw twitch. “Please.”
She continues to stare at him. “You know you don’t have clearance for that.” As always, her words are bland, toneless, face giving away little to nothing. It sounds more like a statement than a refusal to Bucky, though, who just shrugs one shoulder, stiff and guarded. Lee’s eyes don’t move away from his face, that startling, piercing nigh-clear blue like the laserpoint of a rifle, even as her lips pull into a smile that her eyes don’t crinkle with. “Fine.”
The pathologist shuts off the hologram with a flick of her hand as she steps around him to get out the door, and Bucky follows her wordlessly. She leads him down the hallway, pressing her thumb into a random section of the wall. A door swings open behind them, and she steps inside without looking back at him. “Didn’t want to keep it in the lab longer than I had to.” There’s something in her voice that makes him want to pause, to turn back.
It’s cold. Small. Lee strides to the far wall, pulls a pair of keys from her waist and unlocks a small panel on the metal. It pulls away to reveal a small screen, to which she types something in, then presses her thumb—the opposite one, this time—against it. The wall creaks and groans in a way that is probably only audible to Bucky as it pulls away, folding horizontally like a screen as Lee shoves it with her shoulder.
Floor to ceiling compartments, each a few feet in length and width, a handle nearing the top of each drawer. Lee grabs one and gives it a firm tug, a small hissing escaping as it’s pulled open, dropping the room further into a chill as the body slides out.
She gives him one last look, an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation, before she pulls the sheet down to display the shoulders and head.
The throat, now bloodless and clean, is clearly displayed. The cut is clean, curved perfectly and without hesitation. It’s good work, the type that Bucky is intimately familiar with. It's far too easy to imagine himself doing such an act, cutting symmetrically and without feeling. Deep, as well, through both carotid arteries and jugular veins.
Exsanguination. It would have been relatively quick, all things considered.
Still, despite the facts laid out in front of him, he feels strange. Uneasy, in a way that’s almost unfamiliar to him. Bucky can’t stop thinking about earlier that morning, kneeling in front of Percy, talking about what lay sprawled in front of him now. Perhaps it was because his boyfriend outright collapsed from sleep deprivation in the middle of telling him about it, but there is just something completely and utterly wrong in the room with him and Lee.
“Where’s Jackson?” Lee snaps him out of his spiraling thoughts.
Bucky tears his eyes away. “Bed.”
“Thank God.” She mutters.
So he wasn’t the only one to note how unwell Percy had seemed recently. Bucky casts another glance down to the mortuary shelf between them. “He seemed really messed up about this. I just…” Bucky shrugged. He wasn’t really sure why he was here—some form of closure, maybe? Confirmation for Percy that, though he was away, everything was alright?
(But it wasn’t alright, was it? Ice creeped over Bucky’s veins, through his chest, wrapping around his lungs and pressing down on his heart, making every beat seem louder and louder and louder—)
Lee was staring at him again.
There was something about her, the pale tones of her eyes, the ever-present resoluteness on her face, the silence that wrapped over her shoulders like a childhood blanket, that made Bucky feel oddly seen, recognized, cataloged. Known. Whatever she seems to be looking for, she finds, because her posture shifts. To what, he doesn’t know the name for, but understands it all the same.
“Pull the sheet down, Barnes.” Is all she says.
He hesitates. James Barnes, Hydra’s ghost, a century-old killing machine, hesitates before pulling down the sheet covering the corpse.
A part of him regrets coming here at all.
“What…what is it?” He gets out, voice but a whisper.
Lee is staring at the floor. He drops the sheet, pulls it back up to cover the head as well. “It was done antemortem. Jackson…he was the one who noticed it under all the blood. Right before it was moved, actually. He just…he stood in front of it for a really long time. We were packing up the rest of the scene, and…” She shifts, and Bucky is suddenly aware of just how uneasy she looks. “We cleared out after that.”
Something leaps up into Bucky’s throat. “You guys wear bodycams?”
A slow nod.
“Where can I get the footage?”
She takes him to another room down the hall—where Dan typically spends his time, Bucky notes. Lee logs in to one of the computers, opens up a database with neatly cataloged files. “It’s done by day—date, time, then agent. It’s all in there.” She clicks on one of the files. “Jackson wasn’t suited up, though. So we got nothing from him.”
They’re organized alphabetically, not by the earliest footage start—not that it matters much, considering they all arrived together. He scans down the list, halting near the bottom. “Neon?” He reads aloud.
“Saint-James made the team.” Is all Lee offers before he hears the click of the door behind him, her footsteps fading down the hallway back to her lab.
Bucky starts the the top, clicking on a 3/19/2018, 3:06 AM, Ace. Much of it he fast forwards through, from the beginning in the locker room of the Hub until Dan arrives at the scene. He’s parked his wheelchair near one of the vans, barely looking up from his computer as he searches through nearby security cameras. Bucky clicks away to the next file, 3/19/2018, 2:51 AM, Archangel. She’d gotten to the Hub a bit earlier than Dan, her only companion being Lee for the next few minutes. He forwards through that as well, but, other than briefly speaking to Percy about getting a barricade up, she spends most of the time on the phone and getting tarps up to cover the fence, hiding the small park away from any prying eyes.
He skips over Echo, going to 3/19/2018, 2:58 AM, Foxglove. Like Bridgette, Ross is only in the park briefly, speaking to Percy and then following Bridgette to help with the tarp. From there, Mal briefly joins them before disappearing around a corner. Bucky watches Ross speak to the sole person in the area, a man sitting on the curb with a cigarette a block away, describing the deceased as a friend of his and asking if he’d seen him. The man, truthfully, from what Bucky can tell, has nothing of value for Ross. The agent seems to agree, thanks the man, and leaves.
3/19/2018, 3:02 AM, Tremor, follows Mal after she leaves Ross and Bridgette, circling around the perimeter of the park. She settles on the corner of the sidewalk on the opposite side of the other two, keeping an eye out for anybody nearby. She changes focus to her tablet, which gives her a view of the entire park and surrounding area. Nobody comes, and she only leaves once Dan’s voice comes through her earpiece.
It’s 3/19/2018, 2:49 AM, Echo that shows him the body up close. Like Lee has described, it was hard to see the skin clearly under the copious amounts of blood. He watches her approach, taking a few photos before getting in closer. Blood samples, from the throat directly, a few spots on the body, and even the coagulated puddle on the ground. She inspects half-frozen fingers and toes, checks the level of rigor mortis. Eventually, she calls Percy and Spencer— Neon, now, Bucky supposes, to help her get the body down from its display. She’s easily tall enough to reach up to the posts to undo the bindings, relying on Percy and Spencer to support the body as carefully as they can.
The camera barely catches the moment that Percy freezes as Lee works at the bindings. On the corner of the screen, he can see Percy’s body tense, but his face is obscured from view, Lee not entirely facing him. He can’t hear Percy over the sounds of Lee working at the tough bindings, of her speaking down to Spencer.
It’s not until he clicks on the only one left, 3/19/2018, 3:14 AM, Neon, the shortest of all the videos, does he find it. Spencer is the last one to arrive at the Hub—Bucky had seen him, shaky and unsure, his nerves easily visible through Lee and Bridgette’s footage as the two had helped him with his gear. The video started with Bridgette’s face up close as she adjusted the cam, giving it a gentle tap as she spoke to Spencer.
At the scene itself, he mainly stuck by Lee, a few photos with her instructions. While she gets up close, he pulls out a tablet Mal had handed him on the ride there, turning it on and booting up the program just how she had instructed. Kneeling on the grass, he pops open a heavy case, two small drone-like machines lifting into the air and circling the scene—where the model Lee had shown him, Bucky realizes. He hears the little hitch in Spencer’s breath as she calls him and Percy up to help free the body.
Most of it is spent looking away from the body, as much as he can. Bucky doesn’t blame him, truthfully. It’s in the very last minutes before they return to their transport the footage is blocked, Spencer shifting to hold the tablet closer to his chest as he helps support the body. It’s the reason what follows is only audio.
Lee’s voice is a bit quieter in the different perspective, the distance quieting her enough for Bucky to hear better as Spencer stands right next to Percy. The sharp inhale, the utter silence from him.
“What—” Spencer’s soft voice. “Is there something—” He cuts off again. Then, “Lee?”
It’s under her response. Percy’s voice, so incredibly quiet and off, it barely sounds like him.
“He who walks Τάρταρος.” It’s only just audible to Bucky’s enhanced ears, low and scratchy with the recording. “Pit-Walker.”
Spencer moves, and the footage returns. The stomach, now facing upwards and under the beam of a flashlight, is seen underneath the flood of red. It’s just as it was on the table, but fresher, raw. Carved into the flesh, deep enough to reach through the layers, across the belly and ribs.
𐁗 𐀂 𐀀𐀄 𐀂𐀨 𐃊𐁔
Notes:
you guys dont understand how hard it was to get the script at the ending like. i literally had to translate a phrase to latin and then use the syllables as an incomplete pheonetic alphabet and then factor in unknown letters and sounds and then a proper noun. the end result doesnt even make sense but i just gave up
*narrator voice* and so then things got W O R S E
but hey!! spencers here :) ginger diversity hire :)
anyways shout out to lee tbh. started as a random oc that was going to appear like twice and is now a slightly unsetting forensic pathologist from norway who's as tall as lebron james. shout out to her.
plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter 21: Heart, Teeth, and Claws
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, March 19th, 2018
5:32 PM
Stark Tower, NY
Tony was waiting for him when he came home.
“You look troubled.”
Bucky, head downcast, hangs his jacket up by the door. “I was at the Hub.”
“Jesus,” Tony presses his fingers into his forehead. “You saw it too, huh?”
When Bucky turns to look at him, the man just taps at his tablet with his free hand. “Peter wasn’t doing too great. He mentioned it before he crashed.” A shrug. “I’m pretty sure Dan just lets me into their servers at this point.”
He couldn’t bring himself to smile at the joke. Instead, he sat down, weighed down and heavy. “Something’s wrong, Tony. It—” He paused, trying to turn what he’d seen, what he’d felt in that morgue, into words.
Nothing came out.
Tony seemed to understand, at least to an extent. “Yeah,” The man agreed, sagging against the couch in the low golden light of the evening. “Yeah, I know.”
Bucky closes his eyes, and he sees Lee, pale face and ash-blonde hair and colorless eyes, the color of the bleach-white walls creeping into her, as pale and drawn as the corpse between them. He sees sightless eyes meeting his own. He sees carved, brutalized flesh.
The moment Percy walked in, even the air around them went silent.
He didn’t look great. Despite having been asleep almost the entire day, the circles under his eyes held the appearance of deep, painful bruises. His hair was a tangled mass upon his head, the increasingly prominent gray streak he hadn’t bothered to re-dye washing him out, and his shoulders were dropped, socked feet dragging on the hardwood floors. Percy came to a halt in front of the two of them, rubbing at his eyes.
“Percy.” Tony’s voice was uncharacteristically grim. “Can we talk?”
The demigod switched his focus between the two of them for a moment before lowering himself onto one of the sofas. “Is everything alright?”
Bucky, who’s eyes had been locked with the carpet under his feet, looked up. “Percy, what does the phrase Pit-Walker mean?”
Percy froze, muscles locking up and stiffening, his breathing hitching and rapidly becoming sharp and shallow. “What?” He breathed. “Where did you hear that?” A foreign, almost frantic tone had entered his voice.
On the other side of the living room, the two men exchanged looks. “You…Percy, remember what you were telling Barnes this morning? About the case?” Tony prompted. “We looked at the bodycam footage.”
When that elicited no response, Tony pulled out his phone. Hearing the recording is no less haunting than the first time.
“He who walks Τάρταρος.” A scratchy inhale. “Pit-Walker.”
Percy blinks rapidly, white-knuckling the fabric of his pajama pants. “I—” One hand comes up, covering his mouth and clamping down on his jaw. “Fuck,” He whispers, seemingly at a loss for any other words.
Then, he stands as if possessed and walks out.
Bucky is still for a moment, confusion and shock rippling on his face before he wipes it away. Percy was many things—defiant and strong-willed and absolutely unafraid of confrontation, for starters. Just up and leaving was so incredibly unlike him, Bucky was unsure of how to proceed.
He’d been having a growing feeling that he had stumbled across something much larger than he had originally imagined. And now, an uneasy surety was settling into him.
Tony looks down at his phone, his brow knitted. “Should I not have done that?”
Bucky shakes his head, his eyes not leaving the doorway Percy had fled through. “I don’t think that was it.” He says slowly. The responding silence is telling enough for Bucky to know that Tony doesn’t quite believe him. Unable to muster up further words, Bucky rests his hand on Tony’s shoulder for just a second, mindful of Tony’s shrinking but still present dislike of contact.
Pit-Walker. The words alone seem to echo in Bucky’s head, over and over, leaving a buzzing in his ears and a metallic taste in his tongue. It makes him distinctly uncomfortable. He fights the urge to get up from the couch and situate himself against one of the walls, to get a clear view of all the doors and windows.
He feels oddly small, and he hasn’t the faintest as to why.
Τάρταρος. It’s not English, that’s for sure, but even Bucky, a polyglot in his own right, can’t place the word. Yet again, inexplicable, he just has a strange feeling about it. It feels old. Immeasurably so.
It invokes that same feeling as when he was in the morgue with Lee. Standing over a body, staring down at a mutilated corpse, feels hair-raisingly similar to listening to that recording, hearing the otherness in Percy’s voice. Pit-Walker. Τάρταρος.
His hands are shaking. Bucky looks down, clenches them into fists, forces himself to spread his fingers out and press his palms against the couch cushion. Inhale, exhale.
Next to him, Tony, hunched over his phone, makes a small, victorious noise. “Fri isolated some of the words and ran a search with them. One got a match with some lecture that got posted a few years back. Got the transcription from the video, identified the language and…” He trails off, presses play. “Τάρταρος, ο κολασμένος λάκκος κάτω από τον κάτω κόσμο…” A woman’s tinny voice sounds through the phone. “Tartarus, the hellish pit below the underworld…” Tony reads aloud.
Tartarus.
The recording continued on. “Κατοικείται από τα πιο αποτρόπαια από τα φυλακισμένα τέρατα, λέγεται ότι ακόμη και οι θεοί φοβούνταν την ανήλιαγη άβυσσο.”
Tony’s lips parted as he skimmed over the translation. “Inhabited by the most horrific of imprisoned monsters, it is said that even the gods feared the sunless abyss.” He looks up, turns to Bucky. “Tartarus, the Pit. Pit-Walker.”
That oppressive static feeling returns with a vengeance. “A creature of the Pit.” Bucky breathes. “You think something got out?
The responding look is utterly helpless in a way that is completely unlike Tony. “I’m out of my depth here, Barnes. If something did get out, something that made Percy respond like that—” He cuts off, face losing its color.
For a moment, Bucky tries to imagine such a monster. Could it have been the one that strung up that body? If so, why? What motives could a monster, animalistic and blood-hungry, have for doing such a thing? Some were smarter than others, Bucky knew, but to do something so horrific just to taunt? To cause pain?
To make everyone see what they had done, to know that they were back—
Percy reenters the room like a storm, face set like stone but the air around him crackling. He sits down on the couch without a word, thumbnail digging into the meat of his palm. Bucky watches as he steels himself, jaw tight and shoulders tighter.
“I’ve told you about the quest to stop Gaea.” He says, voice wavering in a way that makes Bucky’s chest squeeze.
Tony nods. “Seven demigods, monsters that wouldn’t properly die, a war brewing between the Romans and the Greeks.” He recounts, wary.
Percy nods, muscles in his jaw jumping. “When the Romans first conquered the Greeks, they raided the Parthenon and took the massive statue inside, the Athena Parthenos. Roman demigods took it and hid it in a shrine underground. It broke the Greeks, and Athena’s, spirit. Ever since then, every few generations, a child of Athena received her Mark and was tasked with finding it. Some found a lead and went after it. They never came back. The rest went mad trying.”
“She…she just kept sending her kids?” Tony asked, horror clear on his face.
Percy did nothing but shrug, face downcast. “One of the seven on the quest was a daughter of Athena.” His hands were shaking. “Her name was Annabeth.” Percy says her name like a memory, a breath of childhood and love and agony all in one.
Against his will, he’s thrust back to last year, before Secretary Ross and the chair, Hydra and Landry and everything. Percy, soft with sleep, sitting on the couch next to him.
"I get them too." Percy had said quietly. "Still wake up screaming for people who've been dead for years. 'S nice, though. Annabeth responds sometimes."
Dead for years.
“When the seven touched down in Rome, she went looking for the statue. And—” He cuts off, bites down harshly on his lip. “She was alone.” He says. “None of us could go with her.”
Us.
Whenever he’d spoken about life as a demigod, it had been offhanded, easy. Percy was an open book in that regard. But now that Bucky was watching him, he’s beginning to realize that a more accurate description would be textbook. Impersonal. Facts and nothing else. Not even detailing his own involvement.
Not that Bucky could judge. It was easier, that way, to talk about things. To speak of the Soldier like he was a different man. In a way, he was.
“You were one of the Seven.”
Percy nods mutely. “We barely showed up in time. She’d—she’d found the Parthenos, where countless had failed, Annaebeth succeeded. She tricked Arachne, who was guarding the statue, and trapped her. The cavern was collapsing, and we started loading the Pathenos onto our ship. Arachne—” His shoulders are trembling. “She hated Athena and all her kids, with everything she had. When Annabeth tried to get on the ship with us to leave, Arachne grabbed her ankle with some of her thread and began dragging her back into the cavern.”
The way he speaks is chilling, words alone seemingly lowering the temperature of the air around them.
“The ground had cracked open, and there was this massive chasm. It—It just seemed to go down forever,” Percy whispered. “We couldn’t get her free. And I just couldn’t let her go again.”
It’s like every vein in his body has frosted over. “It was the Pit.” Bucky says with an agonizing certainty. “The chasm led to Tartarus.”
Percy tilts his head up to meet Bucky, and his eyes are shiny, like the turbulent waves in his irises are threatening to spill down his cheeks. “One side of the Doors of Death was down there. I made Nico promise to meet us on the other side, and…and I let go. We fell.”
Tartarus, the hellish pit below the underworld…
Bucky felt sick.
Inhabited by the most horrific of imprisoned monsters, it is said that even the gods feared the sunless abyss.
“Oh my God,” Tony sounds devastated.
“She died.” Percy continues on, face hard and eyes screaming. “Horrifically and slowly, and she was the last thing I ever saw.”
It’s like thousands of needles shooting through his flesh. A deep ache, white-hot and bitterly cold, a vice grip around his lungs, his stomach, his heart. The love he holds for Percy twists and writhes, lashing out, serrated and drawing blood.
Percy’s knuckles are white. “Tartarus isn’t just a place. It’s…it’s alive. Down there, I could hear the heartbeat under my feet, feel the ground moving up and down like it breathed. Monsters—when you kill them, they reform in Tartarus. There were so many of them.” He scrubs at his eyes, rough at the long faded scars, and Bucky watches as the golden rays of the sun that had settled over his skin began to disappear. “I would’ve died. Should’ve, really. The air was acidic, it—it burned your lungs, and the ground was like broken glass, even the fucking rivers wanted you dead. Tartarus was built for monsters. Nothing else.”
Static.
An icy shot of wind slams into them both, and Bucky shivers.
“Time was different there. What was only three weeks topside was months for me. It—it changed me.” Percy says haltingly, his face pallid. “The Pit is the birthplace of monsters. In more ways than one.”
The air around him is downright oppressive, charged and heavy and painful as the room grows increasingly colder around them.
Bucky stares at him, unwilling and unable to interrupt him. It’s like he’s stuck captive, tongue heavy and lead in his mouth.
“I slaughtered hundreds, anyone who came across me. I learned to use their blood, the poison that lived in the ground, the cursed rivers, until I was so thoroughly adapted that I was just indistinguishable from the rest of them.” He’s trembling now, shoulders and hands. Outside, clouds cover the sun, casting the streets below them into complete darkness. “They started to fear me. Became the prey and not the predators. They didn’t call me the Son of Poseidon anymore.”
His eyes are dark like the sky. Thunder rumbles warningly in the distance in perfect time with Percy’s shudder. A strike of lighting out the window as Percy’s clenched knuckles crack with the pressure.
“They called me the Pit-Walker.”
Something hadn’t gotten out of the Pit. Someone had.
Tony looks a few seconds away from being violently ill as the wind begins to howl outside. Percy continues, his voice flat and thousands of miles away. “I slaughtered my way to the Doors. The rest of the Seven had gotten to the other side, and together, we closed them. I was the last one to ever use them.” His exhale is shaky, more a sob than a breath, and the rain outside begins to hit harder. “And I came up alone.”
He’s trembling so hard Bucky almost thinks he’s freezing. He’s never seen Percy like this, not just unnerved but absolutely terrified, the mere memory turning his breathing sharp and shallow, his heart thudding loud and heavy enough for Bucky to hear it from the other side of the coffee table.
It’s the last puzzle piece to create the picture of Percy Jackson. Like Bucky would always hold a bit of that Chair with him, Percy still held a little piece of Hell in his pocket.
Bucky hears more than sees the sudden gag Percy holds back, bolting upright and into the kitchen. He immediately stands to follow, but Tony grabs his arm. “Give him a minute,” The man quietly advises. Though he doesn’t like it, Bucky knows that he’s right. Instead, he moves to the window, the sounds of the storm drawing him in.
Outside, the streets of New York are beginning to flood. The storm drains aren’t enough against the sudden onslaught of rain, leaving half a foot of stagnant water for the cars and pedestrians to muddle through. Though sunset isn’t for an hour or two, the sky is dark, completely clouded over, blocking the golden rays to light the city, replaced by the neon of billboards and street lights.
The thunder sounds like a bomb exploding, muffled by the thick glass panes.
In a way, it’s beautiful. The clouds roll, only visible for the split second of lightning. It lashes out from cracks in the clouds, splitting open the sky itself as it branches out, the roots of a great tree, reaching out in a thousand directions, to touch, to feel. The only direction it doesn't stretch out to is the tower itself, but rather away from it, like the weather is Percy’s own calloused fingers, grasping outwards at the clouds.
Tony is standing at his shoulder, electricity reflecting in his eyes under the barrage of weather. He says nothing, fixated ahead, drawn in just as Bucky is. He can barely tear his eyes away from the scene, the primal emotions shredding apart the sky above.
The reflection of his love, who’s standing a room away.
Bucky turns and leaves Tony, walking soundlessly to the kitchen.
Percy is leaning against one of the counters, a half-empty glass of water held tightly in his grasp. His eyes are shut tight, head bowed. He shudders, and thunder sounds like it’s right above the tower.
Bucky lays his hand over Percy’s, gently pulling his fingers away from the death grip he has on his glass, replacing it with his own hand, the vibranium much more suited to withstand his strength. He slides his hand over the back of Percy’s, intertwines their fingers. He brings them up, slides his thumb over Percy’s palm, then presses his lips to it, right over the faded mark of a pit scorpion. “I love you,” He whispers against his skin, head bowed, looking up to catch eyes that flash in time with the lightning beyond the windows.
The demigod’s eyes flutter shut, and he leans forward, his forehead resting against Bucky’s. Their joined hands come to rest right over Bucky’s heart, Percy’s splayed across his chest, feeling the beats beneath his skin. Bucky’s other, hard and calloused flesh, comes up to hold Percy’s face, gently and reverently, swipes his thumb across the damp skin under his eye.
Percy falls into him, underneath his touches and toward his hold, seeking him out like oxygen.
“I love you,” Bucky says again. “Everything about you. Every part, every story.” He says it like an oath. “You walked through Hell but make me understand the ideas of heaven every time you touch me."
His hand detaches from Percy’s, where it rests over his heart, the metaphorical on the literal. He holds Percy’s face with both now, tilting his face down so he can press his lips to his forehead. “In this life and whatever is beyond,” He moves to his temples, under his eyes, soft against the mottled scar tissue. “In whatever judgment waits for me.” His cheeks, the tip of his nose. “Everything of me will forever be of you.” His lips. “Always.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance, and it is not that of Zeus, for it was not an oath before a king, but to something more, that Bucky gets to hold, to love.
Percy’s voice is hoarse. “Even if I’m terrible? If I’m a monster?”
“From the Latin root monstrum, a divine messenger of catastrophe, then adapted by the Old French to mean an animal of myriad origins: centaur, griffin, satyr. To be a monster is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.” Bucky quotes. “Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.” He runs his finger across the border of the scars atop his eyelids. “You, love, are my shelter. I love you because I can, teeth and claws.”
Percy breathes in time with the howling wind.
“I’m here with you, always, because your love and your touch is part of me now. For that to end, something beyond even death would have to rip me away.”
Tears wetting his lashes, a subtle shake still in his hands and shoulders, Percy melds into his hold, two becoming one as he kisses him, tasting like petrichor and lightning, the storm that rages on outside.
Notes:
gay people with their reverent love and all consuming infatuation for one another 🙄
happy late birthday to percy jackson, and shout out to hozier for the new album which FUCKS, you can thank him for the vibe of this chapter
also did any of you watch the red white and royal blue movie??
tartarus reveal! we'll go more in depth to it later, but enjoy the Horrors(TM)
bucky and percy really out here like "ill kill for him ill die for him the gods themselves couldnt tear us away and im going to shred our souls apart and sew them back together as one"
anyways how do you people feel about some borderline percybucky smut
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 22: Eventually
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday, March 20th, 2018
11:19 AM
Nelson and Murdock, Hell’s Kitchen, NY
It was right when Foggy was about to go for lunch the man came in.
Karen walked him in, holding the door for him with her sunny smile. He thanked her quietly, a nod and a flash of dimples that had Karen turning pink. Foggy made brief eye contact with her, a raised eyebrow that she made a face to in response.
Foggy made his way around his desk. “Welcome to Nelson and Murdock,” He greeted amiably. “What can we do for you?”
The man looked up at him. “I have an appointment with Mr. Murdock,” He replied, hands in his pockets. Foggy did his best to hide the slight confusion—it wasn’t like Matt to not give him a heads up about a client. Karen, from over the man’s shoulder, looked just as surprised as him.
“I’ll get him for you,” Karen said quickly, darting away and into the adjacent room, leaving Foggy alone with the man, who seemed content with the momentary wait. He was dressed comfortably in a collared shirt under a sweater, his face partially hidden by a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose. When he turned back to Foggy, he could see the scar that pulled at the corner of his jaw, faded as it ran upwards behind his lenses. His smile was crooked, his teeth sharp.
The scent of brewing coffee that Foggy had come to be familiar with was overtaken with something light, fresh, a taste of something wild on his tongue. The man held out a hand. “Percy Jackson, by the way.” He introduced.
Foggy took it just as Karen returned, Matt in tow.
Now, Foggy knew his best friend. As reserved and cool Matt could be, Foggy knew how to read him by now. He saw the sudden stiffness, the way his eyes widened, just a little bit, behind his glasses, how his chest rose sharply with an inhale. Foggy’s eyes went back to the man, to Percy Jackson. Did he need to kick this guy out? Karen seemed to be thinking about the same thing, her brow furrowed.
“Mr. Murdock.” He said, a smile curling onto his face. It reminded Foggy distinctly of a shark. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Through a tight jaw, Matt responded. “Likewise.”
Jackson offered a hand, and, for a moment, the strange, unsettled feeling that had settled into Foggy all but vanished, replaced by a familiar pang of irritation. “He’s blind.” Foggy said with the patience of a man who’s said it many, many times before. Then, to his friend, “His hand is out, Matt.”
After a second, Matt shook his hand, tense and looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.
“I take it we have different ideas of eventually, no?” Jackson said. At that, Matt’s shoulders dropped a little, like he was finally letting go of some sort of hope. “Suppose so.” Is what he said.
Foggy took a longer, far more suspicious look at the man. His hair was dark, incredibly so, as if light didn’t even reflect off it. This was contrasted against a sole, pale gray streak near his face. His shoulders were broad, a clear strength in how he stood. And the longer Foggy looked, the more unsettled he became. He really wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something strange, like invisible hands pressing down on his shoulders, a clamp on his lungs.
“Matt?” Karen, the braver between them, spoke up. “You two know each other?”
For a second, their friend didn’t seem to know what to say. “We met during my night shift.” Is all he got out.
Shit. If this man was here, now, then he knew.
Jackson either didn’t pick up on Foggy’s quiet heart attack, or simply didn’t acknowledge it. “You really are blind,” He said aloud, head tipping to the side, regarding Matt curiously. “Amazing.”
“If that’s all you’re here for, you can leave.” Karen snapped. Jackson’s grin didn’t falter, even as he pushed his sunglasses up atop his head, pulling some of his hair out of his face. He was handsome, that’s for sure, but…Foggy’s sense of uneasiness increased. Objectively, there was nothing off about the man. His jaw and cheekbones were sharp, contrasted by a gentle smattering of freckles and a soft, friendly mouth.
Scars twisted across his eyes, over and under them, the bridge of his nose, stretching to his temples. They were old, faded, but very, very present.
Karen could barely stifle her gasp. Matt’s head snapped to her, his brow furrowing. Jackson didn’t comment on it. “Would you like to have this conversation elsewhere, or is here alright?”
Do you want to have this in front of the two of them, is what he didn’t say. He didn’t have to.
When Matt hesitated too long, Foggy made the choice. “I’d like to stay.” Karen nodded. “Me too.” She said firmly.
Jackson just nodded, his focus shifting onto the two of them for just a moment. When he turned back to Matt, his lips twitched downwards. It felt like thunder. “Calm down, Mr. Murdock. I’m not here for anything nefarious.”
“How did you know?” Matt’s voice was harsh, dangerous.
“I cover my face when I work.” Jackson says. “It’s protocol, you know? Eye protection, air filtration, keeps my teeth in place, all that. Yet you clocked me immediately.” Foggy isn’t even the one Jackson is studying, but he feels like a bug under a microscope. “ How did I know?” There was something satisfied in his words, like a cat who finally captured a bird. “Same way you did.”
And that, that, makes them all stop dead. Foggy takes him in for the third time—the scars, the sunglasses indoors, the way that when Karen had come into view, Jackson’s head hadn’t moved to get a better view of her and Matt. Slowly, Foggy waved a hand in front of the man’s face.
“Thank you, Mr. Nelson.” Was the extraordinary dry reply. “But I think they got it.” Despite now being certain he isn’t looking at them, Foggy feels incredibly seen as Jackson regards the three of them. “I suppose I should thank you, Mr. Murdock, for helping me prove that, no, not all Enhanced blind people with a very perilous night job know each other.”
Matt’s lips were parted. “You— how?”
Jackson winked at him, and Karen burst out in sudden a fit of giggles, her hand covering her mouth in vain. At the sound, Jackson grinned in her direction, crooked smile and dimples and something dangerous rolling calmly beneath his skin. The tension cracked and melted away like ice with his expression.
“Wait, wait—” Foggy breaks in. “Did you come here just for that?”
Jackson’s grin is warm and razor-like at the same time. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t part of it.” He shrugs, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “I’ll admit to being curious.”
Matt made a soft humming noise in the back of his throat, some of the tightness bleeding out from his shoulders. “And the rest of it?”
Jackson straightened, his face going neutral with a startling ease. “The WSC has an offer for you.” He informed them, humor fading from his voice. “A sanction of sorts—you keep operating as you are and the WSC will keep the police off your back.”
Matt looked wary, but considering a month ago he’d come to work with a bullet graze from a patrolling officer, Foggy was most definitely listening. “And what do they want from me in turn?” Matt asked.
“An open line of communication. You chose to call us in if you think anything is getting too big for just one man. We call you if something is going on in the Kitchen.” Jackson replied.
“That’s it?” He asked skeptically.
Jackson shrugged. “To be frank, Mr. Murdock, the majority of the WSC doesn’t want anything from you. It was my boss and I who decided to reach out.” Jackson said bluntly. “We both agreed it was good to at least get in contact with a man like you.”
“Wait, what’s the WSC’s problem?” Foggy paused. “Besides the vigilantism.”
“They,” Jackson drawled out, “Are reluctant to let me or my team do any sort of networking. At all.” He frowned. “It’s almost like they don’t want me to make friends.”
Karen looked bewildered and amused at the same time. “What…” She said slowly, her voice dropping into a whisper. “What did you do?”
Jackson’s mouth twisted to the side. “Did any of you happen to catch the news last September?”
Now that was a very loaded question. Coverage ranged from pieces on the still missing so-called ‘Rogue Avengers’, the massive freak storm that took out a piece of Canada the previous year, the ongoing reestablishment of the Sokovian government, the Winter Soldier trial and assassination attempt, the entire shit-show that was Landry’s presidency—
The man who admitted to having the Secretary of State killed. The man who yanked back the curtain on a grotesque series of human rights violations. The man who stood in the Senate chamber and demanded the people do better in the name of the Enhanced that had already died.
The man who stood in front of the President himself and said that he would not, could not, be complicit. Had stood in front of the cameras, the Senate, the WSC, and told them all that in the name of progress, the world would move past them.
Foggy, like the rest of the world, had watched that footage over and over again until he practically memorized it. Even now, six months later, people haven't forgotten. It was easily the most publicized piece to ever come up about Enhanced rights, fueled protests and movements and laws. That man, only identified by the name Commander Jackson, had gone from unheard of to on the front page of every news source in America.
He had sat down in front of his television and watched the speech—because that was what it was, that was what Commander Jackson had done, taken the platform that was meant to pressure and manipulate him and used it as a soapbox—and Foggy had smiled, had tipped his head up to the ceiling and let out an awed, bewildered laugh. That right there, Foggy had thought, is what he was fighting for. It was why both he and Matt had struck out on their own, leased a shithole building and took pro-bono cases, to advocate for those who couldn’t.
In front of millions live, billions soon after, thanks to whomever posted it online, a man had told them all that Hydra will live on as long as you assist in suppressing those they walk on, and that it was only difficult for a man with something to hide.
A rumor of a man who left them nothing but his message, his brutal wakeup call and not his face.
In the following days, almost every single politician in the country spoke out—some condemning this man, his disrespect and his policies. They didn’t last long. Others in support, in reformation, in uplifting.
It was like a tidal wave swept over the nation. In the next six weeks, Foggy and Matt had gotten a dozen Enhanced clients, standing up and speaking out, against abuse and discrimination, against being hurt and taken advantage of.
They’d won every case, Foggy’s white knuckles and Matt’s serrated smile in the courtroom.
People asked what Commander Jackson had— what do you plan on doing about it? Protests broke out, the streets taken over completely for almost a full week. City Hall had been vandalized a dozen times over, the same message, painted on walls and windows and the sidewalk — YOU CULTIVATED THIS.
Somebody had gotten to Landry’s home— not the White House, but the one he actually owned. The word FASCIST had been burned into his front lawn.
The mayor announced that the Avengers had been called in to stop the protests.
They never showed.
Tony Stark was seen on the streets half an hour after the mayor’s broadcast, drinking a cup of coffee in the suit next to a foldable table with stacks of water bottles. He’d been laughing. Bucky Barnes had made his second public appearance to stand in the back of the crowd and scream obscenities at the Police Commissioner when he got up to the podium. The Vision himself was spotted standing ominously between a group of riot officers and the protesters. Spider-Man was dipping in and out of the crowd, checking on people and standing sentinel on rooftops.
(There were many silent shadows that week. Daredevil, out under the sun, out in public, for the first time, his shadow casting over the street like a gargoyle.
A man in the crowd with a large dog, a hat over his face and a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. He was absorbed into the masses, righteous rage and an aching sense of freedom, of no longer having to hide. In the center of the pulsating mass of people, a man with eyes that held the ocean had smiled.)
Commander Jackson of the WSC.
An Enhanced.
Percy Jackson.
A revolutionary.
Foggy’s jaw had hit the floor. “You—” His words died on his tongue. “Oh my God.”
Jackson —The Commander Jackson—gave a little shrug. “They let me have Bucky and I made a bit of a mess.” He said it completely unapologetic, reveled in it. “So they have their reservations about giving me you, too.”
It was only when Foggy turned to his friend did he see that Matt was absolutely speechless. His lips were parted, hands slack at his sides. Karen tore her eyes away from Jackson to look at him, then at Foggy. A silent moment of trepidation passed in between their eyes.
“You’re like me.”
Matt’s smile was beautiful.
Jackson’s responding one almost as. “Yeah.” He said. “Yeah, I am.”
It was times like these that Foggy was reminded that, though Matt tells them that he lives in a world on fire, they’ll never truly know how it burns.
Matt Murdock, Foggy’s best friend, the best damn lawyer he’s ever met, who fights tooth and nail every day, clawing his way through school and the bar exam, leaves bloody gouges in opposing arguments, broken bones in those who hurt people just because they can. Matt, who stands up with cracked ribs and stab wounds to defend people with his words when he can’t with his fists. The Man Without Fear, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Him, and Commander Perseus Jackson of the WSC.
The only person in this world who might get it.
He looks over the two of them, a smile curling up onto his face. “I’ll get lunch.” Foggy said suddenly. Karen, the amazing person she is, was already dragging an extra chair to Foggy’s desk to accommodate them all. Matt nodded in agreement.
He was still smiling.
“Was it all true?” Karen couldn’t help but ask over a mouthful of banh mi. Jackson— call me Percy, he’d said—tilted his head in her direction. “Was what?”
She waved a hand. “Everything, I guess. Like, Secretary Ross and all that?”
Percy paused, and she backtracked. “You don’t have to answer, sorry. Or, if you can’t, I mean. I’d rather not wake up in a van with tinted windows tomorrow morning.” She said quickly. This guy was the Commander of an international response team, after all. There had to be some top-secret stuff somewhere.
“Ehm, that—what?” He said. “Ms. Page, you’re not going to get kidnapped. And,” His smile was artfully crooked, one side a bit higher than the other, his dimples slightly uneven. “I think I made it pretty clear how public I wanted the whole thing.”
Matt snorted into his water at the other end of his desk. Percy took another bite of his sandwich. “I killed him.”
Foggy choked. Matt had to give him a couple firm hits on the back for him to stop wheezing. “What?”
Percy just looked faintly concerned.
“I—we thought you just ordered it.” Karen rushed. “Not that you, like, actually—” She broke off. “Shit, you really did it yourself.”
“I don’t make other people take out my trash.” He stated simply.
Karen might just be a little bit in love with this man. Sue her, anti-fascist revolutionaries did it for her.
“He really was Hydra?” Matt broke the silence. Percy nodded. “He trafficked Enhanced kids for experimentation, tried to kill James at his trial, had one of my team members beaten half to death, planned that assassination at the Stark Gala two years ago, blew a hole in the Raft to have some criminals attack a school to kill some kids, had a bunch of National Guardsmen murdered, and—” He exhaled. “He killed a friend of mine.”
Karen’s hand came to cover her mouth. “Jesus,” She whispered. “I’m sorry, Percy.”
He gave her a faint smile. “He’s paying for it all. Trust me.”
“Insanity, all of it.” Foggy muttered. “I’d like to believe that everyone just missed it, but…” His face twisted. “I’d really like to believe that.”
“We’re looking into it.” Was all Percy said. “With a vengeance.”
Karen believed him.
“What you said earlier,” She said, redirecting the conversation. “About Bucky Barnes—they let you have him and you made a bit of a mess. ” She recalled. “What did you mean?”
“They took him. I made James a promise, and Hydra took him before I could fulfill it.” He swallowed a mouthful of banh mi. “I did, in fact, make a bit of a mess getting him back.”
“That—” Matt’s expression took on a new intensity. “Wait, that wasn’t a WSC mission?”
“Hunting down Ross and the Hydra base in Alaska?” Percy took a sip of his water. “No. My team and I go after Hydra at my discretion. This one was just…personal.” He leaned back in his chair. “Like I said, I had a promise to fulfill.”
“You care about him a lot.” Karen said. “It’s admirable, really. Are you close?” Foggy leaned in at that. “Yeah—I mean, we did hear you speak on his behalf when he was giving testimony. Was he put under your team’s protection or something?”
“He came to the tower for Tony, actually. I was—” Percy’s face tightened. “Actually, I was just there as a failsafe.”
The room went silent at that.
“Oh,” Karen said softly, staring at the scars on his face, his hands, the spread-out knuckles that looked almost identical to Matt’s.
“He knew.” Percy says. “James knew.”
“He was okay with that?” Matt asked softly.
“I think,” Percy said, “After being forced to hurt people for so long, it’s nothing but a relief to know that there’s someone to stop you.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Foggy muttered. “Dark.”
Percy shot him an apologetic look. “He’s free of the programming now. Doing a lot better.” There was a distinct note of pride in Percy’s voice when he said that.
“So you guys are good?” Karen checked. It was…it was nice to hear that, despite all that had happened to the man, he was improving. “I mean, after all that happened…”
“He’s…” Percy trailed off. “Some horrific stuff has happened to him. Eighty years of it, and despite it all, he’s one of the best people I’ve ever met. James Barnes is a miracle, Karen. I truly think Hydra was insane to think they could ever take him down.”
Something warm blossomed in her chest. Foggy was smiling faintly across from her.
Matt made a sudden sound, his eyes wide behind his glasses, lips parted in surprise and brows raised. Percy dropped his head, a soft look on his face and a barely noticeable flush on his face.
“You—” Matt’s hand covered his mouth. Foggy and Karen looked between the two, feeling out of the loop. “I’m sorry, is this some sixth-sense communication here?” Foggy asked.
“Not sixth if we only have five.” Percy rebutted instantly, like it was an ingrained response. Matt said nothing, still agape.
“Matt, buddy?” Foggy prodded. “You alright?”
Their friend’s hand fell to his side as he leaned back in his chair. “Holy shit,” Matt breathed. Percy was smiling into his lap. “Nobody’s figured it out that fast. You beat the Black Widow’s record, in case you were wondering.”
The fucking Black Widow— Nope, not right now. “What are you talking about? Matt?” Karen looked back and forth between them.
Percy said nothing, as did Matt. Karen tapped her drink against her chin, brow knitted. Foggy was chewing on his straw as he analyzed the two of them. Percy made himself comfortable in the office chair he was seated in, waited until the moment they both took a sip.
“We’re together.”
Karen swallowed an ice cube whole. Foggy inhaled soda into his lungs.
Percy burst out laughing, and Matt joined. It was a warm, round sound, the rasp of Percy’s and the timbre of Matt’s, with a backing track of their two friends dying on the tabletop next to them.
“You what?” Karen screeched.
Percy was still laughing. “Since August.”
Foggy’s breathing edged into hyperventilating. “Wh—you— August?”
His legs dangling over the armrest, hip against the back of the chair, Percy grinned. “August,” He confirmed. Karen’s eyes were glued to his face—the tinge of his cheeks, his smile lines and dimples, the warmth in his eyes that seemed to make the room raise a few degrees.
“Holy shit,” Foggy breathed. “How?”
Percy began to fold his sandwich wrapper into neat squares. “How does anything happen?” He shrugged, corners of his lips still tugged upwards. “It just does.”
It’s like his words were infused with honey, amber and golden, dripping with an unnoticeable sweetness. Something warmed in Karen’s chest.
It just does.
Notes:
stark industries, watching tony cackle and hand out water bottles to the protesters: uhhhhh try our SI biodegradable plastic bottles(TM)? yeah this is an advertisment. of course it is. yeah.
bucky and percy, revolutionist anti-establishment nazi hunters <3 we stan
finally, FINALLY, i got to write the spider-man pointing meme of matt and percy
foggy and karen, ready to square up: you got something to say about him being blind??
percy:
percy: you guys are gonna think this is absolutely hilarious in like, five minutesmatt, internally: man this percy guy smells really strongly like some guy
matt: crazy
percy: *is the way that he is when talking about bucky*
matt:
matt: OH MY GODin conclusion, matt is that homophobic "i know what you are" dog
plumbing baby. goodbye.
Chapter 23: Legacies
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday, March 23rd, 2018
2:42 PM
Stark Tower, NY
It had been a bit of a long day.
Peter had come over that morning, bouncing on the balls of his feet and tossing himself into a long ramble the moment Tony was within hearing range. Tony had listened dutifully, nodding along and making appropriate reactions to his stories.
The two of them had ended up down in the lab, working on a web grenade design they’d thought up the week prior. Then, over lunch, Tony quizzed Peter on VSEPR theory for his upcoming AcDec match—the kid would do more than fine, Tony knew, but it soothed Peter’s nerves to get as much practice in as he could.
“Plus, MJ is scary.” Peter had said through his burrito.
At that, Tony had conceded. “She’s definitely going places.”
He’d gotten a nod. “Yeah,” Peter had echoed. “She is.”
Tony spent the next ten minutes trying to decide whether or not to ask if the burrito was too spicy, based on how red the kid’s ears were.
May had come to pick him up later in the afternoon, giving Tony a smile and a quick hug before departing. Tony wiped down the table—how Peter managed to get rice everywhere, he had no idea—before heading back down to the lab to work on a design for the upcoming Expo. Last year’s had been canceled for a multitude of reasons; the Raft escape and the following attack at Midtown, the recent disappearance of the Secretary of State, Percy’s breathtaking live takedown of Landry, plus the whole shitshow the previous year had been…
Happy had already started on full-proofing the security. For extra measures, Tony had spoken to Barnes as well. The man had all but demanded to be put on the detail, to which Tony had happily agreed. It was unspoken but understood between the two of them that, under no circumstances, would Percy be going on that stage again. In fact, Tony wouldn’t be, either. They’d found another place for him to give his customary speech—one with no nearby balconies.
It had been a unanimous decision to not have the last Expo. This year, however, they were going forwards, and, though it wasn’t for months, the displays had to go through extreme amounts of testing and review before they could be approved.
He ran a hand through his hair and flicked on one of the holotables. He waved the immediate pop-up of information away; the time, weather, his calendar—
Tony went still.
“Fri?” He asked quietly.
There was hesitance in his AI’s voice. “I…I was unsure of whether or not to say anything. Apologies.”
Percy came down half an hour later.
“Tony, are you alright?”
“It’s my dad’s birthday.”
Something in Percy’s face changed, a minute flash of an emotion Tony didn’t know how to name. The demigod gently kicked a small pile of scrap to the side to make room, sitting down on the concrete across from Tony. “At the risk of sounding like my therapist…how are you feeling about that?”
Tony leaned back against the half-constructed shell of the car. He stared down at his hands, the grime that ingrained itself under his short nails. “Sometimes I still feel like he’s here.” Tony admitted, running a hand over his face. “Especially whenever I fuck something up. I raised you better than this, Anthony. Thought you’d be smarter. You’re such a fuck-up.” He lowered his voice in a half-hearted imitation. Tony huffed, a twisted smile making a brief appearance on his face. “God, he was such a piece of shit.”
Percy’s face was turned downwards. “Sounds like it.” He agreed quietly.
“All these years, and sometimes—” He broke off. “Sometimes I feel like he’s right. Twenty-seven years, and he’s still—” Tony just sighed.
“You’re not a fuck-up, Tony. Not by a long shot.” Gods, Tony wished he could have the kind of confidence Percy did about people. There was a constant sincerity that lived in him, and Tony could never understand it.
“I’m a drunk asshole who’s partly responsible for the deaths of hundreds and the breakup of the one team that could defend the Earth.” He said flatly.
Percy managed to pin him with an unimpressed look. “First off, you’ve been sober for almost as long as I’ve known you.” He barrels on before Tony can reply. “I know you’ve had your problems, but, Tony, you’re trying to—you are fixing them. Those people didn’t die because of you, and so many more would have died if not for you.” He says firmly. “What happened to the Avengers fucking sucked, and I know I’ll never fully understand it, but, Tony, you were aiming for accountability. You wanted the people to be protected by the Avengers, and from the Avengers, if it came to it, and that isn’t a bad thing. Not by a long shot.” He leans forward, and Tony finally looks up at him. There’s always been an unnatural intensity about Percy, and it’s in full force, his attention beyond soul-deep. “You saved my family’s life, Tony. I’ll never forget that. You shouldn’t either.”
Tony Stark doesn’t cry. He’s had something like that trained out of him a while ago, by a combination of his own pride, his father’s anger, and thousands of eager cameras and microphones. He doesn’t cry, but Gods, he feels close right now.
“You’re a good friend.” He says instead.
“Like you deserve.” Is the firm response.
Tony studies the concrete under them. Twenty-seven years, he thinks. Howard's legacy, sitting on the garage floor, surrounded by broken parts. Usually, on the anniversary, he’d drink until he blacked out, and then some more, all so he didn’t have to think about it—the fact that he missed his mother, so goddamn much, and the fact that he had no idea if he missed his father. The drunk, the belligerent, the genius and the bloody-handed.
“I don’t want to be him, Percy.”
He can feel Percy studying him, like a physical weight on his shoulders. “People used to tell me I was just like him. They meant it as a compliment, I think. Maybe that’s what they assumed I wanted to hear.” He shakes his head. “I can’t be him, but sometimes I feel like it’s too late.”
Peter. His voice, arguing over the suit. Tony thought he’d been doing the right thing, taking it away, but all he’d done was get him hurt. The distance Tony had built had done nothing but make everything worse.
“Tony.” Percy’s hand is on his arm. “You’re not going to be your father, and I’m not going to be mine.” He squeezes, gently. “We’re going to be better. We are better.” A smile. “Besides, you’re far from absent.”
“What?”
“You canceled a meeting last week to go to Peter’s AcDec meeting.”
“It was important.” Tony defended.
“Yes, it was. Would your father have done that?”
Howard wouldn’t have even known he was in an Academic Decathlon.
Percy didn’t seem to need him to answer. “You’re a good man, Tony. It doesn’t matter who your father was. All that matters is the type you’ll be.” Then, a small nudge. “The kind you already are.”
Tony should deny it. He’s an erratic, unstable man with a metal suit that can go toe-to-toe with a Norse God. He’s probably the least ideal father figure out there, and Lord knows he has his problems.
But he can never bring himself to deny how much he cares about his kid.
At some point, Percy pushes himself to sit next to Tony instead of across from him, their shoulders lightly brushing together.
“He deserves better.”
“Peter deserves the world.” Percy says after a moment, turning to face him. “And, Tony, you would give it to him. That’s exactly what a parent is—somebody who would give their kid everything. ”
Tony can’t tear his eyes away from his friend, whose head is tipped down, his grown-out hair hanging in his face. Rather abruptly, Tony tilts his head to rest on Percy’s shoulder. The act of physical affection is rather uncharacteristic for him, and Percy jolts a little under him.
“When did you get so smart?” He says quietly.
Percy’s lips twist up. “Whenever you weren’t looking, I guess.”
Tony exhales, sinking into the warmth Percy provides. He forgets, in between moments of watching his friend play with Mrs. O’Leary and take naps on his boyfriend, he and Tony are remarkably similar. They were both raised for something that no child should be raised for—to hurt. Percy, with a blade, Tony, with a blueprint.
Howard Stark was a man made of iron—his spine, his fist, and his assuredly, his heart. He did good things for America; he worked against the Nazis, he helped make Captain America into the legend he became. He was also a shady war profiteer who loved his bombs more than his wife and kid. There was blood on his hands, deep enough to stain. Tony didn’t know as much about Percy’s father, but he knew enough. Distant, a temper that sank ships and drowned cities, and a chilling willingness to force a weapon into a child’s hands.
Tony and Percy were both parts of that, of their father’s legacies. Tony’s blood ran the same violent red as his father, had the same worked callouses, the same sharp grin and eyes. But if Tony’s family towered over him, Percy’s loomed, a brutality that rested in the sea, under the ground, in the sky above their heads, resting in the enthralling color of his eyes.
Though, Tony didn’t know just how accurate that statement was. He had seen Poseidon’s inky hair and oceanic eyes, had never seen Kronos’s crooked grin and hair just as dark, had never seen Ouranous’s star-like freckles and shifting eyes. Tony had only seen one generation of Percy’s legacy—he didn’t know it stretched across time and up into the heavens.
Flies flit around his head, landing on his shoulder and the top of his head before taking flight once more. They’re slow, fat and sated, living with everything a pest could want. A swarm of them turns the doorway into a haze, almost smoke-like in their numbers. Percy takes a careful step forward, kicking aside overflowing trash bags and doing his best to ignore the noise of rats running for cover as he walks. The smell, even from where he’s standing, is overwhelming. Cool AC is blowing overhead, rustling his hair and the loose sleeves of his sweatshirt. The feeling of his socked feet on the infested carpet almost makes him gag. Percy resists a shudder and carries on.
He walks into the kitchen, but goes no further than the doorway, listening to the crackling of fresh ice in a pitcher of Kool-Aid, the sound of the electric mixer going on the island, the rest of the countertops covered in burnt cookies, some still on the pan, others piled in tupperware and on plates.
May Castellan reaches into her silverware drawer, pulls out a knife, and begins to spread peanut butter on a slice of bread, humming a song, something Percy's own mother often did, under her breath as she adds the sandwich to the rotted pile on a platter to her left.
The woman turns, pulls on oven mitts and takes a fresh pan of cookies out of the oven, puts another in, and turns back to her sandwiches.
If one only listened to her, one would think she sounded happy.
Percy knew better.
She scooped more cookie dough onto another sheet pan and began to fill another pitcher with ice. May pulled out the Kool-Aid, and Percy turned away, wandering toward the windows. They were covered, the curtains drawn and the windowsill loaded with piles of molded sandwiches, pressed up against the glass.
Behind him, May put her new pitcher of Kool-Aid onto the table. Another pitcher on the edge of the table was roughly shoved off by the intrusion, and it hit the ground and shattered, bright red and sticky sweet liquid spilling across the filthy tile.
Percy flinched.
Sunday, March 24th, 2018
3:23 AM
Stark Tower, NY
He woke up silently, with damp eyes and cheeks. Percy squeezed his eyes shut and scrubbed at his face with his sleeve. Next to him, Bucky made a soft noise, shifting. “You alright?” He asked, half-asleep.
Percy nodded. “Fine.” He whispered, ignoring the sudden headache pulsing in his temples.
His boyfriend hummed and looped an arm around his waist, pulling him close and burying his nose in the back of his neck. As always, his skin was cold, and, as always, Percy didn’t mind. He let Bucky manhandle him back under the covers, tucked up against his front. Like this, he can not just hear Bucky’s heart, but feel it against his back, as strong and steady as always. He exhales, leaning back into his hold.
Truthfully, he hadn’t thought of May Castellan in many years. He tried not to, really. Not her, her son, all the damage he’d done and all the pain he’d unearthed, and certainly not Kronos.
(He could still hear Gaea some nights. It is always a struggle, my son. But I am tired, Kronos.)
That didn’t stop him from feeling guilty. Enormously so.
He owed Luke nothing, he knew that. But May Castellan had done nothing wrong, not to him nor to the Gods. On the contrary, really, she’d been wronged by them. Maybe not by the demigods, but certainly by Olympus.
Zeus, an oath breaking, murderous piece of shit, and Hades, a bitter, unforgiving bastard, neither of whom cared about the innocence of those that got pulled into their feud. Not May Castellan, who’s desire to host to Oracle was nothing but selfless, and not the original Oracle, spirit trapped in a mummified body kept in an attic. Not Thalia, who’s only crime was being born, or Percy’s mother, attacked and kidnapped, or Percy, far too young and now far too bitter.
He closed his eyes again.
Percy was older than Luke would ever be, and time had given him perspective. Luke had still been a kid when he betrayed them. He was angry and hurt and had lashed out. That, Percy had understood. But beyond that, choosing the Titans as if they were any better, sending monsters after the very demigods he said he was doing this for, attacking his own family, poisoning Thalia’s tree and forcing Annabeth under the sky, Percy would never understand.
He had tried to for much longer than he’d like to admit. In the infirmary bed with a Pit Scorpion sting on his palm, laying in his bunk, even long after he finally went home, Percy had wanted nothing more than to understand.
He’d told his mother one late, sleepless night. She had gone silent, sitting on the edge of his bed, running her hands through his hair. “Oh, meu anjo,” She’d whispered. “Baby, of course you don’t understand. You don’t get it because you aren’t like him, Percy, and that’s closure enough. You can’t rationalize people hurting you like that.”
Percy had been twelve years old, had traveled cross country with nothing but a backpack and two friends, gone to the Underworld and back, and killed monsters of legend. He’d still curled up in his mother’s arms and fell asleep crying.
Bucky shifted in his sleep, still wrapped around Percy, his arm across Percy’s front, vibranium cool against his warm skin. His palm rested on Percy’s stomach, right above the hip-to-hip scar that Porphyrion had gifted him, years ago. He tried to relax, to go back to sleep, but found himself drifting at best. His headache had subsided, but it was still present, lurking somewhere behind his eyes.
At some point, he guessed he must have succeeded, because he snapped awake to his phone buzzing hard enough to almost fall off the nightstand. Percy groaned, grabbing for it. Bucky had already stirred, pushing himself up against the headboard.
“It’s four in the morning,” Bucky grunted, squinting at Percy’s phone. “The hell is it?”
Percy accepted the call.
“Jackson?” Bridgette’s voice was tight. At the sound, Percy sat up straighter. “What is it?”
“A body got called in to the local PD. Dan had set something up—not really sure what, to be honest, but the call got flagged and intercepted. Lee and I are almost at the scene. It’s—shit, Jackson,” She broke off. “Caller was a fourteen-year-old, found it hanging from a fire escape. Same M.O., from the sounds of it.” Over her voice, he could hear the rumble of Lee’s truck cutting out as they threw it into park.
“Fuck,” Percy snapped. “Cordon off the scene, have Dan get all the others. Is the witness still there?”
A rustling noise, the sound of a car door. “Yeah, the kid's still here. Real shaken up, too. I’ll start getting this taped off.”
Percy was already up, grabbing the first pair of pants he saw. “I’ll be there soon as I can.” He swore. He turned, and Bucky was there, up and dressed, holding out Percy’s coat.
“Dan sent you the location. See you soon.”
Percy put his coat on and shoved his phone into his pocket, squeezing Bucky’s arm in a wordless thank. “You heard it all?” He assumed, bending over and tying his shoes. “Yeah.” Bucky said. “Shit, Perce…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
The elevator ride down to the garage was silent, both of them trying to shake off the remains of sleep and digest the news Bridgette had given them. As Bucky turned the ignition, Percy rubbed a hand over his face. “Fri, text Tony.”
“What would you like me to say?” The AI asked from his phone.
A heavy sigh escaped him as Bucky pulled out of the garage. “Tell him there’s been another one.”
Notes:
WHATS UP FUCKERS GUESS WHOS STILL KICKIN 💪🔥😤
time for tony's deep care and love for peter vs his fantastic self worth and daddy issues
anyways this is a howard stark hate account now
i am now accepting terms to call you people that aren't 'fuckers' or 'bastards'. personally i like baked beans. what are your thoughts?
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 24: Streetlamps
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunday, March 24th, 2018
4:39 AM
The Bronx, NY
The first thing Percy noticed upon stepping out the car was the smell.
Warm and metallic, strong enough to lay thick on his tongue. He has to stop for a second at the entrance to the alleyway to steady himself. Lee and Spencer had cordoned off the area, and Ross was sitting on the sidewalk next to a boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve, by Percy’s estimate.
Lee was at his side the moment he stepped into the alley. “The lights are out.” She opened with. “All down the street.”
“Shut off?”
She shakes her head. “Dead. It’s just like Spider-Man said—the lights are connected in parallel, and if this section of the grid was shut down, power would be out from here to Williamsbridge.” Lee cast a glance at the dark street behind them. “Dead.” She repeated.
On the sidewalk, he could hear Ross speaking to the witness, comforting and gently questioning. The boy’s voice was shaking, and Percy could feel the teartracks striping down his cheeks from where he was standing.
Blood pooled across the concrete, as if reaching outwards to the street. It was warm. The body hung limply from a fire escape, arms lashed to the railing above the head. Bare feet hung a meter above the ground, blood running freely down the skin in dark rivulets, collecting on the toes, and dripping on the ground.
Something in his nose burned.
He moved closer without even thinking, his feet moving of their own accord, stepping in between streams of blood like it was a second nature. His world has narrowed to a pinprick, the bloody carvings in front of him, hefted up by his own heartbeat and the currents of the river nearby.
Lee is saying something, he knows, but he can’t tear himself away, tracing every cut, every line and character, with his mind.
𐀂t𐀁f𐀁t𐀃 𐀆𐀃𐀬
He can hear the wind scraping over the buildings, whistling in between narrow alleys and the surface of the water. He feels it inside himself, through his arteries, wrapping around him. The blood on the ground feels familiar, in a way that's inexplicable and yet so known, and his headache returns in full force. He feels like he can’t breathe, like this is the first time he’s ever been able to. There’s something electric, something heavy, around them and through them and in them—
Lee’s hand is on his shoulder.
Percy takes a step back from the body, from the blood snaking outwards. He turns to her, and her hand falls, and he knows her face is carefully still, but there’s something racing behind her eyes.
“Have you and Neon looked at it?”
Lee shook her head. “We scanned it and took photos, but I made the call to wait for you before we got closer.” A long pause. She’s staring at him. “I sent him to keep watch with Dan for the time being.” So he didn’t have to stick around the scene longer than he had to went unsaid. Percy just nodded at her.
“The witness?”
“Traumatized.” Was all Lee said.
His own heart was thudding in his ears, the sound of the river nearby steadying him. “Get Neon and start on the scene. James can take his place on watch.”
“Yes, sir.” She said promptly. As he moved to the mouth of the alleyway, he heard her tap into her comm. “Neon, we’ve permission to begin.” A slight crackle, then his voice responding in affirmative.
The boy sitting on the curb was shaking. He was also leaning against Ross, who had settled a shock blanket over his shoulders. As Percy approached, the boy stared up at him, wide-eyed and teary. Percy crouched down. “My name’s Jackson.” He introduced. “You?”
“Dean.” The boy replied.
“How old are you, Dean?”
“Twelve.” He was spot on, then.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
The boy wetted chapped lips. “I—I was out on a walk. I’d,” He sniffs. “I’d gotten into a fight with my brother, and I needed some air. I was going down the street—”
“Which street?”
Dean pointed the opposite direction. “Rhinelander. I turned onto Hunt to stop at the store, and when I walked out, I saw all the lights down the street were off.” Here, he halted, looking away from Percy to stare down at the asphalt. “It felt weird, man. Bad.”
Ross’s heart kicked up. “Weird?” He echoed. Dean shook his head. “I don’t know. Just…weird. Like…” He clenches and unclenches his fist. “You ever feel like somebody's watching you?” His voice holds a touch of desperation, and Percy nods. “All the time.”
“It was like that, but…shit, it was worse. I felt all jumpy. But, I—” Another break, this time for him to take a steadying breath, “I started walking towards it. I don’t know why, it was dumb as hell, but I did.”
“And you saw the body.” Ross prompted gently. Dean nodded. “I ran back across the street and into the store, and I called the police.” He got out. Ross gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “You did good, kid.”
Dean nodded, but seemed to fold into himself. Percy stood and nodded at Ross. “Take him home,” And keep an eye on the house, and, for the love of the Gods, find out why a twelve year old was alone out here he urged silently. Ross nodded to the doublesided order, and began to coax Dean up.
His comm crackled to life. “Commander,” Dan’s voice filtered through. “All cameras I found nearby had gone dead. Closest I found is the convenience store Dean went into.”
Ross shut the door of his car after checking on Dean one last time. “Ace, what did I tell you about listening in through my phone.” He reprimanded as he walked around to the driver’s side.
A scoff. “If you didn’t want me to, don’t make it so easy.”
“Not the time.” Lee reminded them before Percy could even speak anything. Gods bless their pathologist, Percy thought, rubbing his temples. “Right,” Dan muttered. “I’ll start on the rest of the footage.”
Percy takes over lookout, leaning against the rough brick and letting his powers do the majority of the work, keeping tabs on the streets surrounding them. Nobody attempts to go through the blockades Bridgette had set up—not that there are many people out at this time, anyways.
Ross leaves first, Dean in the passenger seat, with a promise to send word once they drop the boy off. Mal is next, packing away the scanning equipment Spencer and Lee used, heading off to the Hub to meet with Dan and get the model of the scene rendered. He gives Bridgette her leave as well— “I’ll stick around with these two.” He promises, back into the alleyway where Lee and Spencer work. “Coordinate with the police, make sure nobody gets in.” She nods briskly, and she’s off.
Something lightens in his chest once the majority of his team is gone. Whatever’s in the air is still setting every nerve in his body alight, raising the hair on the back of his neck and speeding up his pulse. Everything about the area just seems incredibly wrong, in a way Percy is familiar with in the way sand slips through one's fingers.
It’s dangerous, it’s oppressive, and it feels alive. A part of him wants to tell Lee and Spencer to pack it up, to grab James from lookout and take them back to the Hub or the Tower or anywhere else, but he holds back.
Instead, he focuses on his partner’s heart from where he’s perched up on a roof across the street, watching over them. The strength of the rhythm is soothing, even now. Percy tips his head back against the brick, and, unwillingly, he begins to think of May Castellan.
Is she still making piles of peanut butter sandwiches and cookies, gallons of Kool-Aid that nobody will ever drink? Does Hermes ever check up on her? Does anyone?
It’s still in his mind, traced in blood and agony.
𐀂t𐀁f𐀁t𐀃 𐀆𐀃𐀬
He runs his hand over his face.
“You alright, love?” Bucky’s voice is gentle through their private line.
Percy sighs. “Should I be?”
A soft exhale in his ear. “Guess not.” He hears James shift, move to the other side of the roof to check the other street. “You haven’t been sleeping.”
“Yeah.” Percy blinks away the sounds of the river a few blocks away. “Weird dreams.”
“Weirder than normal?” There’s something tense in Bucky’s words.
“I think so.” Percy admits. “But I’m not sure how.”
𐀂t𐀁f𐀁t𐀃 𐀆𐀃𐀬
𐀂t𐀁f𐀁t𐀃 𐀆𐀃𐀬
𐀂t𐀁f𐀁t𐀃 𐀆𐀃𐀬
One of the things Percy loves the most about his boyfriend is how comfortable silence can be between them. Bucky doesn’t press, letting Percy drift to collect his own thoughts as he keeps tabs on the surrounding area.
Down the block, a woman walks two large dogs, and a young man sets out on a very early morning run. He hears one of the officers gently redirect them, and relaxes. Behind them, Lee quietly instructs Spencer. The two of them have a strange dynamic—Spencer is rather quiet, hesitant, and Lee is naturally rather forward and blunt. Anev’s betrayal had still been festering when Spencer had first joined, but, now that the two had spent more time around each other, Percy was confident in saying that Spencer had been integrated into the team rather well, pulled inwards mainly by Bridgette’s caring personality and Lee’s steady presence.
He lets their quiet chatter wash over him with the backdrop of his boyfriend’s heart and does his best to ignore how Dean’s tears were still wet on the pavement.
It’s always twelve, why is it always twelve? A faint whisper begs.
Sunday, March 24th, 2018
8:51 AM
The Hub, NY
Lee was bent over one of the tables when they walked in, her back turned to them as she hunched over her work. Spencer ushered them all in, pointing them in her general direction. They all settled in a loose circle, Spencer squishing in next to Lee. As soon as their forensic pathologist looked up, she began speaking. “It’s the same. It’s all exactly the same.”
Ross, from Bridgette’s phone, spoke up. “What?”
Lee tilted the screen so he could see from his car, still near Dean’s apartment building. “The rope used is the exact same. The cut across the throat is the same. The positioning is the same. This victim, like the last one, was in relatively poor condition with little in their stomach—likely homeless.” A pause. “And the lights.”
“Right—about that,” Dan opened his laptop and turned it to them. On it, the grainy security footage from a 24-hour convenience store was displayed. A figure, whom they quickly recognized as Dean, walked in. He walked out of view a few times as he went down the aisles, but Dan didn’t switch cameras, keeping the glass door and windows on the screen.
A few seconds pass.
Beyond the glass, a light in the distance flickers away into darkness.
“That’s the streetlights going out.” Dan narrated.
Dean walked up to the counter and paid. Then, he lingered for a moment longer, digging in his coat pockets for a pair of earbuds. He paused, put his snacks in the crook of his arm, and untangled the wires. Then, he plugged them into his phone, slid it into his coat, and put his earbuds in. He opened his bag of chips, nodded to the cashier, and walked out of the store.
“And that’s him leaving.” Dan finished.
He looks up at the rest of them, his hands tight on the edge of the desk. “If Dean hadn’t done that, I think he’d be dead right now.”
The room went silent.
Lee looked up from her microscope, her face tight. “You’re probably right. Estimated time of death lines up. When Dean saw her…” A breath. “She’d just been killed. Just.”
“Shit,” Ross murmured. “That close?”
Spencer nodded gravely. “That close.”
“That’s not all,” Dan continues. He switches screens, this one displaying the street right outside the store. The far right side of the screen is dark—the direction of the alley.
Dean shoulders the door open and steps out onto the sidewalk. He’s only outside for a second when he begins to look around, his shoulders climbing up to his ears as he scans the streets, back stiff and fists clenched. He turns, looking down the street, and stops cold. His hand falls limp, and his chip bag falls to the ground. There’s not even a hint of expression on his face—it’s completely slack.
The boy takes his earbuds out, dropping them carelessly and letting them dangle from his pocket. Then, he begins to walk out of view towards the dark portion of the street.
Dan forwards the video a few minutes, a heavy quiet reigning, sans Bucky quietly narrating for Percy, whose eyes are dark.
Dean is sprinting, tearing across the concrete and bursting into the store. The camera inside shows the cashier try to talk to him, but he just pulls out his phone and dials. There’s no audio, but they can see the woman behind the counter pale.
Dan hits a key, and an audio recording is pulled up.
“911, what’s your emergency?” The operator’s smooth voice asks.
“Uhm,” Dean is breathing quick and sharp. “I—I think someone’s been killed.”
“Killed? Are you safe right now?”
“Yeah, I think. I’m—I’m in a store. But—the, it—she was tied to a fucking fire escape, and they fucking mauled her, there’s something carved into her stomach, and it’s so fucking dark, man, the lights are all out—” He rambles.
A barely audible click. “You said you’re in a store?” It’s not the operator anymore—Dan’s voice comes through the line. “Can you lock the door?”
Further from the speaker, “Lock the doors.” The quiet, panicked agreement from the cashier. “They’re locked.”
“Good job. Okay, can you tell me where you are?” Dan asks, though they know it’s all just a formality. Dean rattles off the address. “We’ll have a unit there soon. Stay on the line, alright?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean whispers quickly.
“Can you tell me more about what you saw?”
“All the lights on the street were off, and I—I walked past this alley, and I only saw it for a second—God, there was so much blood.” Dean gets out. “She was just hanging there.”
Dan cuts off the recording, and it’s suddenly apparent how silent everything is in the lab. “I think Dean is very lucky to be alive.” He says finally.
Mal is staring intently at the tabletop, her hands clenched tightly. “I don’t get it.” She whispers. “I just—” She deflates, pressing her forehead into the wood. Bridgette gently pats her on the back. “We’ll figure it out.” She swears.
Spencer is nodding. “Lee and I still have tests to run. A lot more to learn.” He says encouragingly. “It’ll be alright.”
Only the clicking of Dan’s keyboard and Lee’s use of the microscope in front of her breaks up the stillness that has fallen over. Eventually, Percy exhales raggedly, standing up straight. “You’ve all been cheated out of some sleep. Finish up and go home.” He says, firm but not unkind.
Nobody argues.
Percy stays the latest, and the second he takes off his glasses, Bucky wants to wince at the bruise-like circles under his eyes. He raps his knuckles on the doorframe of Percy’s office, and his boyfriend gives him a tired smile. “Hey,”
He drifts inside, rounding the desk and draping an arm over Percy, who leans against his chest. Bucky runs a hand through his hair, nails lightly scratching at his scalp. “You think someone left those for you.” He finally said.
His boyfriend’s eyes slip shut. “The first one… Pit-Walker could refer to four people. Two are dead, one spends the majority of his time in the Underworld, and then there’s me.” Bucky runs the pad of his thumb across Percy’s temple. “That’s what I was called, down there. Out of the four, I’m the only one that spent months down there. That had to really live down there.” There’s something strained, something pained in his voice, and Bucky’s arm around him tightens.
“It…I’m not sure what language it was written in. But…James, I understood it. I don’t know why. I just knew, and—” He cuts himself off. “I need to tell you something.”
Bucky’s hand slides down to cup his face. “Okay,” He says. “Tell me.”
His boyfriend’s face is searching, almost, before he begins to speak. “I did a lot of bad things in the Pit.” Percy says, something hollow in his words. “I slaughtered my way straight to the heart of it. Any monster I came across, I hurt, and, somewhere along the way, I began to meet things down there other than monsters.”
Outside, the clouds are rolling, brewing, shoving up against each other in a crowded sky.
“Protogenoi.” The word is like a gunshot. It feels heavy. “The primordials, older than the Titans and Giants combined. The first beings alive. Sentient aspects of the universe itself. A lot of them lived down there. One of them was Akhlys.” There’s something cold settling into the room. “The Protogenos of Misery and Poison.”
Bucky could feel how deliberately Percy breathed, forcing himself in a steady rhythm. There’s a tremble in his shoulders. “She attacked me, said she wanted to drown me in my own misery after I refused to kill myself.”
Something leaden rests in Bucky’s chest.
“I killed her.”
He swears he can hear wind, cold as ice, beyond the four walls around them. Percy’s skin is hot enough to almost burn, and his voice is thick.
“I suffocated her in her own poison, and I got myself out of that fucking Pit. I didn’t tell anybody what I did. My father is the only one who knows, only because he saw me…he saw me use poison like that. No other child of his can do that, he said.” Percy blinked. His eyes were damp. “Millions of years, and I’m the first one fucked up enough to do it.”
“Oh, baby.” Bucky’s words were beaten out of him. “Percy, love, that’s—you’re not fucked up. You were in an impossible situation—you, you were a kid.”
Percy is tugging at the streak of gray in his hair. “Nobody else should know, James. My father would never tell anyone. The other Gods wouldn’t react well. They get twitchy around me. Maybe he’s ashamed, too.” He shook his head. “Nobody else should know, but,” Percy tilts his head up so Bucky can see his face. His eyes, beautiful green, are clouded over with a rolling storm, tears leaking down his cheeks like rainwater. “James, the body had
God-Killer
carved into it.”
Notes:
poor dean lmao
boy was just trying to get a snack :(lee and spencer are literal embodiments of the red string conspiracy board meme
every time bucky calls percy a petname i take physical damage
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 25: Ancient Patterns
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunday, March 24th, 2018
12:05 PM
Wakandan Royal Palace, Wakanda
The palace had been silent for a long time.
It had been an abrupt change, but a foreseeable one all the same. The hush that had fallen over them as they watched President Landry fall apart on live television had not only been instant, but lingering. That had been in September, and they were now on the tail end of March.
Sam had seen it coming, since Barnes left. The moment he’d walked into the common room with a resolute look in his eyes, Sam had known it was coming. Their peace, if that’s what it could be called, was already fragile, and it buckled and bowed under the weight of Barnes’s absence. Steve, following their argument, had retreated into himself. Natasha and Clint, similarly, had pulled back, secluding themselves in one of their rooms. Maximoff, riding waves of ever-changing anger and petulance, hadn’t said much to any of them, not even Steve, after he’d defended Tony at Barnes’s ill-fated Council testimony.
Then, Natasha had left as well. It hadn’t been as red-hot as when Barnes did, but it was heavy all the same. Clint was thinking of jumping ship, as well. He hadn’t said anything about it, but Sam could tell. He could see it in his eyes when he wandered out of his room—just off the phone with Natasha, obvious to Sam and nobody else—, when he stared out the windows, as if he could find a homestead farm in Iowa if he looked long enough. He’d spoken to Lang, once. Sam hadn’t meant to overhear, but it was impossible to ignore. It had been over two years since Leipzig, and Lang was due to be out of house arrest in two months—Sam wasn’t sure how he’d spoken to Clint without violating the terms of it.
(A truth that even Sam Wilson missed: The Commander of the WSC, despite his looming reputation, was kind. He was the sort of man that wanted Clint Barton home with his family, with his kids. The Commander was harsh at times, but there was little of more importance to him than family.)
(A second truth, perhaps not missed by Sam Wilson, but purposefully not considered out of respect for his teammate’s privacy: Natasha Romanoff seeked redemption. Natasha Romanoff put her heart and soul into making amends. Natasha Romanoff always knew the value of trust, but very recently began to learn what to do with it.)
(A third truth, one that Sam Wilson would not even begin to guess: Natasha Romanoff approached the Commander with a relayed request, the words of a man that wanted to go home.)
(Finally, a last truth. This one, however, as obvious as daylight to Sam Wilson: Natasha Romanoff cared deeply for Clint Barton. This last truth allowed Sam some assumptions, which was enough for him. It wasn’t his business, anyways.
…But it did bring back memories, hazy Louisiana summers. Sarah Wilson, holding the hands of tiny AJ and Cass Wilson.)
So, yes, Sam had seen this coming, bolstered by the long months without Barnes, the way Maximoff’s lips curled at a smiling Steve as he was staring at Tony Stark laughing in President Landry’s face, Natasha’s soft disappearance.
Clint would leave. Sam would leave.
(And he hoped to God, Steve would leave too.)
Sam wouldn’t say they were falling apart—he thinks they’d fallen apart the moment they stepped foot in Leipzig. They were only just noticing, now.
He turned his attention to the television, reaching for the remote and unmuting it. On the screen, a brightly colored figure hung from a streetlamp, making up for a lack of facial expression by gesturing wildly with his hands as he relayed information to the police. Twenty feet away, Iron Man was moving a piece of rubble, the fallen wall of a bank. The Vision floated nearby, and Natasha Romanoff, face bare and a soft smile curling on her lips, helped a man up.
(Behind the camera, a team of eight—a blonde that would make Thor crane his neck up, a lovely-looking Colombian woman, a Thai man and an Inuk woman playing rock, paper, scissors, and a man with shockingly red hair smiling shyly as he spoke to a Chinese man in a wheelchair, all watched over by a man with the ocean in his eyes. And, behind him, a man of vibranium and bone, suffering and love, watched over him.)
“—another violent crime committed, once more, by an Enhanced individual.” A man said, a windbreaker with his studio’s logo on the chest. “Do you have a statement regarding these alarming statistics?”
Spider-Man leaned into the microphone, making sure his words were not just audible, but heard through his mask. “They’re not alarming. They’re the result of persecution, oppression and discrimination. What is alarming, however, is your sad attempt at fear mongering. Have a lovely day.”
Sam barked out a laugh. The kid was a little shit, that was for sure, but he was undoubtedly good, truly good, in a way that seemed to be in very short supply these days.
Sunday, March 24th, 2018
11:05 AM
Stark Tower, NY
God-Killer.
Bucky flipped the page of the book he hadn’t been reading for a while, now. He thought of Poseidon, the oppressive nature of the God’s very presence, the way the Earth trembled with his rage and the rivers frothed with the mere raise of his voice. An eternal force of nature that masquerades as a man.
Gods can bleed.
Gods can die.
Poseidon was the ancient oceans, the shift of the currents and the behemoth of a tidal wave, and Percy was the roaring of the life that ran in their veins, the rush of ichor and blood that were all the same to him. They bled different colors, but both gold and crimson both bowed to Percy, in the end.
Poseidon was a God, but Bucky was becoming convinced that Percy had become something more. Perhaps his power really had nothing to do with it. It was a possibility Bucky had considered, had been considering for the past few hours, that maybe the Gods were never really all that powerful. Maybe their lives were not truly eternal, but the fear they created had, so far, been, which was almost the same thing. Maybe Percy’s control had nothing to do with it, and his refusal to let himself be cowed by them had everything to do with it.
The more Bucky thought on it, the stronger his resolve became; Percy Jackson was not special because he could command the oceans, split open the earth, kick up a hurricane, set off a volcano, or use arteries and veins like the strings of a marionette. Percy Jackson was special because he had strength of character, because he was brave, because he was kind and had a backbone of steel. Percy Jackson was special because he loved people enough to want the best for them all.
Bucky closed his book.
It was still raining out—not like the sudden surge of earlier, flooding the ill-equipped drainage system, but a steady, constant downpour. The sky was a murky gray, a solid overlay atop the once blue sky. In the adjacent room, Percy shifted in his sleep, murmuring something soft and unintelligible. Bucky looks once more at the window, down at the city, before closing the curtains and going to sit on the bed, careful not to disturb Percy. He’s curled up on his side, hair hanging in his face. Percy looks peaceful like this, lashes brushing his cheeks, face slack, save for the occasional twitch of his face—something Bucky has learned in quite normal as he floats in and out of dreams, of memory and prophecy (and a meadow, deep in Elysium, though the words have never left neither of the occupant’s lips. This was something for them.)
Gently, Bucky brushes his thumb across his cheek, over the dark, bruise-purple circles beneath his eyes. He’s drawn back to a year ago, sitting on the couch with Percy asleep against his shoulder. Everything had been a haze, memories fake and all too real, a blur of reality and nightmare. Bucky still felt Percy’s hands on his shoulders, pulling him inside and reassuring him through yawns, sticking close to him even though it was the middle of the night. It had been one of the first times Bucky had felt truly at peace in the Tower, sandwiched between Percy and Lea.
Outside, the rain continues, the soft plink of drops against the windowpane overlapping into a track of white noise. Bucky leans back against the headboard, exhaling. He lets himself drift, not through sleep but through thoughts, ones he hasn’t let consume him in some time.
He thinks of Steve.
A part of him aches for his best friend. Another wonders if he still is his best friend.
Steve had hurt him. Another one of Tony Stark’s broken toys, he’d called him. Bucky could still hear it, sometimes. Despite what one may think, it was not the broken part of that sentence that had hurt the most. It was the insinuation that he was now just another part of another man’s collection, like he’d just switched hands from Vasily Karpov to Tony Stark, like the situations were comparable in the slightest. As if Bucky wanting to get better, to prove to himself that he was salvageable, was something wrong.
He’d gone to Tony Stark to be saved, but Tony Stark hadn’t saved him. Shuri hadn’t saved him, Ayo hadn’t saved him, Steve hadn’t saved him, not even Percy had saved him. They’d led him to it, undoubtedly, but only one that could truly save him was himself.
And he had.
The Winter Soldier was dead, buried underneath the ice and snow. Bucky had clawed his way through BARF sessions, faced every single grotesque and horrifying thing he’d done, sat in that goddamn fucking chair again, all so he could be whole, and Steve had just brushed all that aside as if it wasn’t Bucky’s only option.
On the other hand, Steve hadn’t known. Steve hadn’t known what he’d have to do, what he’d have to relive. He…he didn’t get it, and Bucky never spoke about it while in Wakanda, and Steve had never asked, so he hadn’t the slightest of just how desperate Bucky was.
Bucky knew that he’d see Steve again. He wanted to see Steve again as he was now, free. He’d built a life for himself, and he wanted Steve to be a part of that, but he knew that wasn’t possible unless his stubborn, stubborn friend could admit he’d been wrong. For once, Steve needed to stop planting his feet and refusing to budge. He needed to accept that Bucky was different, that it had been eighty years since Steve Roger’s best friend had been fully alive.
SWORD, Tony and Peter, Natasha…all parts of his new life that Steve would have to accept. Percy.
Bucky was the most worried about that one.
Percy, despite his years at SHIELD, was straightforward with his emotions. He didn’t like Steve, and would undoubtedly tell him to his face. However, he knew that Percy would try and at least get on decent terms with Steve, for Bucky’s sake. Percy was good like that. Oddly enough, Bucky was actually almost looking forward to seeing how that conversation would go. Shuri had told him what Percy had said to her and T’Challa about Tony—how blunt he’d been, reminding the King what he’d done and simply asking why. Shuri had said it was terrifying. Bucky didn’t doubt it.
Next to him, Percy exhaled softly in his sleep. His face was still slack, calm and expressionless. Bucky looked at him a moment longer, unsure of what exactly was holding his attention. Then, he noticed Percy’s lips were moving, forming soundless words. Talking in his sleep wasn’t exactly new for Percy—it wasn’t uncommon for Bucky to catch stray words, typically in English, sometimes in Portuguese or Hawaiian (which he’d been slowly learning by just association), or, rarely, in some deeply old form of Greek or Latin, which Bucky had no hope at. He could usually recognize which was which, at the very least.
Bucky watched him for a moment more, trying to at least guess which one his boyfriend’s subconscious had chosen. A minute passed, then two more, and Bucky had nothing. What had once been soundless had become a soft whisper, steady and spaced out evenly, unlike dialogue or a stream of consciousness like usual.
Intrigued, Bucky sit patiently and listens. It goes on for a few more minutes, though it’s likely that it had been going on for a while before he’d taken notice, as well. Towards the end, Percy seems to switch to English.
Bucky’s brow furrows as he listens. He almost says something, wakes Percy, but stops himself. It doesn’t appear to be a nightmare, and Percy’s dreams are often important. Instead, he resigns himself to wait and ask once Percy wakes up.
It’s another few minutes of sitting back and listening to the rain, overlapped by Percy’s soft whisper, until his voice breaks off, sudden and sharp. Just for a second, his face goes tight, almost like he flinches in his sleep. Then, he shifts and slowly opens his eyes. Percy rolls his shoulders and buries his face in his pillow.
“Hello to you, too.” Bucky holds back a smile at Percy’s answering groan. “What time is it?”
Bucky rolls his eyes, even as he adjusts the blanket over Percy’s shoulders. “It’s the middle of the afternoon, sleeping beauty. You said something about a nap, like, two hours ago, and I found you face-down on the mattress.”
Percy groans again, muffled into the pillow, and Bucky laughs. “You were sleep-talking, too—haven’t done that in a while. Weird dream?”
His boyfriend hums, rolling over onto his side so he can curl into Bucky’s side, face against his thigh. “Mm, I guess.” His nose scrunches. “Don’t really remember.”
That makes Bucky pause. “Unusual, for you.” He comments.
Percy yawns. “I guess, yeah. Did I say anything weird?”
Bucky looks down at him. “I don’t think it was in English. I couldn’t make sense of it, so I’m assuming Greek or Latin. English, at the end, though.” He takes in Percy’s tired face for a second longer. “Does the name William Kelly mean anything to you?”
Percy blinks, but it looks more like he’s squeezing his eyes shut. “William Kelley?” He repeats. His face does something funny— closing off for a second, shuttering like a camera, before he hisses and brings a hand to his temple. Wordlessly, Bucky reaches for the Advil on their nightstand and hands it to Percy, He takes two and swallows them dry.
“Kelley…Kelley…” Percy’s mouth twists. “Yeah, yes, That sounds familiar. I don’t—” He breaks off, looking unhappy. “Anything else?”
Bucky thinks for a moment. “You’re not allowed to make fun of me for my pronunciation.” Tiredly, Percy nods. “Cross my heart.”
The first few, Bucky muddles through with no recognition from Percy. “Am-phi-mar-us,” He says haltingly. “Sy-le-us, Di—Di-cae-us—”
“ Συλεύς, Δίκαιος” Percy echoes. He squeezes his eyes shut again. “Any more?”
“Neleus, Megareus. Sallamah Umm Abdallah. Möngke, Martin Hughes.” He recites carefully. Bucky watches Percy’s face carefully, sees the slow realization.
“Syleus, Dicaeus, Neleus, and Megareus all lived in Greece during the height of the Gods’ power. None made it past 22. Sallamah Umm Abdallah lived in the Abbasid Caliphate during its golden age. She made it to 24. Möngke was part of the Mongol Empire at its largest. Dead at 21. Martin Hughes, the US in the Roaring 20s. Barely made it past 18.” Percy recites it easily. As soon as he finishes speaking, he looks taken aback. Like it’s dragged out of him, he continues. “William Kelley. He fought in World War II. He died in 1943 at age 19.” Abruptly, he turns to Bucky, something frantic stifled in his voice. “I was just…listing names?”
Bucky’s mouth is dry. “A lot of them. Way more than I caught.”
Percy chews on his lower lip, harsh enough Bucky is almost worried he’ll break skin.
“Percy, what…who are they? Why do you know them?”
“I…I don’t know. I’ve never heard their names before. But—” He cuts himself off. “They were demigods. Demigod children of Poseidon.” Percy’s hands curl into fists, nails digging into his palms, before methodically uncurling. Throughout their conversation, it seems like Percy has drifted further and further away, until he’s barely tethered. There's a deep furrow in his brow, confusion on his face, as if he, too, hasn't the slightest as to why he knows any of what he's saying. “William Kelley was—he was supposed to be the last of Poseidon’s mortal children.”
The oath, Bucky recognizes bleakly. “But then—”
“Me.” Percy finishes. Bucky can hear every inhale and exhale, how his chest rises and his fingers dig into the comforter. “Twenty-six years old. Older than any of them ever got to be.”
Bucky’s hatred for the Gods is like the tides, made of reliable highs and lows. It’s hard to hate them constantly, especially since so many of the things they’ve caused Bucky has just accepted as part of Percy. When he sees the scars that wrap around his skin, the first thing Bucky thinks isn’t how he hates those who caused them, but how Percy takes his breath away every time Bucky sees him, how all-consuming the urge to press his lips to every single one of them is. When Percy wakes in the night, chest heaving and shoulders shaking, Bucky’s first instinct isn’t to curse the Olympians, but to hold his boyfriend and tell him how much he loves him. While he helps Percy with his wrist braces, he doesn’t hate Atlas with all his heart—he just kisses Percy’s pulse point before tightening the straps. Bucky hates the Gods, but all that anger and vitriol doesn’t hold a candle to the love that consumes him for Percy.
Every now and then, though, there is a wave that overtakes the tides. The water draws back, shocked and still, before it comes crashing onto shore, past the beach and inland. This is one of those moments. The way Bucky feels right now, clenching his jaw enough to ache, is that tidal wave.
Thousands of years—beyond that, most likely—and none of Poseidon’s mortal children had gotten a single taste of growing old. William Kelley, nineteen years old. Bucky had been twenty-five when he’d been drafted. He would say that was far too young, but that implied there was such a thing as old enough to fight like that, but…at least Bucky had gotten a small taste of life before he’d gone. William Kelley hadn’t even been old enough to have a proper drink. Abruptly, Bucky realizes that, somewhere along the lines, the two of them could have crossed paths, somewhere in 1943. The thought makes his head hurt. Would he have been like Percy? Wild hair and wilder eyes, a smile that promised trouble and kindness and home, the ever-present scent of the sea air?
Nineteen years old. Was it the War? Or was William Kelley fighting on multiple fronts, the Axis Powers and whatever had crawled its way out of Hell to come for him? Had he been fighting a war since he was born, because he was born, and had been forced into another the second he’d turned of age?
Something well beyond fear forms in his chest. Fear is something one has of the dark, of spiders, heights, and public speaking. What he feels now, gnawing and growing inside him, he has no word for. It’s like a great shadow looming over him, looking down and biding its time. It’s the kind of thing Bucky can’t do anything about.
Percy’s older than any of them had ever gotten to be.
Bucky knew, to a certain extent, that Percy was considered old for a demigod. Hanover had still called him kid when she’d first met him, he wasn’t even thirty yet, but he was an anomaly in how long he’d lasted. God, twenty-six.
Terror doesn’t feel strong enough. Horror is close. What wraps around him, resting on his shoulders and pressing down on his lungs, is nameless. It’s a sort of desperation, as if he’s become a wild animal, backed into a corner, starving.The mere idea that—that Percy, Percy, is breaking an ancient pattern simply by being alive…
“Why am I different?” Percy rasped out. “What—what makes me—- how am I still alive? Why am I, when not a single one of them got to be?”
In that moment, Bucky wished for nothing more than to be able to answer Percy’s question, but he knew he’d never be able to. In the end of it all, Bucky was still just a man, one without a single grasp on the grand scheme of Fate. He just shook his head. “It doesn’t fucking matter as long as you keep doing it.” His voice is horribly weak. It seems to pull Percy out of his head, because he turns towards him, reaching out. “No, no, you’re right. It doesn’t matter.” He agrees, shaking his head. “I’ll be different.”
“Good.” Bucky gets out, desperate and shaken and something. “You need to be different.”
It’s incredibly weak, but Percy smiles at him. “I will. Swear it.”
Outside, thunder rolls.
It is not that of Zeus, nor of the Styx.
Something else.
Notes:
in case you missed it, i fucking love sam wilson
so i like. majorly fucked with history just a little. im going with the assumption that, since the gods move with the 'light of civilization' a lot of times they're in the biggest (either economically or literally) empire or nation at any given time. Möngke is an old Mongolian name (not Möngke Khan, btw, but a completely different guy). Sallamah Umm Abdallah was a real person, but the timeline and stuff I made up is 100% false, i just wanted to snatch somebody from the Caliphate from around this time. The Mongolian Empire and the Abbasid Caliphate were both the largest empires of their time.
Also, the WWII thing...i'm aware that its canon that WWII was a conflict between Zeus and Poseidon vs Hades, but i am Not A Fan of the implications of wtf Hades was apparently up to in Germany...so...I changed it. I know it probably wasn't written with that intention, but it still bothers me, so. In my version, Hades, Zeus, and Poseidon were in conflict with one another, but not actively fighting. More of a Cold War, than anything. However, their demigod children, from many nations, got pulled into the war. On multiple occasions, children of the Big Three faced off on opposite sides of the battlefield, and the results were...not pretty. This happened multiple times, and was already on top of the massive deathcount of mortals, other demigods, and legacies, so the Three swore their oath.
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 26: The Meadow
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday, March 29th, 2018
11:56 PM
Queens, NY
Spider-Man breathed in the cold air, the wind rushing against blue-and-red blend, executing an effortless flip hundreds of feet above the streets. He felt truly alive like this, the air rushing in his ears as he swung.
He briefly landed atop a building, listening to the surrounding area. It didn’t take long for him to hear something concerning—it never really did. Peter shot a web and yanked himself once more into the skyline, soaring over a deli and a small boutique, landing a fire escape soundlessly. Three teens were backed up against the wall below, bags held tight to their chests as a pair advanced on them.
“Hand over the bag and we’ll make this easier on you.” The man on the left said. The soft
shink
of a switchblade met Peter’s ears, and he waited no more. A web shot out and wrapped around his hands, trapping his fingers around the handle and coating the blade.
“Hey, there,” Peter said from above.
“Shit!” The man’s partner yelled, head snapping up to see him. Peter raised his other arm to trap him, but, before either him or the partner could make a move, the girl on the left raised her arm and unloaded a canister of pepper spray into his face. He cried out, falling to his knees. The girl on the right kicked him in the ribs. Peter swiftly webbed him to the opposite wall, sticking him securely to the concrete, then put the first man next to him after confiscating his switchblade.
His eyes were screwed shut, face red and tears streaming down his face. “You bitch!” He roared blindly.
Peter just rolled his eyes and shot a web at his hands, too. “Don’t touch your eyes, you’ll make it worse.” He reprimanded.
“Law enforcement en route. I have informed them of the need for medical assistance, as well.” Karen reported in his ear.
“Thanks, Karen.” He turned to the trio. “Are you three all right?”
The boy on the right gave him a shaky smile. “I think we’ve been better.” The girls—Pepper Spray and Kick, he mentally dubbed them—gave him matching thumbs up. Kick slung an arm around the boy’s shoulder. “See, Connor, this is why you need a big strong man like us or Spidey, over here, to keep you safe.”
Connor turned beet red and ducked his head. He was smiling. “Fuck you.”
Pepper Spray laughed, overtop the one of the would-be-muggers still groaning in pain against the wall. “You love us.”
He turned even redder, which Peter honestly didn’t think was possible. The two girls were smiling at eachother over his ducked head. Ooh, drama.
Peter cleared his throat after a moment. “NYPD is on their way. I’ll stick around the area for a bit, if you guys don’t mind.” Pulled out of their little moment, the trio looked towards him. “Sure thing. Thanks, Spidey.” Connor said sincerely, echoed by his companions.
“Always happy to help.”
Peter waited with them for a few minutes before a squad car rolled up. Once he was sure everything was taken care of—and had spoken to the EMT that had been called to help flush out the pepper spray—he gave the three teens a quick wave and swung up back onto the rooftop. Then, he gave two tourists directions and walked a group home. Afterwards, he stopped and got a hot chocolate from a small corner store, taking his purchase up to a rooftop. He sat against the roof access door, tucked away in the shadows under some scaffolding.
“In the clear?” He asked.
A pause. Then, “Yes, Peter. No recording devices of any kind have been detected within range.” Spider-Man took another moment to look around, going quiet and straining his ears. Satisfied to find nobody, he pulled his mask up, just enough to expose his chin and mouth so he could take a sip of his drink.
The city noise below blending into one track of comforting, overlapped static, a faint buzz that warmed him just as much as the cup he held in between his hands. “Thanks, Karen. Anything interesting so far?”
His AI hummed softly in his ear as she collected data. “There has been an attempted robbery in Elmhurst, but the owner of the store attacked and restrained the assailant before much progress could be made. The NYPD has already arrived. Similarly, a home invasion was quite poorly attempted in Glendale. Unfortunately for the would-be-thief, this particular family had a hobby of taking in shelter dogs.” Another pause. “Two Rottweilers and a very, very vicious Pomeranian.”
Peter sucked in some air through his teeth. “Yikes.”
“Indeed. Other than that, it seems to be a relatively quiet night.” She reported.
He nodded along. “Alright. Thank you, Karen.”
“My pleasure.”
He took another sip.
“...MJ’s texts have increased 5.2% since last month.”
Peter choked. “Karen,” He got out.
“Additionally, she has initiated conversations unrelated to your schoolwork six more times than previous.” The AI continued on.
“Karen, I am begging you.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, “According to the WikiHow article 15 Questions Girls Ask when They’re Into You, MJ—”
“Stop,” He wheezed. “Karen, please,”
She huffed. “All of my data points to—” She cut herself off. “Detecting an unknown energy spike three blocks away.” A pause. “One block. A hundred feet. Fifty.”
Peter shot upright, abandoning his drink. His spidey-sense buzzed impatiently as he spun around, eyes scanning over every inch of the rooftop. This feeling was completely foreign to him—unlike the sudden pinch of impending gunfire, the icy feeling of being watched. What he was submerged into currently was like firecrackers, a mouthful of PopRocks, crackling and sparking.
“Right in front of you, Peter.” Karen warned. “Shall I send out an SOS to Dr. Stark?”
He identified the spot. Like she’d said, it was just a few feet in front of him, and he backed up. “...Alert him, but don’t send out an SOS. This might not be…bad.” He said clumsily. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel malevolent, at the very least. Just strange.”
“Very well, Peter. I shall also have Dr. Stark get Commander Jackson’s attention, as well, considering that this is a foreign energy to me.”
Peter didn’t respond. A dozen feet away, a single spark went off mid-air. It reminded him of those small sparklers May had bought for the Fourth of July, the hand-held ones that the neighborhood kids ran around with. The spark grew in front of him, orange light illuminating the dark rooftop. It swirled, churning and rotating as it grew, tiny embers hitting the ground and disappearing instantly. Peter’s ears popped, the odd feeling growing. He took another step back, lowering himself into a familiar stance, tense and waiting.
The sparks turned into a circle, about the size of his head, before further expanding, still swirling and crackling, until it was taller than him. He squinted as it grew, staring through it and seeing something that was decidedly not the cityscape on the other side. It was dark, but there were candles lit in the background, and what looked like a stack of books on the desk. Spider-Man moved to take a step to the side, to move around the back and investigate whatever this was, but he was halted by the portal—what else could it be, really—seemingly finishing its growth.
A man stepped out, lowering a raised palm. Peter caught a glint of something golden around two of his fingers—a ring? The man came to stand on the rooftop, backlit by the golden glow of the portal. He was dressed oddly, in blue robes with a rich scarlet cloak over his shoulders. He was graying slightly at the temples, and his eyes were sharp.
Peter eyed him for a long moment. “Are you one of Percy’s?” He asked vaguely—cautiously.
The man regarded him with a raised brow. “Percy?” He repeated. He shook his head. “My name is Dr. Stephen Strange, and I am the Sorcerer Supreme, protector of the New York Sanctum.”
Breathing deeply, Peter let his senses take over. The prickling sensation of whatever magic this man—Strange, a fitting name—had just done was slowly fading. A low hum was present of his sixth sense, ebbing and flowing in tune with the rustle of Strange’s scarlet cloak. He was dangerous, that was certain, but, at the moment, he did not appear to be dangerous to Peter. However, he was still dealing with a stranger with unknown magical abilities. Peter looked at him once more. Strange stood with good posture, a straight spine and strong shoulders, no visible slouch. He wasn’t tense, nor was he relaxed—just expectant, looking at Peter. His eyes were intelligent, sharp and dark in a way that almost reminded him of Mr. Stark. Then, he noticed something else—Strange was watching him just as cautiously as Peter was watching him.
If that was the case, if Strange was wary of him too, then whatever he needed must be significant enough that the potential of whatever he thought Peter had to offer outweighed the risk. Curiosity momentarily—very, very momentarily—sated, Peter grinned at the man. “What can I do for you, Dr. Stephen Strange?”
Briefly, surprise flickered across the face. He likely hadn’t expected Peter to be so accommodating. “I need to speak with you about the bodies.”
He didn’t have to specify which ones. Peter’s smile dropped.
Peter said nothing, watching Strange with narrowed eyes. The man continued. “The Sanctum can tell that there’s something off, and I have made an effort to look into it both times, and, both times, I was led to a crime scene being attended to by a group of people who most certainly were not police officers.” Strange says. “A simple spell revealed that you, and another vigilante, were the ones to happen across the first one in the park, and those same people soon followed to clean it up.”
Peter tries not to think about it. He swears, sometimes, he can still smell the blood. Taste it on his tongue, like MJ’s and Ned’s and all his other friends, combined with ash and dust, almost buried beneath Midtown High, like that man in the alleyway, Peter’s knuckles against his face again and again and again, like lifting rubble in a crater in Ontario and finding Percy’s corpse—
“And?” Peter said faintly.
Strange gave him a shrewd glance. “I’d really rather not approach the Devil about this matter, but it’s quite important I need to speak to whomever has been cleaning up these crime scenes. You, Spider-Man, are my best lead.”
Behind the mask, Peter clenches his jaw. “Give me one good reason.”
“It’s urgent.” Is all Strange says.
Suddenly annoyed, Peter crosses his arms. “I said good.”
Strange’s face tightens. He keeps silent for a moment, staring at Peter. Strange breaks first. (Peter almost wishes he hadn’t, hadn’t said anything, hadn’t approached him—)
“It's about the scenes.” He says begrudgingly. “If I am right…then everything is much worse than we thought.”
He was in the meadow again.
The grass was long, tickling his nose as he laid on his back, hands behind his head. It was a bit cloudy—rare, for Elysium. The wind was warm, carrying the scents of the ripening fruit trees near the river’s edge.
Bare feet over the grass, the softest vibrations under Percy’s fingertips.
“It’s been a while,” Annabeth opened with, dropping down next to him. Her hair was in two braids, running down to her shoulder blades. Silena’s work, Percy would guess. Even after all this time, Annabeth had never had much patience for doing her own hair.
The thought of Silena made something in his chest tighten, just like it always did. Annabeth spoke of her—her, Beckendorf, Castor, Lee Fletcher, Michael Yew, even Ethan Nakamura. Not Bianca, who was reborn, nor Zoe, who lived on in the stars above.
Not Luke.
He’d said he was going for rebirth. Percy had never found it within himself to ask Annabeth about him.
Percy couldn’t talk to any of them. Just Annabeth. They’d tried, once, to bring Beckendorf and Silena to the meadow. According to them, after they’d failed, it was like Annabeth had simply disappeared while walking towards Percy—not that they could see him, or even the meadow where they always met.
As a consequence, Annabeth almost always came bearing news of their friends. Beckendorf had perfected his scone recipe. Lee and Michael had a vicious debate about freeform poetry. Ethan was an absolute monster at card games.
Hearing about them, second hand, was better than nothing, but it still made his heart throb in his chest, to know that they were all so close, yet they couldn’t be further.
“I guess it has.” Percy replied after a moment.
Without trying, he knew she was looking him over. She did it every time she saw him—it was out of care, so he didn’t mind. The first few times, he knew she was looking at the burns across his eyes. Then the new calluses on his hands from the HSRD and how much taller he’d gotten, then the bullet wounds from SHIELD and her little giggles when she caught him when he hadn’t recently shaved. To this day, she still complained that he’d outgrown his acne.
(She’d also lamented the end of his voice cracks. He’d just given her a dry look. “Annie, I’m twenty-five.”)
She sat down next to him in the grass, told him about what everybody was up to, then prodded him with her elbow. “What’s been going on at your end? You look like shit.”
He exhaled deeply. “Thanks.”
Annabeth had just shrugged. “It’s true. What’s going on?”
Abruptly, Percy realized he had no idea when to start. It seemed like so long since he’d last spoken to her, and so much had been happening in such short a time period. Gods above, the last time he’d spoken to her was when he told her about the fight he’d gotten in with his father. That, at the very least, hadn’t changed.
“Your mom came to the Hub.”
Annabeth made a strange, aborted movement. “What?”
“She showed up in the middle of the day and asked to speak to me.” Percy couldn’t keep the bitterness from taking over his tone. “She was trying to get me to make up with my father—apparently, he’d been in a mood and it’s making all the other Gods nervous.”
“She can go fuck herself.” Annabeth spat. She, too, sounded angry. Annabeth seemed a lot angrier about the Gods, these days. Whether that was just a consequence of her growing older, or of what she’d heard from Percy, he did not know.
Percy sighed, weary and bone-tired. “Yeah, well, I wish that’s all I’d said.”
A raised brow.
“She…” Percy’s nails dug into the flesh of his palms. “She showed up at my place of work and spoke down to me about loss.” He says. “She spoke about losing you.”
Annabeth’s heart was like the Legion’s war drum. Her shoulders trembled, her breathing deliberately measured. “That bitch.” Annabeth whispered. “Are you kidding me? She talks to you, of all people, about losing me?”
Percy just shakes his head, drained of his anger and left with nothing but exhaustion. “I lost it. Yelled at her, said things I shouldn’t have in front of people I shouldn’t have. Athena left. Haven’t heard anything from any of them since.”
It’s silent between them for many minutes. Percy listens to the gurgling of the small creek, water tumbling over smoothes rocks and pebbles, soaking into the reeds that grow along the edge. The air smells like ripening apples and cherries.
“Good.” Is all Annabeth offers, eyes stormy. “Good.” Then, she flops back onto the grass beside him. “Gods, this all so fucked.”
He gives her a small smile, but says nothing.
“Percy…can I be honest with you?” She asks. He doesn’t ever have to think about it. “Of course.”
Annabeth rolls over onto her side to face him. “When I…when I died,” She begins haltingly, “I didn’t really believe it at first. I was so determined to go back, to finish the fight, to protect Camp, to…” She shook her head. “Silena and the others tried their best to comfort me. I guess they didn’t understand what I’d left behind.”
She looks at Percy for a moment longer. His eyes are shut, but she knows he’s listening. “I lost it on them all a few days in. I screamed at them that I’d left you and I needed to get back because I couldn’t leave you alone down there. I was so angry about everything. At everyone. Then I was just…depressed. I barely even did anything for weeks. Maybe longer.”
Percy’s attention is like a physical weight. “When I finally accepted what had happened to me, when I got closure from Nico’s visit and from meeting you here for the first time, I started to come around. Embrace it.” She rolls onto her back to stare up at the sky. “I’m happy down here. It’s obvious I would be, in hindsight—I mean, it’s eternal paradise. I don’t have to worry about people down here getting hurt, or running from monsters…” She trailed off. “The thing I found myself most relieved about was that the Gods had no control of me anymore. I was free from monsters, yes, but freedom from my own mother was so much better. How sad is that?”
Percy regards her, not with sadness, but with understanding. Annabeth wonders, not for the first time, what it feels like for him. Athena was a looming shadow over her life; a mass of spiders invading her childhood room, the vaguest direction while she was digging through a trash can at seven, a burning mark above her head, and cold, cold, cold eyes. But to be the child of the Big Three, the son of the Great Prophecy, the brother of monsters who killed a God…Annabeth couldn’t even imagine it.
Some days, she looked at him and couldn’t help but compare him to that twelve-year-old boy passed out in the infirmary, clutching the Minotaur’s horn. Annabeth remembers summers of resting her arm atop his head and teasing him for his voice cracks, but he’d shot up like a weed right near the end of her life, and now his shoulders were widened and voice deepened with adulthood. If she caught Percy at the right time, stubble lined his cheeks and jaw. His brow was stronger, his cheekbones and jaw more defined as he’d lost that last bit of baby fat—been starved out of it by Lupa and then a horde of undying monsters, more like—and his hands were strong and calloused. She’d say the years had been kind to him, but the bruise-like circles under his eyes and the scars that had come from monster and mortal alike didn’t allow it.
“I died,” She says again. He doesn’t flinch. “I’m in eternal paradise, and the best part is that my mother cannot even contact me if she wishes. That’s the true paradise.” The clouds above them are moving along the sky, shuffling along with the wind. A bird flies overhead.
“What are you trying to tell me?” Percy asks after a prolonged moment of silence. That’s another thing that never changed about him—that accent. Barely noticeable, but she would never forget it. A cobbled together mash of his mother tongues, of the Upper East Side, the barely present rasp that was comparable to the growl of a great wolf.
Annabeth turned to face him once more. “What I mean to say, Percy, is…knowing all this…” She looks at him intensely. “I honestly don’t get how you’re still doing it.”
His eyes could make even Elysium cloud over. “Annie,” He sighs. There’s so much weight in a single word. She’s never met anyone who’s capable of conveying so much through so little like him. “I don’t have an answer for that. You know I don’t.”
It’s raw, a truth whispered into the wind of a meadow that doesn’t exist, a great secret that is wrapped around the bond that ties their souls together, forged in the agony of the Styx and something much, much stronger.
Annabeth just nods, for there is nothing else for her to say. Instead, she reaches out and laces her fingers with her best friend’s, and lays back into the soft grass, eyes moving back to the lazy movement of the clouds.
Notes:
okay i know that like, technically, the group all met dr strange in the christmas chapters...but that entire fic lives in a strange bubble that doesn't fit into this timeline at ALL so...they're going to be meeting him for the first time...again...
dont question mespidey saving peoples lives: 👀👀drama??
karen helping spidey save lives: 👀mj??👀drama??
i love karen so much my god
annabeth and percy are just so special to me, okay?? two children who watched eachother be forced to grow up, to be hurt again and again, and still love eachother throughout all of it. something not romantic, even further than platonic, their SOULS are tied together like SHOELACES
i just have a lot of feelings about themplumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 27: Hyponatremia
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday, March 30th, 2018
8:02 AM
Stark Tower, NY
They meet with Strange first thing the next morning.
Mal is the one to volunteer to bring him up from the lobby, leaving the rest of them to stand around a conference table in tense, tight silence. There had been some talk about holding the meeting at the Hub, but in the end, SWORD decided it was too large a security risk to give away their base’s location. Tony had offered up a room, citing that the Tower was incredibly obvious, anyway. It would reveal a bit more about the relationship between the remaining Avengers and SWORD than they would like, but they had little other choice.
“Elevator.” Bucky says under his breath. They all snap to attention, straightening shoulders and leveling their expressions. From his spot against the wall, Percy’s jaw tightens minutely.
Mal, ever polite, opens the door for Strange, who sweeps into the conference room. He’s just as Peter had described, but also much like Tony remembers. His face is sharp, his hair graying neatly at the temples, eyes a few shades lighter than the blue of his clothes. A scarlet cloak rests on his shoulders, settling around him and rustling in a wind that doesn’t exist. Strange takes a look around the room, eyes darting to each and every one of their faces, taking in details and scrutinizing them. He landed on Tony, first, and dipped his head in a nod. “Dr. Stark.”
Tony gave him a short twitch of a smile. “Dr. Strange. Quite the career shift.” He remarked, though it was not said derisively.
“I could say the same for you, really.” Was the quick reply. That brought something closer to a real smile up to Tony’s face, though it was similarly short and disappeared quickly.
Next, Strange settles on Bucky, Natasha, and Peter, who’s wearing his suit and mask, though with a hoodie atop. “Sergeant Barnes. Ms. Romanoff. Spider-Man.” He greets. Bucky and Natasha—who, after some discussion, they’d agreed to pull into the investigation—both give him cool, short greetings in return, while Peter waves. Lastly, Strange shifts to the right side of the room, where the SWORD team is settled. Bucky watches the man more intently, how his eyes land on Lee first—not unusual, with her height and severe looks—before continuing to Bridgette, Dan, Spencer, Ross, and then briefly to Mal, who, after letting him in, had taken her spot with the team. His attention skips over Percy twice before coming back to rest on him, almost as if he’s doing a triple take. Something in Strange’s face twitches, so subtle Bucky doubts that even Strange notices, but it doesn’t escape Bucky.
“You wanted to talk.” Percy says, bypassing introductions entirely. He stands from his seat, holds out a hand to Strange. “Let’s talk.”
Strange regards him for a moment before taking his extended hand and shaking it. “Lets.”
They’re seated around the table, SWORD clustered together, all watching Strange, who’s looking back with a matched intensity.
“Last January, I ventured into a dimension beyond our own. There, a primordial being that we call Dormammu resided. I trapped him, and myself, in a time loop, to prevent him from carrying out a plan to corrupt our dimension. We made a deal—that I would release him, and in return, he would take his devotees and leave, never to return. And, until two weeks ago, I was certain he had made good on that deal.”
Behind his tinted sunglasses, Percy’s eyes are narrowed. “What makes you believe otherwise?”
“I was alerted by the Sanctum to something at Baruch Playground.” Peter’s hands curl into fists beneath the table. “I didn’t have to get close to feel it—the entire area was practically dripping in the same energy, the same magic, that I felt when I came face-to-face with a facet of Dormammu.”
The silence in the room is like counting seconds between lightning and thunder, gauging the proximity of the storm. Tony looks to be pushing down the urge to lean over to Peter and check on him, unwilling to give away even the slightest bit of leverage to a man he doesn’t truly know. They’d made that mistake with Secretary Ross.
Never again.
“Are you sure that it is the same being?” Percy’s voice is sharp, the point of a dart landing in the middle of a target.
Strange works his jaw for a moment before shaking his head. “Truthfully, no. Both energies presented themselves to me similarly, but Dormammu is a primordial being completely beyond human comprehension. There is a chance that, whatever is here on Earth is not him, but something similar, and, due to the limits of the human mind and magic, I perceive it the same as Dormammu.”
Percy takes this in, leaning back in his chair with a pensive look. When a moment passes without him speaking, Tony cuts in. “So…maybe Dormammu kept his end of the bargain, but something else like him, from another dimension, might be the one behind all this?” He clarifies.
Strange nods. “Our knowledge of beings like him is quite limited. At the moment, there is little I can do to try and further identify the entity.” It did seem to irk him a little, the lack of knowledge, but he had admitted to it freely, so Bucky held his judgements. Strange looks over the group once more. “I’m assuming a coroner has looked over the bodies?”
“Forensic pathologist.” Lee corrects.
“Were there any marks on their foreheads? Sigils?” Before Lee can answer, Strange flicks his hand and orange sparks appear, and, just as Peter had described, swirl and churn in on themselves until a round portal opens. Strange sticks his arm though it, grabs something, and closes it with a small wave. It’s a piece of paper, yellowed with age, but perfectly intact. Strange slides it across the table to her. “Like this?”
Lee peers at it for a moment, then shakes her head. “No.”
Bucky waits for her to say more, to elaborate that, though this sigil was not present, something else was, but she stays silent. Bucky’s eyes flit to Percy, who hasn’t even twitched. They’re keeping a tight lid on this, then. Lee’s impeccable poker face comes in handy, because Strange just nods and takes the paper back. “If you see this symbol anywhere—”
“It’s Dormammu’s?” Natasha asks.
Strange nods. “If you see it, run.”
That gets a slow, uneasy nod from them all.
Saturday, April 6th, 2018
12:38 PM
The Hub, NY
Perhaps the worst part of it all is that there’s nothing they can do.
Lee and Spencer tested everything under the sun on those bodies. Nobody found a single trace of DNA or evidence. The two that have turned up so far have had practically no connections. They’ve not happened upon a dead end, but rather have barreled face-first directly into it.
They reorient themselves. It’s a horrible waiting game, but they need to do something in the meantime. SWORD returns, full-force, into their Hydra investigation, narrowing back in on Councilman Graves. Dan has the man under near-constant surveillance, but, so far, he hasn’t slipped up. Percy had scared him with his direct challenge to Landry—the only question was whether or not the fear had been enough for Graves to cut ties with Hydra.
Mal and Ross take a trip to discreetly sit in on a few WSC meetings while the rest of them continue to weed out Hydra shoots. Percy meets with Daredevil once, twice, then a third time to discuss the matter of Wilson Fisk’s potential connections. Wade reports in a few bounties—some from Hydra affiliates against one another, some from affiliates against the SWORD team. Though they’re all disguised—it’s common knowledge for people entrenched in that part of the world that Deadpool does not, under any circumstances, take jobs for Hydra—it's not near clever enough to get past him. Knowledge on the SWORD team is limited, as well. Most seem to be under the impression that they are something similar to a department like the National Counterterrorism Center instead of one, small unit (something that, quite frankly, many of them are quite smug about).
In between surveillance, Percy takes a moment to slip into Dan’s computer lab. “Are you busy?”
The man looks up. “Nope. What’s up?”
Percy’s teeth are sunken into the flesh of his cheek. “Can you find somebody for me?”
Dan’s grin is wide and easy in a way it hasn’t been for a while. “You really gotta ask?”
A small trace of shared humor flits across Percy’s face before melting away. Though it’s only April, cold air slips through the vents, settling on the back of his neck. “May Castellan.”
Dan types for a moment before responding. “Westport, Connecticut?”
“That’s the one.”
He receives a soft hum in return. “Alright…well, she was born in Westport in 1958, graduated from Western Connecticut State University for—- ooh, Computational and Applied Mathematics in 1980. Had a kid in 1985…ah! Birth certificate. Luke Castellan, no father listed.” Another few moments broke up by the clicking of a mouse. “She never married—oh. May Castellan passed away just a couple months ago, last July.” Dan says with a small frown.
There is something frozen resting in the base of Percy’s throat, like frost crawling up from his sternum, numbing and burning. He feels as if he could choke on it. “How?”
“...Can I access the coroner’s report?”
“Go ahead.” It’s not like there’s anybody alive to be offended on her behalf.
Another pause. “Well…she was in generally poor health. She had a history of infections and diseases that, when grouped together, are indicative of a hoarding disorder. Ms. Castellan also had severe mold poisoning, according to her blood tests. It seems that she got sick and collapsed at one point and…oh, God, at the time her neighbor found her, she’d been dead for weeks.” His fingers clacked against the keys. “No mention of her son, though—”
“He died in 2008.” Percy says simply. “Thanks, Dan.”
It’s near their lunch break, so nobody questions him when he leaves the building. Percy isn’t sure how long he walks, but he finds himself near the edge of the river. It’s raining, soaking everyone but him to the bone. Despite it being only the very beginning of Spring, the rain is warm, almost uncomfortably so, based on how people around him begin to shed layers. The air itself is moist and almost humid, condensing with the clouds above. Like clockwork, he can hear the distant roll of thunder, and briefly wonders who upset Zeus this time.
There's a drop between the edge of the concrete and the water—already murky and piled high with trash as if he had never even cleaned it during the Second Titan War. He sits on the edge of the concrete, a chain link fence to his back, feet hanging just a few inches above the surface of the water.
May Castellan.
Dead.
Before this week, he hadn’t thought of her in years. Not her, nor her disjointed, manic ramblings and murky eyes.
Computational and Applied Mathematics, Dan had said. May Castellan was smart, she had been accomplished, talented, just like Hestia had told him, years ago. It was a tragedy then, but it seems impossibly worse now. She had died alone in her house, full of rotting food made for a son that was long dead, waiting for a man that had left her years ago, burdened by a bitter old God’s curse. The memory of her is like striking a match against the rough side of the box, sudden and burning. Percy isn’t sure if it’s guilt or anger that molten in between his ribs, but whatever it is, it burns its way out of his chest, pooling around him on the concrete.
She was alone. If she was in the state she was, it was impossible that there was anybody in her life that cared about her, even to the bare minimum of calling in to the police station for a welfare check. Percy could read between the lines of what Dan had said—if her neighbors had come over to check on her, it would be because of the smell of her body decomposing under the July sun.
It’s both guilt and anger, that he didn’t do more, didn’t find her, didn’t do anything, but it’s also rage—against Hades for his curse, Hermes for his cowardice, all of them for knowing that May tried to help them, take up the mantle of the Oracle, and leaving her to rot.
May Castellan was no longer useful to them.
Did they still think Percy was useful?
The thought tastes like bile.
A week has passed since Strange dropped that bombshell on them, and Peter is still acting off, as if there’s more than the throw blanket he’s wearing pressing down on his shoulders. It had been hard to notice, but not for Tony, who knows the kid damn well. Small, subtle things, but present nonetheless. It had only happened a few times, the way Peter would zone out when he thought nobody was watching, something faraway in his eyes and defensive in his posture.
Tony draws the curtains shut with a snap of his wrists, muffling the noises of the downpour outside. The noise pulls Peter out of his head, and he looks up at Tony.
It’s no secret that emotions have never really been Tony’s forte. It’s taken him many years and many, many fuck-ups to be where he is now, and he has pretty much everyone in his life except himself to thank—Rhodey and Pepper’s loyalty, Percy’s open honestly, Bucky’s strong vulnerability, Happy’s quiet humor, and pretty much everything about Peter. Even Natasha had her rare moments. It’s because of them that he doesn’t brush it away or wait for Peter to broach the subject, because, when you look past the obvious, he and Peter are alike in the manner that they’ll never bring it up.
A news anchor drones on in front of them—another sign that somethings up, because Peter hates watching the news instead of reading it. Tony reaches over and plucks the remote from the kid’s hand, muting the television, though the subtitles fly by on the screen. “You want to talk about what’s bothering you?”
“ —and, now, the latest weather update. As the day progresses, we’re seeing a break from our typical April temperatures—”
The kid looks startled, as if he was being particularly subtle. “What?”
When Tony said nothing, Peter shifted. “I…” He exhaled. “I guess it’s just a lot. What Dr. Strange described…some primordial being from another dimension…” He shook his head. “I deal with carjackers and muggers, and, sure, the occasional rampaging Enhanced, but—” He cuts himself off and takes a breath. “I’ve been scared a lot in my life. I’m not ashamed of that. Fear is natural, normal.” Peter lifts his head and makes eye contact with Tony. “The fear that I felt when I found that body…it’s like nothing I’ve experienced. I was terrified, but I also felt so… small. Unimportant. I set foot on that field, and it was like nothing mattered.”
“—sudden change in weather patterns. From the Atlantic—”
Before he can even think about what Peter said, fully take in and digest the implications of whatever they might be facing, Tony’s hand is on Peter’s shoulder, and the kid is staring up at him with wide, round eyes. “Peter,” Tony says evenly, “There is not a single thing that exists, this dimension or the next, that could make you not matter.”
“—bringing in heavy rainfall and winds—”
There are a million other things he’s tempted to say, but none of them seem relevant compared to that.
Peter’s smile is thin and watery, but it’s there, and that’s all Tony can ask for.
“ —unexpected development—”
“How’s pizza sound?” Tony asks. “I’m pretty sure Percy can get off work, and I don’t think anyone else is doing anything. We can have a movie night.” He suggests. It’s been a while since they’ve been able to spend time as a group, let alone relax while doing it. Percy, especially, seems like he needs it. Peter brightens, and Tony knows he’s made the right choice.
“ —due to this sudden downpour, we advise all residents to exercise caution and stay indoors if possible—”
“Will Ms. Romanoff come?” Peter asks.
“I can ask.”
Peter looks at him curiously for a moment. Then, “Do you trust her?”
“—mariners and boaters should be aware that the waters of the East River—”
A loaded question.
Natasha, so far, had done nothing but try to make amends and prove herself—not just to him, but to them all. Her apology has been genuine, if a bit awkward, but that was to be expected from someone whose life had been the way hers had. He doubted making sincere amends was something Natasha often got an opportunity to do.
Tony answers carefully. “I think so, yes.”
“—waves reaching unprecedented heights—”
Peter nods. “That’s good.” He says.
Tony tears his eyes away from the television, where his attention had unconsciously drifted. “Why do I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me?” He prodded with a slight grin.
Peter, recalling an evening accompanied by a Calculus 2 textbook, just shrugged lightly, a startlingly similar expression playing on his lips. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“ —it is not safe for recreational activities on the water at this time—”
Tony shook his head, exasperated. “I think you’re spending too much time with Percy and Bucky. You’re getting cryptic.”
The answering smile was unrepentant. “So, movie night?” Peter changed the subject.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call Percy.” He stood, casting one more glance towards the television. Peter, too, tuned in for a second. The anchor seemed slightly rushed, as if this was breaking, reading off the teleprompter for the first time. “Well, damn. Good night for it.” Tony remarked. Peter hummed in light agreement, standing to follow Tony. They left the television on behind them.
Elsewhere, at the site of May Castellan’s grave marker, already in a sorry state, the dirt turned to mud under the assault of the water. The patchy, yellowed grass sunk into the sludge, taking in the rainwater as if it had never before been acquainted with the concept.
The whole graveyard, filled with identical, small markers that were funded by county donations, turned dark with the onslaught of water.
Maybe, in a day or two, if the April sun deigned to come out, the inches of standing water that were sure to remain would dry up, leaving nothing but soft earth and flushes of green to support the emerging highbush blueberry that had been dying for the past few years.
Or, equally likely, the water would take its time percolating into the ground, and in the meantime would be chipping away at the headstones as it hit the ground, smudging away names over the years and softly, gently, making room for something more.
At the river’s edge, Percy Jackson checked his phone. He stood, hands in his pockets, and began to walk back to the tower. As he turned his back to the waves, he idly wondered what happened to anger his father, too.
“ —the rainfall is expected to continue throughout the day and night, with a possibility of lightning in some areas. We recommend everyone to stay updated with local weather advisories and stay indoors for the time being. Good night, and stay safe, New York.”
Notes:
dr strange time! i'd like to remind you that, somehow, this series is connected but also has no relation to the stuff happening in the chat fic. so yes they met strange in the 2022 christmas chapter but also no they didnt. so. uh. to clarify, none of them have met strange as of chapter 25 (except tony, briefly like a decade ago, at some nerd conference idk)
its also...dormammu time (?) i can practically hear some of you opening a marvel wiki to look at cosmic beings from the comics and shit
(it might be pretty difficult and you'll have to dive fairly deep, but im certain some of you will be able to find the correct answer)rip may :(
peter's reference with the calc 2 textbook is a callback to chapter 9 btw
if i told you guys i had a google mymaps of the settings where important plot points happen, would you guys want to see that?
(but also most are, like, specific locations where real people live and work and stuff. so. like. if you happen to be in nyc and i made your local park or front doorstep a crime scene...my bad)plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 28: Domine, non sum dignus
Notes:
heads up for a fade to black percybucky smut bit
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday, April 10th, 2018
4:29 PM
The Hub, NY
Dan drops another stack of papers on the table and Bridgette drops her head directly atop them. “More?” She groans.
He shrugs haplessly. “Sorry.”
Bridgette waves him off with a sigh. “Not your fault.” She lifts her head and pulls them towards her, flicking open the first packet on top.
“Kinda your fault.” Ross mutters, swiping a few from the middle of the pile. “Would it kill you to be just, like, a little worse at your job?” Bridgette smacks him on the arm. “Be nice.”
The shades have been opened, letting the weak spring sunlight stream into the bullpen. Mal has one of the windows cracked open, and has made herself at home sitting on one of the wide window sills, knees bunched up to her chest. It looks mighty uncomfortable to Ross, but she seems content enough. Dan comes and goes—it’s a good day for him, seemingly, and he gets by with barely using his cane. All of them have offered, at some point, to pick up stuff from him on request to save him the journey, but he seems adamant to use the opportunity to stretch his legs. “It’s my nerves that cause problems, not my muscles,” He follows that with a short explanation of the Cho-Stark implant in the base of his neck and spine, but, even in layman’s terms, Ross still couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
It’s silent for almost half an hour before Mal throws the towel in. “He’s too clean,” She groans, leaning back. “I think Jackson scared him so fucking bad that he cut ties.” That makes Bridgette smile, just a little. “He’s not that bad.” She defends mildly.
Ross says nothing, but thinks back to a month ago, a gray eyed stranger and Jackson’s cold, low fury. The thing about Ross’s boss was that his anger wasn’t quick like a lightning strike or scorching as a wildfire—rather, it was slow, almost leisurely. Jackson’s anger was like staring over the horizon and seeing the moving clouds, watching the tides suddenly pull back, taking shelter as a hurricane takes its time traveling up and down the coast, inland and back out, destroying everything in its path at its own pace.
Instead, Ross keeps his head down and pushes himself back to the content of the papers in front of him; pages and pages of Graves’s emails, every single one of them incredibly inconspicuous and also horrifically boring. They’ve been at it for almost two weeks and haven’t found anything on the man—not a scrap of an incriminating call, suspicious message, or under the table meeting. Ross, as much as he dislikes it, is slowly beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, Graves has no Hydra relations, but is just an ass. Graves had tried to discredit Barnes when he gave his testimony—in a very unprofessional way, Ross might add—but that could just be anti-Enhanced bigotry leaking through, and, as awful as it was, being a piece of shit wasn’t a prosecutable offense.
To Ross’s left, Jackson has his head tipped back, facing the ceiling with his earbuds in, replaying what must be hours of Graves’s recorded phone calls for the second time. Ross feels an abrupt wave of pity for the man; at least Ross doesn’t have to hear Graves’s voice while he conducts his search.
“I still can’t believe we got all this stuff so easily.” Mal says, highlighter sitting in the corner of her mouth as she flips a page.
“Open Procedures and Correspondence Act.” Jackson and Bridgette speak at the same time. Jackson shifts in his seat so they can see his face properly—it makes no difference to him, but he knows that it’s easier for some of them to understand him if they can see his lips move as he talks. It’s considerate; sweet, that he’s gotten into the habit, Ross almost dares to say. (Definitely not out loud, though.)
“All members of the WSC, along with the members of their affiliated Boards, Committees, and Commissions are required by law to permit open access to all documents—which includes emails and phone calls—which they create, due to the fact that they are considered public records. The only exception to this is the records which contain confidential information, which is legally protected within the WSC. Records with confidential information can only be accessed by investigatory committees and departments, such as the Sentient World Observation and Response Department, whose key function is to observe inner workings of the WSC and other groups and respond accordingly.” Jackson rattles off easily, jaw cracking in a yawn. They all stare at him, wide-eyed, as he continues. “Which is why I keep telling you guys to stop sending each other cup pong games on your work phones.” He finishes tiredly.
“…Oh.” Mal says lamely.
Jackson presses his fingers into his temple, but it doesn’t seem to be directed at her. “Did you forget I’m your boss again?”
“Maybe.”
Jackson just sighs.
They keep going for another hour before Jackson tells them to go home. “I don’t feel like paying you overtime.” He cites flatly. Mal and Bridgette pack up and head out of the bullpen, but Ross can hear them waiting by the door for Dan and Lee respectively, the first for their carpool, and the second to go home. Dan comes out first, and the two call their goodbyes, to which Jackson distractedly returns. Lee emerges from the lab fifteen minutes later, Spencer in tow. They, too, head out with a small wave from Jackson.
Ross lingers at the table, jogging his leg, until Jackson pauses and takes out one of his earbuds. “Yes, Ross?”
“Do you care if I stick around?” The words tumble out.
Jackson blinks, tilting his face once more to face Ross. “Is everything alright?” Another thing about Ross’s boss—he’s excellent at keeping his voice even and face level, but Ross can tell there’s concern resting in his eyes. The others have trouble with it (sans Lee, but Jackson and her have always been on a weird wavelength together), but reading people is Ross’s whole thing. “I would’ve thought you’d want to get home.” Jackson prompts when Ross doesn’t reply.
He shrugs jerkily. “What, like you don’t?” Ross replies, looking down at the tabletop. “Just a bit amped up, I guess. Need something to do.”
That gets him a reluctant nod, and Jackson hands him a binder of neatly stacked papers. “All of Graves’s appointments—time, location, participants—for the last three months.” He gives Ross a dry look. “Maybe by the time you finish, you’ll have considered a hobby.”
“I have hobbies,” Ross defends, sliding the binder towards himself. “I…crochet.”
Jackson says nothing, but Ross can see the smile he’s hiding.
“What, like you’re any better, Mr. ‘everyone go home because working too much is bad for you, but I’m going to stay here until sunset’?” Ross replies defensively, highlighting aggressively. “What do you do in your spare time?”
“Long name.” Is all Jackson says.
Ross narrows his eyes at his boss, arms crossed. Jackson leisurely flips a page, reads it, then moves his fingers to the top to do it once more. Then, probably somehow aware that Ross is still staring at him, Jackson sighs and leans back. “If you really must know, Ross, when I have time, I spend it with my family.”
“Wait, wait, you didn’t just, like, spawn on Earth?” Ross gasps, a hand to his chest. “Shock. I’m shocked.”
That makes Jackson roll his eyes. “You guys need to drop that. I’m fairly sure you’ve convinced some of the interns at the WSC chambers that I’m an artificial intelligence created by Tony Stark.”
“…Well, to be fair to the interns, we haven’t quite ruled that one out either.” Ross says, fighting a grin. “ So… family?” He says casually, uncapping a pen.
“Ross…for a profiler with multiple psychology degrees, you’re horrible at fishing for information.” Jackson remarks. “Yes, I have a family. My mother, stepfather, and three younger siblings. I also have an extremely large extended family on my fathers side.”
It was hard not for him to note that, while Jackson clearly knew his father and his side of the family tree, he didn’t include the man in his family. Ross recalls the woman— Athena, Jackson referred to her, speaking of his father. The way she spoke of him, he sounded powerful and volatile. “I knew you had to be an older sibling.” Is what he said instead as he marked up one of the pages. “You have the exasperated energy. Do I get names?”
Jackson exhales. “You’re very nosy today.” Ross thinks that’s it, and returns to his reading, but then, quietly, Jackson adds, “Tyson, Estella, and Lucas.”
He tamps down the shock. “Beautiful names.” He says softly. Then, eyes darting up to his boss’s face, he tacks on, “Sucks that you got stuck with Jackson.”
“You know that’s my last name.”
Ross snickers softly, flipping the last page over to highlight the final paragraph.
Jackson pinches the bridge of his nose. “I appreciate your help, Ross, really. Go home now.” He’s not upset—if anything, Ross is pretty sure he’s fighting a smile. “Go crochet.”
Ross shakes his head as he packs his bag. “Are you going to go spend time with your family?” He challenges. Jackson runs a finger over his watch, and, to Ross’s surprise, he stands and similarly begins to put his things away. Lea, from where she’s laying on the carpet, stands and stretches. “It’s a bit late for that. Fortunately, I have more than one hobby.” He replies, raising a brow at Ross.
“I crochet multiple things!” Ross defends once more as they walk out of the bullpen. “And, forgive me, sir, if I don’t believe you.”
Jackson holds the door open for him. “Crocheting multiple things is still just crocheting.”
“You didn’t answer the second part.”
Jackson sighs. “Ross…” He swipes his card at the door, then scans his fingerprint and punches in a code, locking up the building for the night. “We have movie nights at the tower. I go out with my partner. I swim.” He lists, accompanying Ross to the parking lot. Again, a nice thing that Jackson doesn’t acknowledge. “I teach swordsmanship at my old summer camp. I garden, I bake, and I play the violin.”
“Wait, wait,” Ross backtracks, one hand on the handle to his car door. “You play the violin?”
“Good night, Ross.“ He turns, Lea on his heels.
“Jackson? Violin?”
“Get home safe.”
“Jackson?”
It was raining again outside.
Percy sat on the balcony, back against the wall and head tipped up to let it fall on his face. It was warm, released by soft clouds and carried by a gentle breeze. Despite being in the beating heart of the city, he swore he could smell the petrichor in the air. There was no thunder or lightning to accompany it, just the sound of it finding its home, whether that was against the side of the tower, on the pavement a thousand feet below, or directly onto Percy’s face, wetting his lashes and sliding down his cheeks.
He’d left the sliding glass door open, the curtains flowing inwards with the slight wind, the sound and smell soaking into his and James’s apartment. Bucky’s footsteps were nearly masked by the weather, fitting in neatly with the steady plink of raindrops. His boyfriend comes to lean against the doorframe, watching him. Percy says nothing, but holds out an inviting hand from where he’s sitting. Bucky takes it, taking a spot, his spot, next to Percy. Their heads tip towards each other, soft brown mixing with inky waves. It’s peaceful, like this, and wonderful, to be able to sit with him.
Percy knew he was never meant to love James in the way that he did. The Fates themselves had said so, standing in front of a web of threads with a pair of shears. James was supposed to die, but there Percy and his threads stood, tied together so inexplicably tightly that it was as if there was only one to begin with.
Percy couldn’t imagine making a different choice. Even then, when he had known James for just a few months, he just knew that he could not bear to live without him. It came down to one fact—Percy had lived without his sight before. He could not live without the man sitting next to him. It had been then, and still is now, terrifying.
Some nights, Percy finds himself standing in the courtyard of that Hydra base, hearing the man he knew he loved tell him that he was ready to comply. Standing in the snow, suddenly struck and sick, Percy had realized that he had given James his heart, and with it, the ability to completely and utterly destroy him. The agony of the Soldier’s blade scraping against his ribs had been entirely nothing in comparison.
It was a unique type of fear, to be in love. The two went hand-in-hand, and one was much, much harder than the other. Love made demands, love took. Fear was easier. A person uses fear, but love uses a person. Fear cradles, it holds you, runs a gentle hand through your hair—but love, love lays a person to waste, tears them down and makes them anew. Percy had been scared a million times in his life, and it was always the same. He knew what to expect with fear.
He wished he could say the same with love.
The strangest part of it all was that, despite it all, loving the man next to him was one of the few purely good things that Percy ever did.
Never in his life had Percy put so much of himself into another’s hands. It was paralyzing and horrifying and wonderful, to belong to somebody.
Percy tilts his head, feels the rain trace the lines of his lover’s face, and presses his lips to his. It’s a gentle kiss, soft and warm, droplets of water rolling down their noses and dropping from their hair. “I love you,” He tells him, lips barely moving against his, unwilling to give up even the smallest bit of contact. “I’m glad you’re mine.”
James’s smile is indescribable. Percy cannot see it, but when he’s close like this, with the rain running down his skin, he can feel it. It’s as if he’s seventeen again, stepping out of the Pit and feeling the sun on his skin for the first time in months. It’s the first time he took a breath underwater, feeling truly alive in a way he hadn’t before. It’s joy and victory, contentment and intoxication. “Yours?”
Percy’s fingertips skim across his cheekbones. “Mine, like the wind, the clouds, the rain. Mine, like the way the sea is mine and everyone else’s. Mine to hold, to tend to, to love. Mine, not in possession, but devotion. Mine, not like you belong to me, but you belong with me.”
James exhales, a breath of blazing heat against the subtle warmth of the weather. It sounds like it's torn out of him. “You’re everything,” Is his response, inches from Percy’s ear, and, beyond that, lost to the wind. Then, he’s kissing him once more, each touch a pilgrimage and a sacrifice. His cheeks, his forehead. “You’re my heart, my faith,” The tip of his nose, the side of his jaw. “My strength, my courage,” His throat, right over his pulse point. “The only form of eternal paradise I care about.”
Percy’s pulse jumps up against James’s lips. “Paradise,” He repeats, hand resting on the nape of James’s neck.
Bucky looks up at him, his eyes dark and wonderful. “Every time I’m with you.”
They connect once more, hands and lips, reverant and desperate, soft breaths and the pouring rain. There is something cavernous and starved in Bucky’s chest, crying out and begging for the salvation that exists as the man in front of him, and Bucky pulls him closer, until Percy’s thighs bracket his waist and their pounding hearts are only inches apart. The rain smells sweet, but can’t hold a candle to the taste of Percy’s lips.
He’s warm, sitting in his lap, skin hot to the touch. Bucky holds onto him like he is the sole ember in the middle of the permafrost, coaxing and gentle. Percy’s touch is burning, and Bucky wishes nothing more than that every single moment would leave a permanent mark on his skin. He knows he will not forget Percy—he now knows himself incapable, not when the man has become his everything, but he wants them, not as two individuals, but as one, to be imprinted on him.
The ground of the balcony is too hard, too unforgiving, not the comfort that Percy deserves during what Bucky wants to do to him. They fit together as if they were created to, even as Bucky shifts and stands, bringing Percy with him. He doesn’t bother to shut the door behind them as he bends down to deposit his love on the edge of their bed.
Bucky’s knees rest on the carpet, his hands on Percy’s thighs, himself cradled between them. He stares up at Percy, the way his eyes are warm and dark, the perfect reflection of the downpour outside. Dark hair drips in his face, down the Grecian slope of his nose and the curves of his cheekbones, onto the gentle, parted shape of his lips. The sound of the rain through the open doors almost masks his shallow breathing, but Bucky is close enough to feel his chest move in time with the wind. He slides his hands upward, until they rest on his hips. Percy’s fingers weave through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp as the man leans down to press his lips to his forehead. “You gonna come up here and join me?”
Bucky takes a moment to answer him, brushing his thumb over Percy’s hip bone. He still hears his earlier words—Percy had said Bucky was his, like the sea. It rang true, more than he knew. Bucky was his, completely and irrevocably, as the ocean was, but in the sense that Bucky was utterly enthralled by him, would do anything he asked, simply because he was the one asking. It was devotion, just as Percy said, but it ran deeper. Percy’s touch had been entwined with his nervous system, his warmth in his lungs. If someone were to open up Bucky’s chest and cut open his heart, they would find Percy’s smile in the atria and his laugh in the ventricles.
Gentle pressure is all it takes for him to push Percy back, the slide of his hand rucking his shirt upwards, exposing his stomach and the wide scar that stretches below his navel. Without a moment’s thought, Bucky finds himself brushing a kiss against the center of the twisted tissue. He glances up once more, takes in long lashes curtaining those dark, wonderful eyes, and his hands slip to his boyfriend’s waistband. “Love,” He quotes softly. “Is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling.” He does not finish the quote aloud, but he thinks it as he takes his lover in between his lips. Domine, non sum dignus, as Percy's nails press into his scalp when he swallows around him.
The scent of rain brought in through the fluttering curtains, rests on bare, scarred skin. The weight of Bucky atop him is all-encompassing, the feeling of his warmth, the scent on his skin when Percy’s face is buried into the crook of his neck. His love is everything, all over him, all at once, and it’s utterly intoxicating. The closeness cheapens ambrosia in comparison. Faint bruises in the shape of Bucky’s fingertips decorate his hips and thighs, fit in between scars and freckles. Bucky kisses the back of his leg, and all Percy can think is that
only the sun has come this close, only the sun.
Notes:
percy being so fucking tired with the SWORD team is hilarious to me
when i tell you the SWORD cup pong games are INTENSE-
ross time!!
i've begun to make good on my percybucky promise :)
ok, so “Love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling.” is an Oscar Wilde quote, and it's a common thought that its about sex at first glance, but it actually isn't. the full quote is from de profundis:
“Most people live for love and admiration. But it is by love and admiration that we should live. If any love is shown us we should recognise that we are quite unworthy of it. Nobody is worthy to be loved. The fact that God loves man shows us that in the divine order of ideal things it is written that eternal love is to be given to what is eternally unworthy. Or if that phrase seems to be a bitter one to bear, let us say that every one is worthy of love, except him who thinks that he is. Love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling, and Domine, non sum dignus should be on the lips and in the hearts of those who receive it.”
like a lot of oscar wilde's writing, its not just about gay sex! its about love and religion and so many other things - bucky is not using this quote as a thinly veiled reference to oral sex as it often is, but its deeper, fuller meaning (...though he does happen to be about to have gay sex. unrelated)
a link to de profundis if you want to read it: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/921/921-h/921-h.htm
Credit to perfectlyripeclementine on tumblr for the fuckin ‘mine in devotion not possesion’ concept
"you kiss the back of my legs and i want to cry. only the sun has come this close, only the sun"
— shauna barbosaplumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 29: Ink
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
He hears the waves again.
Sand lightly scratches the skin of his palms, the breeze kicking up stray grains. He breathes in the sea air, but it stings, a dull ache accompanying each inhale. Percy heaves each breath like he’s being put through Camp training for the first time, tiny and twelve. His ribs feel like a vice around his lungs, pressing down and squeezing in.
He’s not sure where he is, but he can’t bring himself to care. There’s nothing but himself, pain, and the waves.
Wind skims along his sunburned cheeks, pushing and pulling lightly at his hair. It’s longer than he remembers.
Eventually, he lays back, stretching his arms out and letting the sand cushion his head. The tides pull in and out, the rising and falling his only indicator of the passage of time. It's warm out, the sun pressing gently into his skin. Like this, it’s easy to forget the pain for a moment, letting the sea and the wind take him away.
There’s not a single cloud in the sky, nothing to block the light from reaching him. He reaches up and rubs at his eyes, flicking away a few grains of sand from his lashes.
The following agony is unbearable. For a moment, the sand is jagged glass-like rock, and the warmth of the sun is the burning of the Phlegethon. He exhales and curls his fingers into the sand.
The waves come in. They recede.
In.
Out.
The bout of coughing is sudden and painful, sharp in between his ribs and across his chest. He turns on his side, curling his knees to his chest in an attempt to relive the abrupt feeling that quickly morphs into pure agony as he shakes. He doesn’t remember getting on all fours, but his knees press into the sand, head bowed, and everything burns.
His chest heaves, and when he hacks up some bile, it’s tinged scarlet.
Sunday, April 14th, 2018
8:09 AM
Stark Tower, NY
The morning sun feels weak through the windows. Even when he opens some of them and stands in the direct light, he feels like he’s missing something.
Percy’s steadily demolishing a pile of pancakes when his phone buzzes. “Hanover,” His phone reads aloud. He sighs and accepts the call.
“Jackson,” He says, putting his fork down tiredly.
“Sorry to interrupt your morning,” To Hanover’s credit, she does sound apologetic. “But I might need your help.”
Percy frowns. “With what?” It’s odd for Hanover to call him like this—though it's true that the WSC is a higher authority than them, SWORD is an autonomous department. In certain cases, they will answer to the WSC as a whole, but even the Lyon operation was a request, not an order.
“How fast can you get to the Council building?” Her voice was tight.
He runs his pointer finger over his watch. The flight would take about an hour and a half, plus commute times to and from the airports. Percy runs his tongue over his top teeth. “By noon.” Is what he says. “Is something wrong?” He already knows the answer, but, for a moment, he indulges himself with the thought that everything might be alright.
“Noon, you said?” Hanover repeats instead of answering.
Percy rests his forehead against his palm, exhaling. “If you don’t ask questions,” He says, “I can be in your office in half an hour.”
“I’ll take it. See you soon.” She says curtly. Then, “Thank you, Jackson.” She hangs up abruptly. Percy frowns at his phone, putting it down on the counter as he shoves his remaining pancake into his mouth. Hanover, outside of large meetings and the WSC chamber, is typically much warmer than that. It’s odd, and all the more reason to hurry. Percy puts his plate in the dishwasher, then heads to his room to get dressed. Mrs. O’Leary’s head snaps up once she sees him putting on his work shirt, and she hops off the bed to stretch.
“Lazy dog,” He says affectionately as she bumps her head into his hip. Percy smooths a hand over the crest of her head, and she follows at his heels to the elevator.
He finds Bucky in the gym. Percy steps out of the elevator and raps his knuckles on the nearest wall. His boyfriend’s wrapped fists drop to his side, and when he turns to look at Percy, it’s with his full body. Bucky takes in his slacks and button-up and begins to undo the fabric around his knuckles and wrists as he moves to meet him in the entryway. He gives Mrs. O’Leary a quick pat on the side before speaking. “You get called in?”
Percy nods with a sigh. “Not for SWORD. Hanover needs something—wouldn’t say what. I’m leaving for DC in ten.”
Bucky scrunches his face, tossing his wraps aside and coming to stand directly in front of Percy. “Concerning. Something big, do you think?” He reaches out and fixes Percy’s tie, adjusting it and tightening it a bit as he speaks. Percy shrugs one shoulder, minutely as not to disrupt his boyfriend’s ministrations. “I’m really not sure.” As Bucky finishes, deeming him presentable, Percy catches his hand and brushes a kiss against his palm. “Love you. I should be home by dinner.”
Bucky brushes something off Percy’s shoulder. “Text me?”
“Of course.” His boyfriend leans in, presses his lips to Percy’s forehead. “Stay safe. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Percy whistles for Mrs. O’Leary, who had wandered a bit away to poke around where Bucky had been working out. She trots over to him, heeling as they leave the building. The two head to the garage—Tony insisted they leave from there, citing that shadow-traveling in the residential areas messed with FRIDAY’s sensors. Percy wasn’t sure whether that was true or whether he had just scared Tony one too many times by appearing and disappearing in the living room, but, either way, he complies.
Shadow travel doesn’t churn his stomach like it used to. When he was younger, it was almost enough to make him lose his lunch. Percy wasn’t entirely sure when that had changed, and he didn’t care much to think about it, either. Mrs. O’Leary, the sweet girl she is, transports them both without a noise of complaint. He slips her a treat the second his feet are on solid ground again.
True to his word, Percy is scanning his keycard to the side door of the WSC building, slipping in largely unnoticed through a side hall. He keeps half his attention on the movements of the other occupants—it’s still fairly early, and the majority of people are down in the main lobby. It smells fresh, faintly like lemon—the building is newly cleaned, the masses of people coming in and out of each hall and room not yet tainting the night shifts sanitation work. Hanover’s door is locked. He knocks twice, and tracks her as she stands to open it for him.
It does not go unnoticed to him how she scans the hallway, poking her head out of the doorway, before letting him in. “Did you run into anybody?” Asking him that is the second thing she does—the first being locking her double doors behind them.
“No,” Percy says slowly. “Nobody saw me.”
She nods, and not even the slightest bit of tension leaves her.
“Hanover, what is this?” He asks, leaning in, voice quiet. Percy then pauses, tilting his head and listening for the quiet, electric buzz of a hidden bug. He finds nothing, but asks anyway. “Any other ears?”
“I checked. Four times. We’re alright.” She sighs something weary. Hanover takes her glasses off, setting them atop her desk, and leans against the finely crafted wood, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry to do this to you, like this,” She waves a loose hand. “I suppose I wasn’t sure who else to call.”
“Hanover…” Percy says slowly.
She exhales, shoulders dropping. “I need you to check something out for me.” As she speaks, she pushes off her desk and circles around it, opening one of the drawers and placing something on the middle of the tabletop. Percy steps forward, suspicious, but obliges, reaching out and running his fingers across the plastic binder. He opens it to find nothing but smooth paper—no braille to be found. He must have looked mighty unimpressed, because Hanover continues. “I don’t know how your abilities work, exactly,” Her voice drops, barely above a breath. “But I was hoping you could tell me something about this.”
Hanover leans in to flip the pages, but Percy stops her. “Tell me what this is, first.” He says firmly.
“Intelligence report from the International Relief Board about the efforts in Sokovia.” Hanover begins. “Late, yesterday, when I was getting ready to go home, Marie called. I stepped out for a moment to talk to her, and I suppose Mateo—my assistant, lovely man—thought I had already gone home, because he just left it on my desk for me.” She explains. “I’d forgotten my glasses in my office, though, so I went back in to grab them, and I took a quick look at it—just skimmed, really, before I left. I came in this morning, and, I swear to God, Jackson, it’s different. There’s an entire section I don’t recall reading, and some of the stuff I’m certain I read isn’t in there.”
Percy frowns, his brow furrowing. “You think somebody came into your office and messed with the report?”
She shakes her head. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I didn’t read it too closely, but, then again, I’m sure I would have remembered some of this.” Hanover looks up at him, and his mouth is twisted to the corner. “And that’s why you called me,” He finishes. “To see if I could find anything.”
Hanover nods, and Percy sighs. He takes the binder from where it lays, then seats himself in one of the nice armchairs in her office. “I’ll look,” He says as he opens it. “But no promises.”
“Thank you for trying.” Hanover says, and it sounds sincere enough that Percy is almost over having to rush his breakfast.
She watches him for a few minutes before seemingly realizing his search would be a rather lengthy process, and she, too, sits down, but at her desk, opening her laptop and filling the room with the sounds of her typing. Percy, meanwhile, flips to every page, inhaling the miniscule gust of air that comes from the movement. It all smells the same, of paper and ink and a faint touch of the citrus cleaner that saturates the building. It all feels the same when he touches it, the paper all the same weight and thickness.
He searches front to back, then back to front. Hanover looks up occasionally, but says nothing to him, waiting with bated breath and tight shoulders. It all feels frustratingly similar, unimportant, blank. A small part of him is growing frustrated—with himself, with Hanover, with the situation, he’s unsure. It’s a moment like this where Percy really feels his disability, and he tries to keep his bitterness off his face as he makes his way back to the first page, sliding the paperclip back into place.
From her desk, Hanover looks up at him. He wants to tell her to lower her expectations. He’s enhanced, not a goddamn miracle worker, and he doesn’t even have all the context because the shit she gave him wasn’t even in fucking braille.
In the bathroom down the hall, the pipes begin to creak.
Percy bites his tongue. He tells himself it's not Hanover’s fault. She gave him the original documents because that’s what may have been tampered with, she didn’t make a braille copy because she couldn’t risk running into anybody. It helps a little, but there’s still something sharp and rough in the base of his throat.
It’s fine.
He’s fine.
He just needs to find something, because if he doesn’t, something horrible could happen. Hanover is a smart woman; he trusts her instincts, and someone is trying to lie to them. He needs to find something, because she’s probably right, because someone who works in the WSC, someone they trust, had tampered with official documents. Percy needs to come up with something solid, something for them to chase down, because there’s not a single piece of him that is holding out hope that nobody in the WSC wants him and his team dead. He left SHIELD because of Hydra, but he’s tossed himself right back into their midst, and he needs to fucking find something.
A part of him wants to leave this all behind. All this stupid shit, the backstabbing and the lying and the double agents.
(He had warned them. Percy had warned them, four years ago, and Hydra was still here. After Ontario, after the Doctor, after what they’d done to James and to Johnson and to SWORD, and sometimes it seems like he’s the only one who fucking cares.)
“The ink is different.”
Hanover’s head snaps up towards him. “What?”
Percy opens his mouth then closes it abruptly. He’s not even sure why he’d said that—he hadn’t even thought of it before the words were tumbling out of his mouth. It’s apparent as the daybreak to him suddenly. “The ink is different.” He repeats himself, standing. Before he knows it, he’s pulling out pages from paperclipped stacks and tearing off staples, laying out the scraps all over Hanover’s desk. “This one, this one—definitely this one, too, and, yeah, this one—” His hands and brain are moving faster than his mouth. Page by page, he lays it all out in front of her, listens to how her heart thuds with every contact between paper and wood.
By the time he’s done, she's deathly quiet. Her breathing sounds shallow.
Percy chews on the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t try to decipher what’s going through her head, instead focusing down on the scattered pages across her desk. It's practically singing to him, even more now that the papers are separated. How he didn’t notice it in the first place is beyond him.
(He thinks he’s never been able to do something like that, before. Why? Why now?)
Hanovers chair drags against the fine carpet of her office. Her movements are slow and careful, controlled, as if she’s afraid to make the slightest noise as she lowers herself into the seat. Her hands are shaking as she reaches for one of the pages closest to her. Hanover exhales quietly, a finger running down the edge of the paper.
“What?” Percy finally asks. “What is it, Hanover?”
His impatience snaps her out of it. “Jackson,” She says quietly. “This…this is all about the Sokovian consulate building.”
It’s one of the few government buildings that escaped the destruction Ultron wrought on the nation. What used to be a temporary office for foreign diplomats in the capitol has turned into a mess of all sorts of agencies sharing a single space, including the WSC.
Percy sits across from her. “What about it?”
He can hear her shuffling the papers. “Nothing—I suppose that’s the point. It all looks normal. There’s absolutely nothing strange about this report.” She looks up at him, dark eyes glinting behind her glasses. “The page numbers continue on the tampered pages. They didn’t just add to the report, they replaced something.” She concludes.
Slowly, Percy nods, his brow drawing into a line.
Hanover laughs something bitter. “God,” She murmurs. “In my office. I guess I’d at least thought—” She cuts herself off, casting him a quick glance.
Percy keeps his chin up, keeps the waver out of his voice. It’s something he’s gotten especially good at. “That your space was safe?” He finishes for her.
Hanover is one of the few that knows about Anev—what they’d done to the team, in their own building, right under Percy’s nose.
“Yes,” She agrees quietly.
They both stay silent for a long moment. Percy trying to dispel his thoughts, Hanover diving headfirst into hers. Abruptly, Percy can’t help but think about just how tired he is. Of this— all of this— but, also, how badly he wishes he could sleep through the night.
He runs his fingers through his hair. “Do you think you can find the originals?”
Hanover nods. “Quietly.” She says, consideringly. “If not…” The statement is left unfinished. They both know the consequences of her investigation becoming public.
“Best of luck, Hanover.” Percy stands up and pushes his chair in behind him. “This meeting never happened.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” Hanover stands quickly. He can tell she’s looking directly at him. “Thank you, Jackson.”
One thing Percy truly appreciates about Willa Hanover—in the almost year he’d known her, never once had she said something she didn’t truly mean.
His back turned towards her, one hand on the doorknob, Percy pulls his lips into something that resembles a smile. “Whatever for?”
On his way out of her office, Percy steps over rivulets of water steaming down the crevices in the wood flooring from the bathroom down the hall. It drips down the stairs, steadily collecting into a puddle at the landing. When he goes down the stairs, it parts around his feet.
Notes:
how about that dream, hah...ha...h
the true tragedy here is percy and those pancakes
marie is hanover's wife btw, its just important to me that yall know shes gay married
ruh roh somethings up at the wsc. again. rip percys sleep schedule
-back at the tower-
tony: ...you alright?
bucky, punching a hole through a training dummy: I! MISS! MY! BOYFRIEND!
peter: ...did something happen to him?
bucky: HE IS AT WORK AND I LOVE HIM AND I MISS HIMplumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 30: Drained
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday, April 19th, 2018
1:09 PM
The Hub, NY
“Dan,”
The tech expert’s head pops up. “Yeah?”
His boss is standing in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame, hands in the pockets of his pants. “Tony asked me to tell you—Dr. Cho is going to be in New York for the next week. She has some free time on Friday, if you’re interested.”
Dan bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ll try and see her.” He replied.
Jackson just gave him a small nod. “Up to you,” Is all he says. Dan ducks his head down to look at the handle of his cane, resting against the desk. There’s a ribbon tied around the middle, courtesy of Mal, and a band of colorful duct tape around the bottom from Ross. They’d descended upon him with craft supplies a few weeks after he’d gotten out of the hospital (well…after him and Lee had…broken out). He’d been hesitant at first—the last thing that had been on his mind was drawing more attention to his new accessory. Mal had been the one to coax him into it at first.
They’d spent the next hour sitting together, listening to some podcast about dinosaurs Mal had put on. Ross had compared a few colorful wrappings, then had swiftly shifted to online shopping for more. Mal, on the other hand, had carefully braided ribbon in a multitude of colors. Dan had joined her—albeit much less successfully, with the small tremors in his hands.
It had been…fun. The thought of using his cane, and, God, his wheelchair, at that moment had been daunting. It wasn’t something he’d even wanted to think about. Ross and Mal had, to an extent, changed that.
Lee, too. The first few weeks after he’d gotten out of the hospital (since Anev—) Lee was a constant presence. Dan hadn’t minded. Quite the opposite, really. Ross and Mal were friends; good ones, who he trusted with his life, but Lee was different. He knew Lee like he knew himself. Lee had been there since he’d set foot in the U.S., give or take a few weeks. SHIELD academy was far from just Americans, but both of them had stuck out, accents and awkward phrasing. Admittedly, Lee more so than him—only one of them stood a foot and a half above crowds, in addition to all that, after all. They’d stuck together then, and they continued now.
There was something about Lee’s bluntness that, even after all these years of knowing him, was refreshing to Dan. On one of his worse days—that didn’t happen to that extent, anymore, thanks to therapy, both mental and physical—Lee had just stared at him, those vivid, colorless eyes boring into him.
He’d snapped at him. “What?”
Lee had just blinked. “What, yourself.”
Dan had glared. Lee had raised a brow. It’d been a ridiculous standoff, if one could even call it that. Dan was in a wheelchair that had pink streamers on the handles, like a child’s bike, and Lee was in a hand-knitted sweater, from Bridgette, that had a beetle on the front and the words ‘bug boy’ embroidered on.
They’d started laughing at the same time.
“God, you’re supposed to be gentle with me.” Dan had complained, clutching his stomach. “That’s what all my doctors said! I’m in a fragile state of mind!” He’d paraphrased. For once, the words didn’t taste like bile.
Lee had leveled him with a look. He had a way of doing that, of expressing a variety of emotions without his face even twitching. “You’re still a bitch.” Was all he’d said.
Dan laughed until he almost threw up.
He’d asked Lee if he had any decorations for his cane, weeks afterwards. Lee had stared at him and offered to carve in a swear word on the side with a screwdriver. Even now, Dan is still considering it. Probably more than he should be, to be honest, considering he takes the cane to work with him.
(…None of his coworkers were snitches. Well, Jackson would know regardless—the man knew everything, but Dan was pretty sure he’d be cool about it. As for people outside of SWORD…maybe Lee could do one in Norwegian.)
Snapping out of his thoughts, Dan looked up at Jackson. “Yeah. Thank you.” He tacked on. Jackson gave him the barest hint of a smile and dipped his head in a nod. He pushed himself off the doorframe, but halted before he turned to leave. “Hey, Dan, can you do me a quick favor, while I’m here?”
Dan pulled himself towards his computer setup, spinning a little in his fancy office chair. “What’s up?”
“Are there different types of printer ink—beyond color, of course?” Jackson asked.
Dan tilted his head to the side at the odd request, but obliged. A moment of typing later, he leaned in to look at the screen. “Yeah, there are. Inkjet printers use pigmented or dyed ink that’s mostly made of pigment, drying agents, binders, solvents, and other stuff. Laser printers use toner with polymers, minerals, and organic compounds.” He paraphrased.
Jackson hummed. Dan wasn’t sure whether that meant he was satisfied with the answer or not. “Thanks, Dan.” Jackson said before Dan could ask for some context.
“No…problem…” Jackson dropped a bag on his desk and—oh, he was already leaving,
Dan sighed. Whatever. It’s not like the curiosity would eat him alive, or anything.
Not at all.
He looked at the bag. It was full of banana taffy. Dan loved banana taffy, and he also knew for a fact that he’d never told Jackson that.
…He wasn’t going to let that worry him.
Tuesday, April 23rd, 2018
10:48 AM
The Hub, NY
They’d still found nothing on any of the WSC members. Hanover hadn’t reached out at all. No more bodies had shown up. There hadn’t been a whisper of any Hydra movement, and Natasha had just returned from a mission to bring in one of the last Raft escapees.
It was quiet.
Percy didn’t trust it.
He wasn’t sure whether or not to be worried that Hanover hadn’t said anything. It’d been over a week. Maybe her silence was good—she was making progress on her investigation and didn’t need any help.
Or it was going horrifically wrong and he needed to check up on her soon—something he’d have to do himself, alone. There was no way he was involving any SWORD members, especially when they had so little information. He tried to keep them away from the WSC as much as he could, a firm position which the WSC was forced to respect.
(He wasn’t ashamed in the slightest to say he scared some of the members into it. A few months ago, one Councilwoman had put forth the idea of requisitioning a few of his members—specifically Ross and Dan, and Percy had, to put it lightly, gone ballistic. Nobody had tried anything since.)
The sound of knuckles against the frame of his door broke him out of it. Lee strode through the open doorway. “I need you to come with me.” She said calmly.
Percy got up immediately.
Wordlessly, she led him down the steps and through the bullpen, then into the elevator. She takes it all the way down to the basement level. In the dim lighting, Percy’s nails dig into the meat of his palms. The only thing at the bottom level of the Hub, other than the boiler room, where none of them have gone since…since Anev, is Lee’s morgue.
Her heart rate is steady, but that doesn’t mean much—it barely ever jumps up from its resting rate. Percy wonders, briefly, if being down here alone as much as she is bothers her. It doesn’t seem to, but, privately, Percy thinks it should—another reason he’s glad Spencer is joining up. She could use some company down here.
Lee slides her key into the lock, punches in the code, and scans her thumb without blinking. The door slides open, and the blast of cool air is immediate. Percy shivers a little, and it’s not from the temperature. Lee still isn’t saying anything as she opens the panel on the far wall.
Percy, while her back is turned, briefly squeezes his eyes shut and exhales.
The large cabinets are set up in a four-by-four, sixteen in total. Only two are in use, labeled and tagged. Percy wishes it was zero.
At least she’d cleared out the severed human head from last year, he thought.
Lee opens the one on the far left and pulls out the drawer. The room drops a few degrees. “Jackson,” She says, very seriously. “What stage of decomposition would you say this body is in?”
He wants to leave.
Instead, he answers her. The blood loss from the wounds had been severe, and over half the blood had been drained when they’d found the body in the alleyway. “The temperature has kept the body from decomposing fully, so it hasn’t reached livor mortis.”
Lee is staring at him. “Why do you say that?”
He chews on the inside of his cheek. “We got the body in time before internal organ digestion could occur, and blood hasn’t pooled—” Percy stops cold.
Lee hasn’t blinked. “The blood.” She prods.
Percy shouldn’t have come. He should’ve stayed upstairs. “There’s no blood in the body.”
The forensic pathologist says nothing, instead sliding the drawer back into the cabinet with a push. She closes the metal door and locks it with one of the keys attached to her carabiner. Percy slowly turns to face her—he, too, says nothing, but everything is written on his face.
Lee hooks her keys back on on her belt loop. “I don’t know.” Is all she says. “At the scene, about seven units of blood were drained from the body, out of the average ten an adult has. The refrigeration should have prevented it from reaching livor mortis, just like you said. Self-digestion hasn’t taken full effect. By all logic, there should still be blood, albeit on the verge of pooling in certain spots, but that hasn’t happened. It hasn’t decomposed to the extent where the blood should be unidentifiable, not by a long shot. It’s just gone.”
“How long has this been like this?” Percy can’t draw his attention away, though the body has been returned to the mortuary cabinet. Lee’s voice sounds fuzzy to his ears.
“I’m not sure. I’d been noticing something odd, but I hadn’t quite realized what until today.” She admits. “But…this didn’t just suddenly happen. Whatever this,” She gestures loosely to the locked cabinet, “It’s been happening slowly, for a while.”
That ruled out some sort of…break in, or something, Percy concluded. There had been little chance of the killer, whoever or whatever they were, being completely mortal, human, unenhanced, or a non-magic user, but it was a chance all the same. This… draining proved that wrong.
Lee seemed to be on the same train of thought as him. “I figured you should know.” Her voice was quiet, but it echoed strangely in the shadows of the morgue.
Percy nodded without thinking. “Yeah,” He rasped. “Yes. Thank you, Lee. I’ll…I’ll look into it.” He turned to her. “Anything else?”
She shook her head, a bit of bitterness leaking into her voice. “That’s all I have.”
He regarded her for a moment, then put a careful hand on her shoulder. Like usual, she was cold, even through the thick fabric of her sweater. “Thank you,” He repeated. “You did good.”
That got the barest twitch of a smile from her. Percy went for the door, but paused. It was illogical, but he didn’t like to leave Lee down here alone, despite the fact that he knew she was all the time. “C’mon.” He said. “You should take your lunch break.” When she didn’t respond, he added on, “I was going to go out. Tag along.”
She glanced at him, then deflated a little. “Sure.”
He waited for her as she locked up, and then the two clocked out for their break. Bridgette—the only one remaining, as Ross and Mal had already left, and Dan was at an appointment—waved them goodbye. It was nice out, a few clouds drifting over the sun to provide moments of shade, partnered with a whisper of a breeze that barely tousled their hair.
It was a bit of a walk, and they ended up catching the subway, but neither minded. The surrounding crowd gave them enough breathing room, Percy’s cane and dog combined with Lee’s stature and resting look.
They ended up at a cafe not far from the tower—the very same one they’d met at two years previous, when Percy was still just Tony’s bodyguard and she was wasting her talents as a secretary, of all things. The Stark Gala had been all over the news, Percy had just killed Rumlow a few weeks prior, and—
Gods, it felt like a lifetime ago.
Looking at her now, in her olive shirt and loose brown trousers, blue corduroy jacket hung over the back of her chair, he wonders if she’s happier. If SWORD was worth it, to her. Lee crunches on the ice in her water with an odd sort of intensity that's unique to her.
She gets the exact same thing she ordered two years ago.
“Do you miss SI?” He asks her.
Lee looks up at him, the last piece of ice sitting in her cheek. “SI?” She repeats, words slightly slurred from the ice cube. She chews it and swallows, then rests her chin on her palm, elbow on the tabletop. “No.” Lee looks down and picks at her food, and, for a moment, Percy thinks she’s just going to leave it at that.
“Ms. Potts was nice.” Is what she eventually tacks on. “But I don’t miss it.”
“Pepper’s cool.” Percy agrees with a small smile.
Lee looks up at him for a second, then back down to her plate. “SHIELD scouted me. Did you know that?”
Percy shook his head. Like the rest of them, his team members' SHIELD files were gone. He’d never seen them, and, quite frankly, he was alright with that.
Her brow is knitted. “I finished high school when I was fifteen. Did college courses before I even got my diploma. I got into med school, and SHIELD reached out before I’d even finished. I…” She exhaled through her nose. “I jumped at the chance to leave, honestly. I’d put as much distance between my home and I as I could, but it still hadn’t been enough. I did my residency in the U.S. with SHIELD, and, Jackson, it was fucked. They cram double the material in half the time, and shove in classes that, to be honest, probably shouldn’t even exist into your schedule. I wanted to be a heart surgeon, you know. That didn’t stop my instructors from making sure I could amputate someone’s arm with a bowie knife and dental floss.”
Percy had known that SHIELD was brutal. The training was designed to weed out those who couldn’t hack it; the brutality, the violence, the pain—which is probably why he’d done so well at it. However, he, at least, had only gone through field operations training, not residency. Dan’s SHIELD academy education, he’d begun to understand, was similarly distressing.
Underneath the table, Percy’s nails dig into his palms. A part of him sincerely wishes he’d hurt Fury when he’d had the chance.
Lee finally takes a bite of her food. “After all of that, after all SHIELD put me through, it felt like such a waste to be in SI. They have medical research departments, but I’m a forensic pathologist, mainly, not a researcher. And…well, I knew a lot, from SHIELD. Things I shouldn’t. It was best for me to lay low.” The corners of her lips pull upwards. “Didn’t think Hydra would be on the hunt for a secretary.”
She finally looks up at him again. “To answer your question, I don’t regret SWORD.”
Percy didn’t think he’d ever get over how easily Lee could read him. “You don’t?”
“No.” She hummed. “I didn’t hate SI, but every day, sitting there, knowing that I was made for something more…” A shrug. “I went through a lot, and the result was that I was uniquely suited for SWORD. I worked my ass off in SHIELD, might as well put it towards something good. Hiding wouldn’t fix everything that had happened, so why should I keep doing it?”
Percy regards her for a long moment. “You know, I keep thinking that I understand you, but every time we talk like this, I feel like I’m just meeting you for the first time.”
She’s peeling the skin off a grape with her forefinger and thumb. “I could say the same for you, Percy.” Her eyes are like pools of clear water. “I’m glad you’re not dead. I like getting to know you.”
Her phrasing throws him off, and he can’t help the short bark of laughter that leaves him as she eyes the skinned grape. “I’m glad you’re not dead, too, Lee.”
She offers him a peeled grape.
They walk back to the Hub together. Ross is back, and Bridgette has left for her break. Mal is still out, but Percy isn’t concerned—she’s apparently been texting Ross live updates as she demolishes her way through a buffet, and it’s not like he gives a shit how long their breaks are.
“You going back down?” Percy asks Lee quietly as they step into the bullpen.
“Not like there's anything else I can do down there,” Lee replies. “Spencer needs help with some of his schoolwork.”
Percy nodded, something soft on his face. “You’ll be in the labs, then?”
She hums in agreement and heads down the hallway.
Privately, Percy had always thought it was kind of her to make herself available to Spencer. He was still in the middle of his medical program—no SHIELD training in sight, thank the Gods. Now that he knew more about what it had been like for Lee, he can’t help but wonder if that’s part of her motivation—to prepare Spencer for SWORD better, kinder, than she had been prepared.
He briefly greets Ross and Dan before heading up to his office. No sooner than when he sits at his desk, his phone goes off.
Hanover.
Percy steadies himself for a quick second, and answers on the second ring.
“I need to speak with you. ASAP.” Hanover says. Her voice is rough, strained.
“...When and where.”
“Not at the WSC building.” She says immediately. “Other than that, your choice.”
Percy chews on his lip as he deliberates. The tower is too conspicuous, and there’s no way he’s inviting her into the Hub. He’s become fiercely protective of the team and their building, and, on the off chance Hanover is being watched, the last thing he wants is to reveal the building’s location.
Instead, he tells her an address in Hell’s Kitchen. “Tomorrow. As early as you can.”
“Understood.” She hangs up, leaving Percy in the silence.
Hanover almost sounded like she’d been crying.
Notes:
one person specifically asked for more dan and lee content and they were very nice. so.
no bitches? nah, no BLOOD
percy (john mulaney voice): if you even fucking look at my team i will stomp you to death with my hooves
nobody:
lee in the morgue: 🥰lee...peeling grapes...revealing academic trauma...icon
also lee (john mulaney voice): if you even fucking look at spencer's education i will stomp you to death with my hooves
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 31: Field Trip
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday, April 24th, 2018
6:31 AM
Stark Tower, NY
Bucky wakes up cold.
He squints, blearily glancing to his right to see the bed empty. Bucky shifts, sitting up on his elbows to see Percy standing at the other end of their room, sliding dark, silky slacks up past his hips. Bucky watches for a moment as Percy reaches into their closet for one of his shirts, watches his bare shoulders and how the muscles on his back move. One scar in particular, going from his left shoulder blade down to his rib cage, ripples as he takes the shirt off the hanger.
A quick glance at the window revealed that the sun was only just barely rising, the sky still cast with warm golden light. Some leaked in through the cracks in the blinds, settling in bands over Percy’s bare skin. “The hell are you doin’ up?” Bucky asked.
Percy’s shoulders jolt slightly as he huffs out a laugh. “Hanover.” He reminds.
Bucky drops back down onto the bed. “Shit,” He groans.
“Sounds about right, yeah.” There’s little humor in Percy’s voice.
Bucky stands, rolling his artificial shoulder joint and stretching out his fingers. He comes to stand behind Percy, wrapping his arms around his middle, disrupting the process of buttoning up his shirt. He slides one up underneath the soft material of his shirt to rest on Percy’s bare stomach, and with the other, pulls at his open collar to expose his shoulder. Bucky leans down and presses his lips to Percy’s collarbone, then up the side of his neck and back down to his shoulder, taking his time as he moves across warm skin.
Percy hums, says his name like it’s something soft, reaching up to run a hand through Bucky’s hair.
He sucks a bruise over the base of Percy’s throat, hand against Percy’s stomach keeping him pressed against him. “I don’t like you going alone,” He says quietly, delicate skin between his teeth.
There’s a soft, shaky exhale. “I’m trying to keep the others out of it,”
Bucky’s hold on him tightens, just a bit. “I know,” He replies. “But I worry.” His lips skim over Percy’s throat again, feeling it bob as he runs across. “Let me come with you?”
He loves the way Percy’s laugh feels against his lips. “You gonna do this in front of Hanover?”
Bucky scoffs, giving Percy’s hip a squeeze. “Please,” One last kiss. “My eyes only.”
Percy turns in his hold, their chests together, and reaches up to hold Bucky’s face with both hands. He runs his thumb across Bucky’s lower lip, then leans in and kisses him soundly. “Dickhead,” He says affectionately. “Just…be careful?”
Bucky rests his chin atop Percy’s head, something which never fails to make the shorter man huff, just a bit. “You can’t tell,” He replies, “But I’m giving you the bitchiest look right now. ‘Be careful’ —between the two of us, only one has strolled right into a Hydra base with no backup.”
“I was mad.”
“You’re always mad,” Bucky rolls his eyes and takes a step back, doing up the last few buttons of Percy’s shirt, smoothing a hand over the material, covering marks already turning red. “Seriously, I think you’ve lost your shit at pretty much everyone you work with, other than SWORD and us.”
Percy hums. “Tony hasn’t told you about the acid touching incident, then?”
“The what?”
“Get dressed, we gotta leave soon.”
“Percy?”
“Like, ten minutes. Lea! C’mon, baby, let's get you breakfast before we leave.”
“Percy?”
Mrs. O’Leary takes them to a secluded space behind two dumpsters. Percy takes his cane out from his inner pocket and unfolds it, wordlessly taking Bucky’s arm. Mrs. O’Leary scampers off, probably to entirely demolish a colony of alley rats.
“The Mist should cover any cameras,” Percy says softly, lips inches away from Bucky’s ear. They’re almost hip-to-hip, Bucky's arm around Percy’s waist as they walk down the cracked sidewalk. It’s decently sunny out, now, rays of light peeking over buildings and casting shadows across the streets. They’re somewhere in Midtown West, heading towards the Hudson—though, to an onlooker, it would seem like Bucky is leading, Percy is gently tugging him in the right direction and giving quiet instructions. Bucky keeps an eye out for other things—people, mainly. A man, leaning up against a lamp post with a burnt out cigarette hanging from his lips, gives Percy a long, speculative look, and Bucky recognizes the disguised shape of a switchblade in his jacket.
Bucky gives the man a long, hard state, rolling the joint of his metal shoulders and flexing his fingers. The man balks and looks away.
Percy leads them into a steadily worse part of the city, passing into Hell’s Kitchen, well into the heart of a few blocks that had been passed around from gang to gang. The further they go—to Bucky’s slight surprise—the less people state at Percy, and the more they stare at him. More often than not, Bucky stares back, and they eventually nod, or look away, or tip their heads to the side. At the corner of an intersection, waiting for the crosswalk, Bucky presses a kiss to Percy’s temple. “This is it, hm?”
Percy looks over at him, blinking sea glass eyes.
“Where you grew up.” Bucky elaborates.
A smile that outclasses the rising sun above. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
They cross the street, still intertwined in each other's space. The wall to their left has razor wire stretched across the top, and Bucky sidesteps a puddle of half-dried piss. There’s a group of kids walking down the other side of the street, one with a basketball under her arm. “Nobody really looks at you for that long. Me, on the other hand—I’m pretty sure that guy we just passed with the newspapers just tried to kill me with his eyes.”
Dimples flash. “Yeah, that sounds about right,” Percy says lightly. “That’s Ricciardo. Cool guy. His stand has been there longer than I’ve been alive, I’m pretty sure. Used to tell me if there was anything interesting happening whenever I stopped by on my walk home from school.”
Briefly, he imagines that—a tiny version of Percy, stopping patiently to get his fill of the news like clockwork.
“Plus,” Bucky adds on, “Darling, you’ve got one of the thickest damn accents I’ve ever heard. I’m pretty sure someone could tell the exact block you grew up on if you spoke to them long enough.”
Percy smacks him on the arm. “I do not!”
“Well, not usually,” Bucky says. “But when you wake up…you’re lucky I’m from Brooklyn, doll, because I think if you went up to anyone else, they wouldn’t get a lick of whatever you’re saying.”
Percy rolls his eyes.
Bucky takes a long look around. Even this early, there are a few people about; two kids sitting on the steps of an apartment building, an older man opening up a corner store, a team of three unloading a truck into a grocery, and a woman walking her dog. The sidewalks are cracked, and small weeds shoot up from the gaps in concrete—he steps over a small dandelion, still yellow and round. “I like it.” He comments.
“I’m glad.” Percy says, and he sounds like he truly means it. “I…usually don’t take people around here. It’s not the…” He trails off, humming. “Easiest? I don’t know.”
“I can understand that,” Bucky agrees, taking another glance around. There’s not a single street light or utility cabinet that's untagged, and trash litters the sidewalks. “I think Tony would have already tried to break into people’s garages and fix their cars.”
Percy snorted softly. They stop in front of an apartment building, a rusted handrail with chipped paint lining only one side of the stairs. The front door requires a harsh shoulder-check to open, and the inside smells like cigarette smoke, yellowed walls and cracked tiles. Percy bypasses the elevator entirely—sensible, considering the fallen, faded caution tape that’s long since fluttered to the ground near it. They climb to the fourth floor, and Percy tugs him towards the door at the end of the hallway.
As Percy’s pulling out his keys, the door to their left opens, and a young woman with curlers in her hair pokes her head out. Her face lights up once she sees Percy, and she fully steps out, softly closing the door behind her. “Ay! Percy, ¿qué onda, cabrón?” She peers behind Percy to look at Bucky, and her brows raise. “¿Y quién es este?”
He smiles at her, all teeth and dimples. “Hola, Elena. Este es mi novio, James.”
She gasps. “¿Novio? ¿Desde cuándo?”
Bucky answers, this time. “Hemos estado saliendo durante ocho meses. Es un placer conocerte, por cierto.”
“¿Y también habla español?” She gives Bucky another onceover, this time with a smile curling at her painted lips. “Nice to meet you as well, James.” Her accent is soft and warm, and it fits in nicely with the roundness of her face, the vibrant color of her pajamas. Her makeup is half done, clearly in the middle of getting ready to leave.
Percy checks his watch. “How’s Alex?” He asks her.
She rolls her eyes. “Still a shit,” Elena looks at him a moment, then adds on, “But doing better. I’ll see you around, yeah?”
“‘Course.” He says, giving her a short, but genuine, smile. She nods, taking a step back and opening her door. Elena gives them both a small wave before disappearing back into her apartment.
As Percy unlocks his own door, he explains. “She moved here a couple years ago. Left her piece of shit ex and took the kid, thank the Gods. Fucker found her one day and started trying to bust down the door. I leant her Lea, for a bit.” His grin is all teeth. “Cleared that one up, fast.”
Bucky snickers quietly. “I’d pay to see that one.”
“I’d pay to see.”
“Fucker.”
The apartment is exactly what Bucky expected.
The building itself is a piece of shit, but this one apartment is anything but. The walls have a coat of unchipped paint, and the windows are clean and uncracked, flowers growing in boxes on the sills. The furniture is all mismatched—thrifted, knowing Percy—and the two rugs, one in the living room and one in the entryway, are colorful and patterned. Picture frames line the walls, there’s a dog bed the size of a table near the couch, and an absolutely giant fern has taken over an entire corner. There’s a worn aviator's jacket tossed over the back of an armchair, and a pair of wire glasses sit on the coffee table.
Percy checks his watch again as Bucky wanders further into the apartment. There’s art supplies on the bookshelf; color pencils and a few sticks of charcoal in a hand-made mug. The first picture, hanging next to the shelf, is Percy. He’s standing with his arm slung around Hazel’s shoulder. Nico is on his other side, and Percy has a hold on his jacket—that very same aviator's jacket, it seems—pulling him close for the picture. Crouching, in front of them, is a blonde man with wire-frame glasses, similar to the ones on the table, and a teenage girl with black hair. Both of them, visible even in the photo, have electrically blue eyes. Thalia and Jason, he recognizes.
As Percy checks his phone, Bucky’s eyes wander back to the younger version of him in the photo. He’s smiling, ear to ear, all dimples and crinkled eyes, in a Camp shirt with a gash in the sleeve.
Bucky makes a mental note to call Sally, when he has the time, and see what he has to do to get his hands on some of Percy’s childhood photos.
There are more—he’s pleased by how easily he recognizes everyone, just from Percy’s stories and memories. There’s one of Reyna, Piper on her back and Jason in her arms. Hazel, with the head of a giant bear—Frank, presumably—in her lap, with dandelion flowers braided into his fur. Leo and Percy, both covered in soot with wide eyes. Rachel, doubled over and coughing, a mug of paint water in her hand, followed by another one of her facing the camera with a purple tint around her mouth and a sad expression. Will Solace, eyes glazed over and staring at Nico. Connor Stoll running from Travis, who’s atop Katie Gardener’s shoulders. Clarisse LaRue and Percy, both covered in sweat and bruises, likely from each other.
It occurs to Bucky that Percy wasn’t the one who put them up—that, combined with the various items scattered around the apartment, it seems like people just come and go, flit in and out. It’s a nice idea, Bucky decides.
“Hanover’s almost here,” Percy tells him, standing by the window. “You can take a seat, if you want,” He nods to a large, cushy armchair. “That’s the spot where my mom killed Gabe.”
Bucky immediately goes to sit there, leaning back and making himself comfortable. “Your mom is so cool.”
“I know.”
It’s a very nice chair, to be fair. It’s clearly worn in, and a rip in the side has been embroidered shut with wildflowers. Bucky kicks his feet up and entertains himself by imagining a slow, agonizing death for Gabe Ugliano.
It’s five minutes before Percy speaks up again. “She’s coming,”
A moment later, and Bucky can hear her—footsteps on the chipped tile of the hallway on the ground floor, ascending up the concrete staircase.
Percy opens the door before she can even knock.
She looks out of place. Out of her tailored suits and nice shoes, the sternness of her expression replaced with a casual sort of nerves. She’s wearing a button-up blouse and a pair of jeans, long braids up in a hasty bun, sunglasses perched on the top of her head. She makes brief eye contact with Bucky, and he gives her a respectful nod, but doesn’t stand. Hanover quietly closes the door behind her, casts a quick look around, and opts to pull out one of the dining chairs to sit on instead of the couch.
“We’re good.” Percy says. He stays standing, but leans against the bar, half-casual and vigilant. Hanover nods, running a hand over her face. Her shoulders are slumped, and her eyes dark and ringed. There’s a spot of blood on her tip where she’s chewed through, raw tissue and cracked skin.
“It was Graves.”
It’s only because Bucky knows Percy so well that he interprets the pure rage that flickers in his eyes. Just for a second, Bucky’s enhanced ears pick up the sounds of the plumbing system—definitely of the whole building, maybe even more widespread, creak ominously.
Hanover looks at him, then at Bucky. “He’s Hydra.”
Enhanced hearing isn’t needed for the creaking clenched vibranium. Bucky says nothing, but his face is like stone, his eyes frost.
She inhales, a ragged noise, and continues. “He’s on a last ditch effort to find allies. Hydra’s barely holding on, and he knows it.” Hanover chews on her lip, right over the bloody spot. She doesn’t seem to notice. “There’s something he wants— needs— in Sokovia. In the consulate. I think those two are related. I can’t think of anything else that would make him this desperate, this, this reckless."
Percy mulls it over through his fury. “Maybe,” He says slowly. “So what? Where do we go from here?”
Hanover straightens. It’s impressive, Bucky thinks, her fortitude. “I hand my findings to you.” She says quietly. “You’re the SWORD commander, it’s—it’s your choice.”
Percy regards her for a long moment, his face giving nothing away. The pipes have stopped creaking, but the air is thick, almost tight. A soft exhale is the only sign of his decision. “And what if I chose to do a favor to a colleague?”
The relief that courses through Hanover is immediate. She droops, head cradled in her hand. “I would owe you,” She opens with, voice betraying her with a quiet tremble. “And I would do anything in my power to help.”
His boyfriend shifts, only slightly, to face Bucky, the barest twitch of his brow— are you in?
As if he even needs to ask. Bucky stands. “Good.” He says. “We’re gonna need it.”
Percy doesn’t make decisions on the behalf of his team. Hanover, after an hour of weighted discussion, takes her leave, and Mrs. O’Leary takes the pair straight to the Hub. Already, the whole team is there, gathered in the bullpen. They all fall silent once they see the look on Percy’s face.
Somehow, they fall even quieter when Percy relays everything Hanover had told them. “If it goes bad, she can’t get us out.” He warns them. “We can count on her for help, but not to that extent.”
Ross, sitting in his desk chair, pulls his knees up to his chin. “What’ll happen?”
Percy runs an agitated hand through his hair. The strip of black dye hiding the streak of gray near his temple has washed out, leaving it standing stark against his skin. “We’ll get out,” He says, “But it won’t be anything close to legal. Fake names, backstories…you’ll lose everything material, including your own identity.”
Mal’s breath whistles sharply through her teeth on the exhale. “Fuck,” She breathes.
Bridgette and Lee make eye contact. A thousand words seem to pass between cinnamon and glass, and Bridgette gives her spouse the smallest of nods.
“I will go.” Lee says.
Dan drags a hand over his face. “Shit, me too.” He grins crookedly, but it’s nervous. “If we can do the whole runaway thing once, I figure we can do it again.”
Spencer’s lips part in surprise, looking between him and Lee, and Bucky can see the workings of his brain through the scrunch of his brow. Spencer doesn’t volunteer himself, but Bucky doesn’t blame him. The kid has almost no field experience, especially compared to Lee—not all of them should go, anyway. Leaving the Hub unattended would be asking for trouble.
Ross’s arms are wrapped around his legs, and his chair is still shifting with the leftover force of his nervous spins. “You’re probably going to need a profiler,” He says quietly. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek. “This is a big one, yeah?”
Percy nods.
“I’ll go.” Ross announces.
Mal looks at the three volunteers, then down at her feet. She wets cracked lips. “We pretty much have no idea what we’ll be facing?”
“If it’s bad, I’ll pull you out.” Percy swears. His words echo strangely in the silent bullpen, rounded like the crack of thunder.
Mal gives him a weak smile. “I know.” It’s soft, genuine, and her utter belief in Percy makes Bucky love him all the more. “But, well, if we’re gonna be blindsided—er, sorry—” Percy cracks a grin, and she continues. “You might need me to MacGyver something up. Plus, I’ve always wanted to see Sokovia,” She tacks on, injecting some humor into her voice.
Percy dips his head. “Thank you,” He says. “All of you. Really. Spencer, Bridgette—if there are any developments in our cases, contact me immediately. Keep an eye out. Romanoff is bringing in some Raft escapees, but other than that, it’ll be quiet, Gods willing.”
“Yes, sir,” Bridgette says lightly, doing a little salute with a smile. Percy exhales and shakes his head with a smile, before turning to the rest of the group. “Looks like we have a trip to plan.”
Notes:
precious wintersea moment <3 aka episode 174 of bucky being down bad
percy: be careful
bucky:
bucky:
bucky: are you fucking kidding me rnacid drinking incident mention!! shout out to those who remember chapter 4 of the file
mrs o'leary the menace of the hells kitchen ecosystem
all of hell's kitchen: omg little percy jackson got a boyfriend!!
and little percy jackson is 6 feet tall with a kill count in the thousandsim a percy nyc accent truther. bucky has one too but its a silly old timey one. or a russian accent. depends how tired he is
please. i know my spanish is shit. i tried so hard i swear
the apartment where gabe hurt sally and percy for years being turned into a little demigod family safehouse where they can just drop in and hang out is something thats so important to me
au where bucky gets turned back into the soldier;
hydra guy: what is your mission soldier
bucky: find percy baby photos :D
hydra guy: im sorry?hanovers going through it im sorry guys
sword team field trip!!
plumbing baby, goodbye
Chapter 32: Not Mine
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday, April 27th, 2018
2:49 PM
Stark Tower, NY
Percy all but collapsed onto the couch next to him.
Tony looked over, raising an amused brow at the demigod lump with his face pressed into the cushion, the top of his head pressed against the side of Tony’s leg. After a moment, Tony reached out and put a hand atop his inky curls, lightly scratching his scalp. “You alright there?”
The responding groan was concerning. Percy, leaning into his hand, turned his head barely enough for Tony to be able to understand his words. “I’m going to Sokovia.”
“Sokovia?” Tony repeated, something in his chest tightening. Momentarily, he paused his ministrations in shock. “Why?”
Percy lightly headbutted his hand to get him to resume. “Graves. Hydra. Fuckin’ assholes.”
“Yeah, Perce, I’m going to need you to elaborate on that a little.”
With another drawn out groan, Percy shifted onto his back, using Tony’s knee as a pillow. The contact—something Tony typically wasn’t fond of—was accepted easily. “Hanover found some bullshit, Graves was tampering with her documents about Sokovia. There’s something in the consulate building he needs. So we’re gonna go and find it before he can.”
Tony pursed his lips, displeased. “Perce…this is literally the worst time for this.”
Gods, that man was capable of the bitchiest looks. “Trust me, I’m aware. We’ve exhausted all avenues about the bodies we found, and we’re no further on anything about Hydra.” He brings a hand up to rub his eyes. “Unless another body drops, or we get another opportunity like this to do some serious damage to Hydra, we’re just sitting ducks.”
Though he didn’t like it, Percy had a point. Tony sighed. “Who’s going?”
“Lee, Dan, Mal, and Ross all volunteered. I’m pretty sure nobody could stop Jamie if they tried, so…” He shrugs, an awkward movement with how he’s laying.
“I’ll keep an eye out and call you if anything happens.” Tony promises. Percy smiles up at him—exhausted but genuine. “Thanks.”
Tony hums in agreement. “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
He gives the man one last, long look. “Are you alright? Besides the obvious, I mean.”
Percy’s eyes slip closed. “Headache.” Is all he offers. Tony casts a glance at his watch. “Take a nap.” He suggested. “You look like you need it. Seriously, you look like shit.”
“Gods, you’re such an asshole.” Percy replies, even as he curls in on himself, burning his face in the back couch cushion. He falls asleep fast—probably too fast. Tony keeps his hand settled on Percy’s head, occasionally checking in on him, sweeping hair out of his face.
Percy dreams of his father.
He dreams of white-crested waves, reaching up and pulling ships down with a single swoop. He dreams of the screams of sailors, their prayers, their thanks. He dreams of the way rain sounds when it hits the surface of the sea, the feeling of the currents circling around the world like a serpent.
He dreams of his father, standing over it all.
Poseidon holds his trident, deep bronze lit up by flashes of lightning, carving into the surface, and Percy knows that storm does not belong to Zeus.
Percy dreams of the trident.
Years ago, when he had held it, he remembers how it made him feel—as if he could grasp every drop of water across the globe. The crash of every wave, the shift of every tide, the churn of every storm, all at the tips of his fingers. He felt like a God, or as close as he could get.
It was not a feeling he missed.
Thinking back on it, that sort of sensation, of complete and utter power at a twitch, it reminded him too much of burst blood vessels, of ruptured organs, of split flesh and spilling blood. It reminded him too much of his handiwork.
He dreams of bones at the bottom of the sea. He knows who they belong to. He knows he’s the one who’s put them there.
Percy dreams of a sea turning scarlet, the scent of salt air replaced by warm, sticky iron.
Why should one be held accountable for the sins of their forebears?
It sounds as if the sea itself is speaking to him.
Why are you so determined?
Where will you stop?
The rain is dark and tastes like metal.
If you mark it all up, will you drown in it?
Or, will you drown them?
Percy jolts awake, bolting upwards. Tony jumps slightly, eyes wide. “Christ!” He hisses. Percy braces a hand on the back of the couch, his chest heaving as his shoulders curl inwards. His hair hangs limply in front of his eyes, brushing the tip of his nose.
Tony hovers a hand over his shoulder as if he can’t decide whether or not to touch him. “Percy?”
Percy tries to respond, but his voice fails him. He shakes his head, running a hand over his face. His hands are trembling. He curls them into fists and folds his arms tight to his chest. The sounds of the tower—Tony, his heartbeat and his breathing right next to him, Bucky’s in their apartment, Natasha’s down in the gym, the footsteps reverberating through the floors and the almost inaudible sounds of the pipes and vents that run through the walls—are overlaid by the sound of the sea.
It rushes in his ears like blood on adrenaline.
Tony’s hand is warm and strong on his shoulder, thumb swooping over the curve of his collar. “Perce?” The man tries again.
Percy tips his head back into Tony. “Shit,” Is all he rasps out. He swallows, but his mouth is bone dry. “Shit.”
“Bad one?” Tony leans forward a bit to try and get a look at Percy’s face. He obligingly tips his head up a bit. “I—” He breaks off. “Yeah.”
Tony clicks his tongue to the top of his mouth. “Need anything?”
Percy shakes his head, bringing his knees up to his chest, resting his chin atop his folded arms. He squeezes his eyes shut and, muffled into the sleeves of his sweatshirt, croaks, “No,”
His friend doesn’t take his bluntness to heart. Tony just nods and sits back, glancing his way every few minutes.
Demigod dreams suck. That’s a rule of life. But, Gods, Percy swears his are getting weirder. Worse, too, but that was expected, honestly, with the everything that’s been happening. The recent ones he’s been having, though, are just fucking weird. He wakes up scared sometimes, sure, but sometimes he’s…he doesn’t even know. Percy’s skin feels prickly, like an electric current is running between flesh and muscle.
Eyes squeezed shut, he forces himself to breathe, inhaling, holding, and exhaling in a rhythmic cycle. It helps a little, his heart rate beginning to drop from its booming peak.
To his left, Tony casts another furtive look at him. Like this, he doesn’t look like a commander, an ex-merc and agent, a soldier. His sweats have a hole at the knee he’s wearing fair isle patterned socks, and the crew neck he’s wearing is too big in the shoulders and arms.
He looks young.
Percy’s measured breath hitches. Slowly, he raises his head—there’s an otherworldly contrast in his eyes, sea-glass-green backed by red tinged white with deep, bruise-like swoops of skin beneath them. There’s a furrow in his brow as he begins to uncurl, unfolding himself from the couch and tentatively standing.
“Do you feel that?” Percy asks him as if he already knows the answer.
“No.”
There’s a tense, tangibly stiff moment as Percy slowly turns in a circle in the middle of the living room. Tony doesn’t dare move, sitting upright and taught where he is, watching Percy.
Tony only gets a brief whiff of the sudden, overwhelming scent of saltwater before it happens. The world seems to tilt on its axis, the atmosphere growing dense and heavy with water, condensing and tightening in the middle of the room, a mere few feet in front of Percy. A sole blink is all it takes, and, suddenly, a man stands in front of them.
The first thing Tony notices is the striking similarity to Percy. The man—the God’s— hair is dark, his skin a tanned bronze. He’s around the same height and build, and his eyes are the same green.
The second thing is how wrong his first observation was. Percy’s hair is shorter, while this God’s is pulled into a low tail. Percy’s face is freckled, scarred, and his nose is just a tad crooked. The stranger in front of them has none of these marks—his face is unblemished, strikingly, almost unnervingly, flawless. The eyes…there is something different, there, as well, but Tony finds himself unable to articulate it.
“Get out.” Percy’s voice is flat, but there is an undercurrent of a horrific kind of rage as his fists curl, half hidden by the sleeves of Bucky’s crewneck. “Now.”
The God’s face is cold, even in the face of Percy’s blistering fury. “I am here to take you to Father.” He holds out a hand, expectantly, and Tony can’t help the way his lips part in silent shock. His view is half-blocked by Percy, who has slowly shifted in between them, but he can still catch the bored look on the God’s face.
“Out, Triton.” Is all Percy grits out. His shoulders are rigid, set.
The God lazily tips his head to the side, his eyes unerringly fixated on Percy’s face. “Calm yourself, little brother.” He says it like it’s an insult. “Come along.”
Percy doesn’t move a muscle. “You,” He says, “Are no brother of mine. Leave. You’re not welcome here.” Behind his back, Percy makes the smallest of movements, gesturing for Tony to back up, step away, run. Tony’s breath catches in his throat, and he wants nothing more to get FRIDAY to blow a hole through the God’s head, immortality be damned. Instead, he trusts Percy, and, as quietly as he can, stands and shifts backwards. Tony knows little of Gods, but he knows their tempers. He knows that, when it comes down to it, he is just a mortal to them. Unimportant. Unnecessary.
Triton moves forward, closer to Percy. “End this childishness.”
Tony takes a few more steps away, his heart thudding in his ears. It kills him to back away from Percy like this, but…he couldn’t ignore his wishes. Especially not now.
“Tell Dad to shove it up his ass.” Percy doesn’t sound like himself. There is something low and raspy in his voice, but it’s not from whatever had visited him in his sleep. It’s as close to a snarl—or perhaps even beyond—a human can get. It’s animalistic, wild, and angry.
Just as Tony slips out of the room, around a corner, he sees the God’s face drop, all facades of ease and mocking gone, replaced with a powerful sort of wrath. “Do not,” He says slowly, “ Ever speak to me, or of him, like that, unless you wish for a death so slow and agonizing.”
FRIDAY, smartly, seems to have alerted Bucky. At the edge of the hall, the stairway entrance opens without a sound, and Bucky silently comes to stand next to Tony. They both strain their ears to hear Percy’s response.
The demigod regards Triton with something equal measures amused and furious. Percy steps closer, dangerously close, soft, worn fabric against armor shining gold in the traces of sunlight coming through the lowered blinds.
Percy’s face twists in an uncanny imitation of a smile, incisors glinting in the overhead light. “Yeah?” He breathes, something wild shining in his eyes. “What are you gonna do, Triton?” The God’s face twitches, only for a second. Percy seeks it out like blood in the water. “You think you can force me to do anything, Triton? Really?”
Triton’s fingers flex and a gleaming, wicked sharp trident materializes in his grip with a soft snap. He’s the picture of a prince, standing firm as he is. Next to him, Percy looks unkempt, messy hair and deep eyes. There’s something rangy about him in comparison, like a wild dog staring down a prized purebred. Percy’s hand, scarred and twisted in a way Triton’s never will be, reached out into the space between them. A sole fingertip drags up a prong of the trident between them. His lips pull into a grin, something crooked and mocking. “I’ve wielded better.”
At that, Triton’s knuckles turn white around the hilt, something bitter flashing over his unnatural features that quickly turns to rage, biting and encompassing like a typhoon. He speaks like every word is dragged out between his teeth. “Your hubris will bring about your death, Perseus.”
The thing about Gods, the two men around the corner realize, is that they make everything they say sound like a promise; an offer, giving the air itself some weight.
A haunting noise echoes strangely throughout Pepper’s designer’s open floor plan, and Tony realizes a moment into it that Percy is laughing. It’s hollow and raw, but it’s him.
“That’s your problem, Triton. You always try to preach that hubris and defiance are one in the same.” He’s speaking to Triton, sure, but they all know he means more than the God in front of him when he says you, though his face is inches from Triton’s. “I’m not coming with you. Leave.” In this little moment between that order and his next words, Tony swears that even his heartbeat takes a pause to listen. “Before I make you.”
Something in Triton snaps. “You forget your place!” His voice reverberates through the room, bouncing off the walls in a wall that makes it feel all-encompassing. An otherworldly glow emanates from his eyes.
Yet, Percy does not move.
He steps closer, fists unclenching and fingers curling and stretching at his sides. His chest heaves, but it is not with fear or a lack of breath. “You forget yours!” Percy roars back. Those twisted, scarred fingers shoot out, grabbing a hold of the collar of Triton’s pearl-studded tunic. “Who the fuck do you think you are, Triton?”
The God pushes back, a strong hand finding its way to the base of Percy’s throat. “A God!” He spits back, fingers flexing dangerously.
There is something utterly savage in Percy’s eyes. “Not mine,” He snarls. “Not mine.”
The vitriol-filled rejection makes something shutter in Triton’s fury. “And yet,” He breathes out, a twisted humor on his face, “You are but a mortal at the end of the day.”
The way Percy regards the God is entirely foreign. Though his knuckles are white, clutching the fine fabric of the God’s collar, Percy’s shoulders lose their tension, his spine its rigidness. “If that is all you will ever see me as,” Percy tells the God in their living room. “Then I pity you.”
Triton doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that. He exhales, lip still curled as he shakes his head, “There is no going back from this, Perseus. Come.”
To the God, the man in front of him is a stranger—the whisper of wildness that lived in him as a teen having turned into a deafening cacophony. “I reached that point when I was seventeen, and we both know it.” He drops Triton’s collar, hands falling loosely to his side. Triton does not let go of him in turn. Percy stands there, the hand of a God around his throat and the hands of something more in his voice. “The sea doesn’t like to be restrained. Isn’t that what our father always says? Then, why are you all so scared?”
“You do not scare us, Perseus.” Triton rebukes him. “Do not flatter yourself so.”
“There is no pride to be found in this, Triton.” Percy says. “There is no pride in the way my throat is raw from screaming for Gods that are never listening. There is no pride in the way I will feel my loss as deeply and express it as violently as I please. There is no pride in what you all have done to me.” Percy’s voice is trembling. Anger isn’t the right word anymore. Blind rage has eroded away by waves of weighted past, and something, bruised and bloody like desperation, has seeped in like an infection. “Leave, Triton. All of you have taken enough from me—taken, and taken, and taken, until I have so little left that you begin to fight over the scraps. I will not make myself digestible for you. If my remains are what will satisfy your greed, you can choke on them.”
There has never been a silence like the one in the living room in that moment.
“There is something wrong with you, Perseus.” Triton whispers, voice tight and strangled, dropping his hand from the base of Percy’s neck as if he was burned. For the first time, Tony understands fear in a God. “Something disturbed. Inhuman.”
Percy’s eyes are the never ending swirl of a whirlpool. “You would know humanity?”
Triton numbly takes a step back, his eyes never leaving Percy, something horrified and repulsed and absolutely terrified in his eyes.
“I am only what you’ve made me, Triton.” Outside, the sky weeps, and Triton’s trembling hands reach up to wipe at his upper lip.
Between the two brothers, a sole drop of ichor hits the floor.
Notes:
nice to see you guys for the first time since...july...
percy and tony are so special to me
and percy being tortured by the visions. again
something about the parallel nature of brothers who lived opposite lives idk
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 33: Chainlink
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday, May 1st, 2018
2:49 AM
A Tributary of the Black Sea
Percy stood at the helm, eyes closed as the freezing spray of the water hit his face. He guided their small boat against the flow of the river, silent beneath the cover of the moon.
Behind him, Dan and Lee sit knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder. He’s bundled up in a thick jacket and scarf, and she’s in a high-collared sweater and jeans. Dan’s messy fringe whips around his face as the boat speeds up, allowing small glances of the scarring across his hairline and temple to escape.
Mal’s hair is braided back, in one long plait. There are no clips or ribbons decorating it like usual, instead simply pulled out of her face. Similarly, Ross’s makeup is minimal, the majority of his piercings removed and replaced with retainers.
They’ve all endeavored to look as forgettable as possible.
Bucky sits at the back of the boat, eyes narrowed at the passing riverbanks. His fists, both metal and bone, are clenched around the railing of the boat.
“We’re here,” Percy says, voice hushes as the boat begins to slow, drifting towards a small portion of land the river bends around. “Border is a mile away.”
Lee is the first to stand, hiking her duffel over her shoulder, then helping Dan up. They disembark the boat in silence, then stand at the bank and watch as it slowly sinks below the choppy water. They’re surrounded by the sound of rain hitting the earth, but not a single drop touches them.
“You’re sure you can get that back out?” Ross asks quietly.
Percy nods. “Very.”
That seems to be good enough for him, and he shrugs his backpack onto his shoulders.
The hike is slow-going, both to accommodate for Dan and his cane as well as to maintain their cover. The ground is thoroughly soaked by the time they crest the small hill, half-frozen and muddy at the high altitude.
The van that rests at the bottom is caked with mud, wheels sunk down a few inches into the sodden earth. Dan keeps a steady hold on Lee as they make their way towards it, shoulders up to their ears and eyes squinting in the low lighting. Bucky opens up the back and ushers everyone in as Lee makes her way to the front seat, pulling a carabiner with a sole key and fob from her pocket.
Inside, they strip off their extra layers and pile them in the middle of the van floor. Lee cranks up the heater as soon as the engine turns over, and they settle in as the almost blistering air seeps from the vents.
Ross, after kicking aside his rain jacket, begins poking around, reaching under the seats and in the compartments on the van walls. From the front, Lee reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a manilla envelope, then handing it back to Ross without turning to face him.
Their profiler tears into it, pulling out a few paperclipped packets. He flips through them briefly before handing them out, one to each person.
“Oooh,” Mal says after looking hers over. “I’m super cool this time! I’m a cameraman!”
“No,” Ross says. “Not quite, there, babe. You’re a cinematography scene scout,” He corrects gently. “Considering you don’t even have film equipment, you’re gonna need to learn the difference.”
“I have a camera!” Mal protests with a small frown.
“For pictures, not video,” Ross says. “You’re taking photos to bring back to the crew to evaluate potential locations.”
Mal sighs.
“I got equipment manager,” Dan says. “I’m just gonna yammer about tech stuff in case anyone asks. You?”
Ross waves his little packet. “Suck it, bitches! I’m a producer!”
A wave of complaints rise from the two sitting across from him. Bucky rolls his eyes, leaning back against the van wall. “Why does it matter?”
Mal huffs. “It’s about the prestige,” She explains hotly.
“Of a fake identity that’ll last, like, two weeks, max?”
“Yes!” She squints at him. “What’d you get?”
Bucky gives her a shit-eating grin. “Stunt coordinator.”
“Oh, what the fuck?” Dan whines. “That’s so cool!”
They look at Percy. He sighs, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips. “Screenwriter. Because, well, you know me. Writing. Literacy, and all that.”
“...Oh.” Dan says.
Bucky smacks Percy lightly on the arm. “You’re dyslexic, not fucking illiterate!”
Percy rocks his hand side to side in a so-so gesture. “I have a sword. I don’t need to read,”
Bucky stares at him, aghast.
Ross, Mal, and Dan look away from whatever those two are doing, towards the front seat. Lee, who’s been quietly messing with the radio for the past few minutes, grunts. “Translator,” She says flatly.
They continue to stare. She sighs and swivels in her seat to face them. “Sokovian mother, Ukrainian father. I was raised in America, but had family in Sokovia. I became a translator and got hired by your production company to help you survey Novi Grad for your docuseries. I speak the national language of Ukrainian, as well as the common languages of Russian and Slovak.” She recited.
A pause.
“You speak Slovak?” Ross asked. “I didn’t know that.”
Lee shrugged. “I have hobbies.”
“So…basically, we can say dumb shit in English and it’s Lee’s job to make us sound smart and normal?” Dan asked. Lee gave him a nasty look from the rear view mirror.
“It’s Andriy to you, asshole,” She replies. “And no, don’t do anything stupid, there’s a fair amount of people who speak English in Sokovia, especially recently.”
Dan sighs.
Lee shifts gears and flips on the windshield wipers. “Buckled?” She asks.
There’s a long pause in which three buckles click. Bucky and Percy both smile, and Lee checks her mirrors one last time before kicking into drive and pulling them from the mud and ahead, to a waterlogged dirt road.
They take turns practicing the last few details of their covers. Mal messes with the camera they found in a cargo box, snapping pictures randomly and messing with the settings. “Holy shit,” She mutters, turning it over in her hands. “This is, like, ten times more expensive than mine,” She grins up at Ross. “And my mom said my high school photography classes wouldn’t get me anywhere.”
Getting through the border is easy.
Lee drives up, unrolls the window, and speaks to a guard through the pouring rain. He’s young, Ross thinks from his spot behind the front seat, but, shit, probably about Lee’s age, which is unnerving to think. Out of the original SWORD members, Lee was actually the youngest, though it’s now Spencer.
The guard gives Lee a hesitant smile from under his umbrella. He’s got cornflower eyes and a square jaw, and Lee tips his head at him. The two speak for a moment, Ukrainian slipping off Lee’s tongue easily—fluently, but to their coworkers in the back, it sounds almost unnatural. It’d been a long time since they’d heard Lee speak anything but English, even Dan.
Lee turns his head to look behind them. “We need to get out. He’s going to ask a few questions, look in the van. No big deal,” He says it so evenly that it’s hard for Ross not to believe him as he undoes his seatbelt and hops out, hands in his pockets.
Their translator does the same, prompting the rest to follow. It’s still pouring out, and they’re directed to stand under the small shelter the guard post provides. He speaks briefly to Lee once more, and the two shake hands.
“This is Michal,” Lee says.
Mal waves. “Hi Michal!” She chirps, slightly mispronouncing his name. He smiles nonetheless and waves back.
They watch him as he heads towards their van with a flashlight, stepping inside and looking it over.
“Isn’t it a very poor idea for him to be doing this alone?” Ross quietly asks.
“Yep,” Bucky says, equally low in volume. “Shows just how bad things are, still.” He replies. “Personnel shortage.”
Ross’s tongue kisses the roof of his mouth. “Shit,” He marvels.
Michal returns shortly, speaking to Lee once more then hesitantly giving the rest of the group a thumbs up and a smile.
“He says we’re good,” Lee comments dryly. “Also, it’s question time.”
Lee shows him their IDs and passports, one by one. He scrutinizes them each a moment, holding the two together to ensure they match. Satisfied, he hands them all back.
“яка мета вашого візиту?” Michal asks.
“Purpose of our visit,” Lee tosses back to them. “Це знімальна група. Вони тут, щоб розвідати місця для зйомок документального фільму про історію Сокаля. Ми їдемо до Нового Граду, потім на кілька місць на Дунаї, а потім навколо підніжжя карпатських гір.” Lee responds.
Michal nods. He asks a bit more, and based on how Lee explains, occasionally volleying a few questions back to them about the documentary, Michal’s gone a bit off script. They both seem at ease, though, so Ross assumes it’s of the more casual nature. He asks about the duration of their stay, where they’ll be staying, and then even recommends a few things to try while they’re in the country. There’s a certain animation to the way he talks, using his hands and shoulders. It’s almost insightful, staring at someone speaking a different language than you but being able to understand them, in a way.
He shakes Lee’s hand again, smiling.
“You can get back in,” Lee says, though he’s still listening to Michal. He’s pulled a notepad from his coat pocket and is occasionally scribbling things the guard says down.
They’re just about to do so when Michal exclaims something. “Wait, first—” Lee pauses. “He needs to run you through a new facial recognition system they have.”
Ross’s blood freezes in his veins. “What?”
“It’s fine,” Bucky says immediately, trying to mitigate the sudden tenseness “Act natural.”
“I didn’t know that was part of it,” Mal says, faux lightheartedly.
“Yeah, me neither.” Lee says, still fixing a smile at Michal. “Come on,” She grits out. “Get it over with.”
Michal dips into the guardpost for a moment.
“Fuck,” Dan hisses. “They have to keep a record of this? What if Hydra gets their hands on this? Graves? If they find our we’re here, we’re fucked.”
Percy places himself in front, between them and the small building nestled in the chain link fence. “Breathe,” He says. “We’ll be fine.”
Michal comes out with a tablet in a heavy duty case and heads towards them—Hydra’s most infamous assassin and victim, the cybersecurity agent and forensic pathologist that led them on a frantic chase around New York after escaping a massacre at SHIELD HQ, the psychologist that delivered profiles to track down half the rogue agents, and the security specialist that went out and helped captured them—all behind Percy, the commander of the organization with the highest Hydra capture, kill, and infiltration rate in the world.
Michal looks between Lee and Percy, then, at Lee’s behest, steps towards the commander. He lifts the tablet, and snaps a quick picture. He taps the screen a few times, waiting. As their hearts leap into their stomachs, Michal chatters on with Lee about, presumably, Sokovian cuisine. He does Bucky next. Then Ross, Dan, Mal, and turns and snaps one of Lee, as well.
He looks down at the tablet, then back up at them.
His brow furrows a little, and he turns to Lee.
Bucky’s hand drifts into his coat pocket.
Michal asks Lee something, and Lee freezes for a second, then laughs. He nods at the guard, eyes crinkling with a smile. Michal smiles back, a chuckle leaving his lips as well.
“What?” Ross asks, panicked. “What is it?”
God, it’s been a long time since any of them have heard Lee laugh. Their translator wipes at his eyes, almost giggling. “The picture they used is so fucking ugly,” He wheezes. “Holy shit, oh my god.”
Michal is grinning ear to ear, though not as obvious in his mirth as Lee, ears tinged pink. That draws a snicker out of Dan as well, then Mal. Ross sighs heavily. “I hate you all,” He mutters.
The guard, still smiling, looks down at the tablet. He taps it a few things, then looks up. “Ви можете перетнути кордон.”
Lee exhales minutely and relays, “We’re good.”
They dip inside for a moment, where Michal draws up some paperwork, stamps their passports, and provides them with a small card that’ll be their temporary work visas. Once they’re all sorted, they head back outside to the van. Lee pulls the keys from her belt loop and unlocks it as Ross pointedly tugs at the door handle.
Standing next to him, under the small shelter of the building, Michal says something quiet and somber before stepping back, giving Lee a small smile and the rest of them a wave. Lee nods back and, to their surprise, gives him a matching smile, though it is admittedly less bright—it is Lee, though, so par for the course.
“What’d he say?” Mal asks quietly as they trudge back to the van.
“Michal’s glad that interest in Sokovia’s struggle hasn’t ended,” Lee relays, a little crease in his brow. “He can’t recommend the places he did three years ago, because they were all in West Novi Grad.” He opens the van door. “There is no West Novi Grad anymore.”
They get back in the van.
“How the fuck are we not in jail right now?” Dan asks the second the door slides shut.
Bucky looks to Percy, an eyebrow raised significantly. Percy steadfastly ignores him until Bucky lightly kicks at his ankle.
Percy rolls his eyes at his boyfriend, then, to the rest of them, says, “I did a thing,” He says lightly.
Dan leans in. “Like, a magic thing?” He whispers theatrically.
Percy looks at him solemnly. Then, he waggles his fingers.
The SWORD members promptly lose their shit. As they whip their heads towards each other, practically screeching, Bucky catches Percy smiling at them. It’s something soft and fond. Wistful.
Ahead of them, illuminated by the headlights, the chain link gates creak open, barely audible in their age over the pounding rain. Lee fiddles with the radio, setting it to something news-sounding, though unintelligible to the rest of them. The group collectively hold their breath as he shifts gears, giving Michal a final, informal salute before driving through the open gate.
And, they’re officially in Sokovia.
Legally, too, which is probably the most surprising part.
Well—legally for Andriy and co. For SWORD, this was definitely some sort of international felony.
The roads are gravel, the edges bordered by encroaching weeds and mud. Tires splash through deep rivets, treads worn through by much larger vehicles than their van. The windshield wipers pound back and forth, sweeping away accumulated rain and clearing the way. The brights are on, illuminating the rather barren landscape that stretches by the rough borders. The forest-steppe’s green is muted by the heavy downpour, washed out by the harsh headlights.
“I think he liked you,” Ross drags out the syllables, grinning at Lee. The pathologist raises a sole brow. He doesn’t say anything, which, to them, was infinitely more effective than snipping back.
Ross collapses dramatically into their seat. “Oh, mister translator!” He imitates. “You have game, Lee! Who’dve thought?”
Lee steers along the curve of the path. “It seems appropriate to remind you that I am married to the love of my life, and you have not been on a date in…” He pauses for a second. “Seven months. Check yourself.”
The following silence is deafening. In the rear view mirror, Lee smiles.
Meanwhile, in the very back, Bucky silently finds Percy’s hand and intertwines their fingers.
“Are we going to talk about it?” He asks quietly, staring ahead. They haven’t, since Triton disappeared in a cloud of sea mist. They had just stood there, in the living room, staring down at the sole drop of ichor on the carpet.
Percy, face blank, had flicked his fingers, and it had disappeared.
Then he’d left.
Neither Bucky nor Tony tried to stop him.
Percy flinches, just a little bit, fingers tightening. He swallows, wetting his lips. “Jamie, I don’t even know what to say,” He says, voice pitched low. “Fuck, James. I don’t know what to do. Things with my family have never—they’ve never gone this far.”
Bucky exhales. “I wish I could help,” He says softly.
His boyfriend squeezes his hand again. “You are.”
They lapse back into silence. In the distance, the city lights of the remains of Novi Grad slowly come into view.
Notes:
lee the language man
sword team got their swag removed :(
shout out to michal tbh. he's just hear to watch the border in his little border hut and be gay
btw the entire team is making this face 😇 while also carrying unregistered concealed firearms during the entire border scene
percy with a little bit of mist magic for the two seconds michal was taking photos: mehehehehehe
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 34: East Novi Grad
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday, May 1st, 2018
2:49 AM
Novi Grad, Sokovia
Sokovia was a city of dichotomy.
East Novi Grad boasted a mixture of old, Soviet-era architecture and even older stone churches. Trees dotted the streets, roots curling up out of the dirt and into cracks in the pavement while above, birds rested on powerlines. The sidewalks were teeming with people, almost shoulder-to-shoulder. Storefronts and stands spilled into the street, which was primarily pedestrians and bicyclists, save for a few, run-down buses.
West Novi Grad was a pile of ruins.
They’d driven past it on their way in. There was no other way to put it—it was a fucking crater. Sidewalks and building foundations abruptly dropped off, down more than twenty feet in some places, to a pit of concrete rubble and dust. It stretched almost four miles across, farther than any of them could see.
They’d all seen it on television, of course, but in person, it was just so… startling. A lively city if you looked to your left, and miles of ruins if you turned right.
The scars from Ultron had leached into East Novi Grad. Hastily constructed slums ringed around the crater, walls constructed from loose scraps of sheet metal and roofs made out of fabric and wood. In the nicer parts of the city, window panes were smashed, graffiti littering the walls. Mal couldn’t read it, but some of it was understandable. Paintings of Ultron. Paintings of the city, high above the clouds. Paintings of the Avengers.
Rage was a universal language.
So was loss.
There were people, painted, as well. Mal could only assume they were memorials. If she looked hard enough, she wondered if she could find all 177 of them.
They don’t pass a single block without seeing some sort of intervention. A Red Cross tent, a hastily built food bank, a community center rebranded as a shelter. It soothes the jagged ache in her chest to see; the woman standing at the corner handing out blankets is speaking Ukrainian, but the two men under the tent on the sidewalk, ladling soup into styrofoam cups are speaking Polish and Hungarian. That’s only a fraction of it, but, just for a second, when Mal looks at all the patches of different country’s flags on the sleeves of these people, she thinks that, one day, everything might be all right.
Lee drives them to the edge of East Novi Grad, about as far from the crater as they can get. They’ve rented a small villa, almost on the outskirts of the city, with a comfortable amount of empty—some abandoned—land surrounding it for privacy.
The moon is already high in the sky as they pull into the dirt driveway. The rain has let up, only a little, so they run from the car to the front door on instinct, even though Jackson ensures the water never reaches them. It’s freezing out, the sun long since disappeared. Mal curls into herself at Ross unlocks the front door, which swings open with a creak.
They’re greeted by a long, dim hallway. Lee flicks on the light switches as she walks in, and there’s a five-second delay between the switch and the actual light.
Mal’s first impression is that it's a bit dusty. The floors are old, dark wood, cut into long, thin boards. The kitchen is immediately to their right, with a bare fridge and an old electric stove tucked into the corner. A sole light hangs from the ceiling over the island, which is devoid of anything except an empty fruit bowl.
Past that, there’s a small alcove with a thick, sturdy table. Ross drops his duffel bag onto it and leans against it as he cranes his neck to look around. Across from the kitchen, a slightly ajar door shows a small room with a bed and a wardrobe. Next to that, there’s one that, presumably, leads to the bathroom, and, further down the hall, a staircase. The end of the hall opens up into a living room—a low to the ground, round table that’s made of the same wood as the floor, a threadbare rug, and an old radio sitting on a small shelf in the corner. Another door is tucked into the corner, which they discover leads to another bedroom, this one with a bed tucked into the corner and a closet awkwardly placed in the middle of a wall.
Windows dot the walls, all curtained heavily.
It’s late, and they’re all worn down, so they don’t speak much as they split up. Barnes and Jackson take the room closest to the door—Mal is pretty sure it's their subtle way of looking out for the rest of the team. Dan gets the only other room on the bottom floor, Lee by his side. After a touch of exploring, Mal and Ross agree to share a bed they found upstairs, tucked into the loft. They hunt down a linen closet and pull out every quilt inside, dividing them up equally.
(That night, Ross and Mal share theirs equally. Percy lays under one with Bucky, who additionally has had the rest forcibly draped overtop him. Dan was sternly tucked in by Lee, who choses to lay half out of the covers.)
Mal brushes her teeth and gets changed without a word. Ross does the same. Even inside, it’s cold—they’re both in long pants and sweatshirts. Mal’s brought a pair of thick, wool socks.
She curls under the comforter, staring over Ross’s shoulder at the window. The curtains are drawn, but a little sliver of moonlight escapes inwards, dragging itself across the creaky floorboards.
Under the covers, Ross reaches out and intertwines their fingers. “You okay?” His voice is a rasp of a whisper in the night.
Mal exhales, soft breath rustling the strands of her hair that fall in her face. “Worried.”
He squeezes her hand.
Ross is shoved roughly down into a chair, which creaks ominously under his sudden weight. The man in front of him grabs his cuffed arms and attaches the chain of his cuffs to one bolted to the middle of the table. Ross jerks forward as they tighten it, and he sends the guard posted at the door a nasty look.
Another enters—a woman, hair pulled back into a severe-looking bun, wearing a pencil skirt and a dress shirt, accented with a silken tie. She pulls out the chair opposite of Ross, which scrapes painfully against the floor.
“English?” She asks.
Eyes narrowed, Ross nods. His eyes flick upwards to the camera in the corner, which is blinking red.
The woman hums, pulling out a thick manilla folder. She opens it, tilted towards her barely far enough to obscure its contents from Ross’s vision. “Quite a bit of trouble you’re in,” She comments, flipping up some papers to view the contents underneath.
Ross says nothing.
After another long moment, the woman looks up at him. She closes the folder and lays it flat on the table, her hands folded overtop of it. “So, Taylor,” She says smoothly. “Why don’t you tell me about your business in Sokovia?”
He runs his tongue over his teeth. Ross leans in, elbows resting on the table. “Sightseeing.” He deadpans.
The woman’s face doesn’t budge. “Sightseeing?”
Out of the corner of his eye, the red light blinks once more, then goes dark. Ross counts, makes it to five in his head, before grinning at the woman. “Yes, ma’am.”
She exhales through her nose. “I am going to ask you some very simple questions. It’s in your best interest to answer me concisely and promptly, and perhaps you’ll be out of here in a few hours. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her shoulders are tight. “Nation of origin?”
“America.” He lies.
“Where in America?”
“Corpus Christi,” He replies. A beat. “Texas,” Ross elaborates. “Right on the Gulf.”
She hums. “The ID on you is from California.” Her accent is sharp and thin, like a razor blade, enunciating the wrong syllables just slightly.
“I’ve lived there since I graduated high school.” Ross replies evenly.
“Why?” She shoots back.
His eyes narrow imperceptibly. She’s trying to trip up, to get him to incriminate himself. “College. Wanted to study film. LA seemed like a good place to start.”
“Film, hm?”
Ross leans back in his metal chair. “Well, considering I’ve got a film crew that’s waiting for me,” He snarks. “I’d say it went pretty well.”
“Who all are you here with? Any family?” She asks next.
“Just my crew,” Ross replies. “We’re here for work.”
She leans forward, eyes intense but her voice deceptively light. “What happened to sightseeing?”
Ross shrugs, best he can while cuffed. “Sightseeing professionally. We’re scouting filming locations for a film.”
The woman raises a plucked brow. “And who did you bring with you?”
“A photographer, equipment manager, stunt coordinator, and screenwriter. Our company hired a translator to take us around, as well.” Ross explains.
“Names?”
“Anannia, Connor, Henry, Arthur, and—I’m probably pronouncing this a bit poorly—Andriy.”
The woman regards him with narrowed eyes. There’s the smallest bit of frustration evident in her face, the barest twitch of a microexpression. Ross leaps upon it like a shark smelling blood as the woman switches avenues. “Date of birth?”
Time to cut the shit. “Shouldn’t you have all that in that little folder, there?” He wags a finger at it, still sitting pretty on the tabletop. “Why are you wasting both of our time?”
“Answer, please.”
“No, you answer me,” Ross replies. “Seriously, what the fuck is this? Have you really got nothing better to do than interrogate me about information you clearly already have?” Her face wavers, just a bit, and he tosses his head back, laughing aloud. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” He exclaims. “That fuckers empty, isn’t it? You don’t have shit on me, you’re just trying to intimidate me! Christ, you get that from a movie, or something?” It was actually a fair tactic, in her defense. Ross himself had pulled that a few times, when he was the one on the opposite side of that table, and it worked on most people—but, unfortunately for her, most people weren’t Agent Ross Bunmi.
Ross knew he was being unfair, and, quite frankly, mean. Seriously, he knew. But…well, in his defense, there was a lot at stake here. Besides, shitheads like Ross were part of the job. If she couldn’t handle him, well…maybe Taylor could recommend some film schools to her.
He props his chin into his palms, staring at her. “Shit, you’ve got no idea what you’re doing,” He laughs as she white-knuckles the edge of the table. “What, they send you in here ‘cause everyone else was busy doing something that actually matters? Or—no, let me guess—you’ve got the best English, or something? Is that all it took?”
She shoots upright. “I’m perfectly qualified for this!” She snaps.
Ross just looks at her with an exaggerated, pitying expression, humor still evident in his eyes. Furious, she rounds the table, leaning over him. “I,” She said levely—fantastic composure, honestly— “Am going to give you a couple hours to think about some of my questions. Maybe, when I come back, you’ll be able to answer me faster.”
He tilts his head up to look her in the eyes. Ross smiles at her, all sweet, subtle Texan drawl. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her face tightens once more, and she straightens herself, smoothing her skirt before turning on her heel and striding out of the room, shutting the door behind her. The sound of the lock sliding into place echoes.
Ross sighs, leaning back into his chair and kicking his boots up onto the table. He counts a minute, then two, then ten. His eyes, hidden under a few choppy pieces of his bangs, are fixed on the camera.
The red light goes out.
He doesn’t waste time, going straight for his boot. Ross jams his thumb into the back of the thick sole, and it gives, revealing a small dip in the rubber. He digs his nail into the small crack, and it splits. Ross pulls out a small, circular piece of metal. Vibranium—nigh undetectable.
Ross slides it into the groove of his ear, snug against the inside of his tragus. It catches and sticks.
There’s a small crackle before Dan’s voice meets his ear. “Connected. Nice one. You’re a real ass, you know.”
Ross doesn’t respond, just hides a smile behind his palm.
“Anna Bruzek—security official, her second year working here. She seems clean; solid recommendations, top of her class.” A beat. “However, her phone security is just okay. Sit tight. Keep it up and you’ll be out in an hour or two.”
Ross gives the camera a miniscule nod, then settles in to wait.
In a van—different from the one they entered the border with, this one with the logo of some company slapped on the side—three blocks down, the heater is blasting, sending hot air to its five occupants. Bucky sits closest to one of the vents in the passenger seat, wearing a thick sweater and gloves. Next to him, Lee, by contrast, looks relatively unbothered in a short-sleeve button-up over a tee. They’re talking quietly—not in English, but Mal can’t tell much beyond that.
The left interior wall of the van is home to a mess of wires and screens. Dan sits in front of them, engrossed, headphones on. Behind him, on the other side, Jackson sits with Mal, who’s nervously braiding then un-braiding small strands of her long hair. Her eyes routinely flick up to the screen in the corner of Dan’s domain, where Ross Bunmi—Taylor Wilkinson, at the moment—sits in all his grainy, black-and-white glory.
Jackson lightly nudges her with his elbow. “Relax, Mal,” He says, soft enough for only her to hear. “Ross’ll be alright. He’s got this.”
She exhales. “I know, I know.” Mal’s eyes don’t leave the screen. “Jackson, can I ask you something?”
Her boss doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
“Why’d you hire all of us? I mean…why us?”
It was a fair question. None of them had exactly had the most...model résumés. Jackson crosses his legs as he tips his head back. “Well,” He says, “It was a combination of things. The first was that…I needed people I could trust. People already well-embedded into SHIELD had a decent chance of being connected to Hydra in some way. That wasn’t an issue with any of you.”
Mal’s not sure why, but she feels a little disappointed. “Oh,”
He turns towards her enough so she can see his face. “That’s not the only reason, Mal.” He sighs, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Lee was the first one I spoke to about SWORD—before we even had the name SWORD. He helped me get some perspective about it, you know? I’d known him, during both our SHIELD days, and later, when he worked at SI.” Jackson shrugged a little. “We decided a fresh start would be best, but we weren’t equipped for one. Like it or not, SHIELD training is thorough. So, we went for the next best option. We went for people who hadn’t had time to be tainted by Hydra, yes, but also the people that I knew would do well on my team.”
“Lee and Dan were pretty obvious, since—well, I was the one who helped them get into hiding.” What? Jackson continues, “Bridgette consulted for the WSC, so she was recommended to me by Hanover. Saw her in court once, and that was all I needed to agree. I picked up Ross the second I saw his file—I mean, renegade SHIELD profiler? Perfect. I figured if SHIELD-Hydra hadn’t made the effort to bring him back into the fold, there was a reason, and that reason is that he’d damn good at his job. Too good. I'd bet if he’d stuck around, he’d’ve sniffed out Hydra eventually.” That part is said with another little nudge as Mal looks back at the camera feed from the interrogation room.
“I found you by looking through a database of Hydra-flagged threats.” He says, ducking his head towards her a little so she can see the grin on his face. “Little pyromaniac.”
“In my defense,” Mal says, “Hydra kill-squads should be able to recognize trip wires.”
He shakes his head, but he's smiling. “I checked out your file from the Operations Academy, and thought you’d be a good fit. And—” He breaks off, expression flickering. Mal looks at him with a furrowed brow.
Jackson wets his lips. “I picked your Academy partner to go with you,” He admits softly. “My mistake.”
Oh.
Hesitantly, she reaches out and links their hands together. “Aspen made their choices.” She says, quiet but firm. “It wasn’t your fault any more than it was ours.”
He gives her a weak, brief grin, but says nothing more, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. Her boss’s—her friend’s—hands are worn and scarred. Mal’s, long-fingered and calloused at the fingertips from wiring and soldering accidents, are covered by his. Jackson’s knuckles are conditioned, spread-out and wiry from years of combat.
In the silence, Mal looks back to Lee and Bucky, still holding conversation. The two of them are oddly similar, in some ways—the wideness of their shoulders and the unnerving pale blues of their eyes, resolute expressions and set jaws. It’s been a while since she’s seen Lee speak anything other than English, now that she thinks about it, save for the occasional Spanish that Bridgette coaches her through.
(It’s so Lee can better communicate with Bridgette’s massive family back in Colombia. Mal tries not to think about the fact that Lee has never offered to do the same with Norwegian. There’s nobody for Bridgette to talk to.)
“Ukrainian,” Jackson provides, startling her out of her musings.
Mal looks over. “What?”
“They’re speaking Ukrainian.” Jackson repeats. There’s something in his face, something sorrowful reflecting in the rolling blue hues of his green eyes, that makes Mal look away. She stares at the rubber mats that line the floor of the van.
Lee used to speak Ukrainian all the time at work. Aspen was Ukrainian. Though it was most visibly Aspen, Mal knew they both thought it funny how Ross and Dan would lose their minds whenever the two carried on a conversation, occasionally name dropping those two, then refusing to translate.
God, Aspen.
She shakes her head and looks up at her friend across the van as he makes a sudden noise of victory, sliding his headphones down to around his neck.
Dan swivels in his chair to face the rest of the team. “While Ms. Bruzek seems alright,” He opens with, “Her coworkers…not so much.” He clicks his tongue in time with a tap of his mouse. “Ross’s bug got me into their mainframe. Cross-checked outgoing messages and calls with all of Graves’s known addresses and numbers. Got a few hits.” Dan spins again. “Drumroll, please…”
Mal obliges.
“We’ve got a…" He says dramatically, "Database of…Hydra contacts and covers…offline on a USB…somewhere in the consulate building!” He announces, dragging out each part.
“That sounds like a fucked up Cards Against Humanity play,” Mal blurts out. Dan snickers. Bucky, on the other hand, doesn’t seem in much of a mood to laugh. Dan sobers up. “Right, so—” He turns back to his computer. “From what I’ve lifted, the USB is being transported out of the country in two weeks. From what I got, it’s going to make its way to Graves, somehow.”
“Hydra’s last lifeline,” Bucky says quietly.
“Graves is desperate.” Jackson concludes gravely. “Looking for allies.”
Dan nods. “Exactly.” He closes his computer, spins back around to look at them. “So…mission accomplished, technically. We found what Hanover wanted us to find.”
Jackson nodded, leaning back in his seat. “We can go home.” He said agreeably. “Let Hanover set up something to catch Graves in the act, go through his computers, whatever.”
Mal leaned in. “Orrrrr…” She dragged out.
Jackson’s lip twitched upwards into a smile. “Or,” He said patiently, a twitch of a real smile making its way onto his face. “We steal the damn thing before Graves can.”
Notes:
YES i know in the mcu the remains of sokovia get absorbed into neighboring countries. i am ignoring that. by some questionably credible sources, i figured about four square miles was lifted, and then destroyed, but that should still leave a fair bit of novi grad left, plus the rest of the country. a fair bit of sokovia is still around, land-wise.
and also YES this chapter has a lot of mal and her relationships with her friends. we do not accept mal hate here.
ross doing his little profiler thing. poor anna lmao
yeah mal blew up some people. shes cute like that
basically how percy picked his SWORD people:
hanover: oh, yeah, this one has a crazy disciplinary record, went off-grid for a couple months, might have been arrested-
percy: give it to me now...except for bridgette, who's just cool as shit
in all seriousness, though, percy's other justification: he wanted people who wouldn't blindly listen to him. he values loyalty, but not without reason. he knew he'd be in a position of power, but didn't want it to be absolute. so he went out and found the most delinquent little prodigies he could
aspen mention :(
...ITS HEIST TIME BABY!!
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 35: Flooded
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday, May 5th, 2018
10:22 AM
East Novi Grad, Sokovia
Cold concrete beneath Bucky’s stomach supports him. The scope of his rifle has a heavy weight in his hand. He loathes to call it a comfort, but it is. He finds solace in the scent of gunpowder, familiarity in how he holds his shoulder to absorb kickback.
Perhaps the worst part is how little he feels, laying across a rooftop, the tip of his rifle peeking over the ledge. There’s guilt, but there’s always guilt. He’s become numb to the guilt.
A soft crackle in his ear. “He’s pulling up,” Dan reports. “Black Škoda Octavia, right around the corner.” Bucky swivels his scope to the left, narrowing in on the man stepping out. He adjusts a few milliradians to the right as the man turns to close the car door behind him, tossing the keys to the valet standing a few feet away. A dark-suited guard hovers inches away.
Bucky follows him as he climbs the steps to the international consulate building, cross-hatches ghosting the back of the man’s head, up until he, and the guard, disappear into the building.
“He’s going straight for the stairs,” Percy’s relays from his spot across the street. “Up. Two flights. Turning left, right. All the way to the end of the hall. Sergeant, try the…leftmost window on the third floor.”
Bucky adjusts his scope once more. Through it, he can see the curtained window. There’s a sliver uncovered, through which he can see the office door open and a familiar flash of graying brown hair. “Limited visibility. But it’s that one.”
The sounds of quick fingers on a keyboard as Dan pours over the blueprints. “Got it. That’s the only window. Emergency exit access is across the hall, stairs that lead to the courtyard in the middle of the building. Elevator is approximately forty feet from the office, stairs sixty.”
“Elevator is down.” Lee informs them. “Just spoke to the front desk. It’s been under maintenance for about two weeks, now.”
A flash of movement from the window. Oh, how Bucky’s fingers itch to pull the trigger, to put another one of Hydra down. It’d be quick. Quicker than they deserve. Bucky could do it and be out of the country in time for lunch.
“Incoming,” Percy breaks in. “‘Bout 5’7, 170 pounds. Most likely a woman.”
Bucky sees the door open again. The woman enters.
“Ace…” He warns quietly.
“I know, I know,” Dan hisses. “Slight change of plans—I’ll lure ‘em both out. Mal—we’re going now. Get ready. Lee?”
“Out of the building.” She reports.
There’s a single keystroke, and an alarm sounds throughout the building. “Tremor, you got eyes?”
A crackle. “That I do,” Mal responds.
Inside the office, both the man and the woman rush out into the hallway, hastily shutting the door behind them.
“They’re in the stairwell. Sergeant, five seconds.” Percy’s commands in his ear are a different comfort than the rifle in his hands. Bucky shifts minutely, counting down.
A sole twitch of his pointer, and a nigh-soundless shot.
It cuts through the air sharper than any blade could, striking against the brick of the windowsill, approximately an inch from the delicate glass. The tiny bug burrows its way into the miniscule gouge in the building’s facade, and Bucky releases a silent exhale.
“Done.”
The stroke of a keyboard. “Connected. We’re good.”
Methodically, Bucky rights himself and begins to disassemble his rifle, packing it away. He stands, hefting it over his shoulder and squints at the building now in the distance.
“Sargeant, pick-up is a block northeast.” Dan says absently.
Bucky heads for the roof access door.
Three miles away, the alarms cease and people begin to file back into the building.
Nobody is dying today. Not yet.
They’re back in the villa, sitting in a loose circle in the living room, Dan’s laptop balanced on his knee as he digs through their take-out containers, cheek stuffed full of food. He’s got an earbud in his left ear, the right stretched across to Lee, who is sitting at his side, absently picking at a styrofoam container of jahodové knedlíky.
Mal and Ross are playing a quiet game of cards on the coffee table, Bucky watching—Mal’s stubborn unpredictability versus Ross’s profiling and astute eye. It’s unclear who’s winning. Bucky’s becoming convinced that, somehow, they’re both losing. Percy is stretched across the couch, his head pillowed on Bucky’s thigh, eyes closed, though he’s not asleep. He hasn’t said anything, but Bucky can tell he has another headache. The SWORD members keep looking at him, almost in synchronized circular rotations. Lee, then Dan, then Ross, then Mal. Back to Lee. Rinse, repeat.
The vague peace is interrupted by Lee stiffening slightly, leaning in towards the computer. Her brow knits as she listens intently, Dan’s focus shifting between her and the screen.
“A painting,” She announces suddenly, mouth pursing. “They’re talking about a painting.”
“Could it be a code of some sort?” Ross asks over a seven of spades.
Lee shrugs. She listens some more, at one point leaning over Dan to rewind part of the recording. “They’re shipping a painting out.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow, his hand on Percy’s shoulder tightening a bit. “May I?”
Obligingly, both Lee and Dan lean back and hand over the laptop and the earbuds. Bucky puts them in and hits rewind once more. They’re speaking in Ukrainian, one natively and the other with an accent. His face is carved from stone as he listens in to the discussion thrice over. Bucky takes the earbuds out and returns the laptop.
“It’s not a code.” He says. “It is the painting.”
“The Hydra thing?” Mal asks, scrunching her nose.
Bucky nods. “I’d bet there’s either some sort of passkey hidden in the artwork itself, or a USB or something hidden in the frame.” His lip curls in unbridled disgust. “They’re hiding the last scraps of Hydra’s international network in a goddamn art piece.”
It takes Dan a sole hour to get copies of the consulate’s recent acquisitions records. He narrows it down, bit by bit, with Ross and Bucky’s help. They eliminate a few paintings that are too large or too delicate—too hard to transport.
“Władysław Strzemiński,” Dan says, stumbling a bit over the name. “A painting of his was bought at an auction last year.”
“That’s gotta be it,” Ross says, leaning over to peek at the screen.
Bucky stares at the screen. He commits it to memory, the curling lines and the desaturated colors. His target, for once, is not human, but it is a target all the same.
They spend the next few days laying low, barely leaving the villa. They check in with the Hub twice. No more bodies have been found yet.
Hours are spent practicing covers, memorizing building layouts, pouring over plans time and time again until reciting the steps are muscle memory. Outside, the weather steadily worsens, freezing rain practically the seventh member of their crew, despite it being well into Spring.
Dan and Mal are practically attached to their computers, picking apart every security system the building has to offer.
Two days in, Mal seems to find something about the vault. “Hey, Jackson,” Mal says, a grin slowly spreading over her face. “You ever watched Money Heist?”
“Any chance it’ll be Ms. Bruzek again?” Ross asks, fixing the collar of his sweater. Bucky, holding the umbrella over the two of them, rolls his eyes.
“It’s an honest question,” Ross persists, now lacing his shoes. “We’ve established a rapport,”
“More like you just want to flirt with her, again.” Bucky replies dryly.
This time, Ross does look at him. “That too,” He says with a grin.
“I’d say it’s fifty-fifty,” Bucky says with a light shrug. “Whether they’ll go for an established relationship, however tenuous and frustrating it may be,” He says, shooting Ross a look, “Or somebody completely new to throw you off, keep you guessing,” He looks over his shoulder, cold blue eyes tracking every pedestrian that passes in the distance. “Depends how much of a threat they think you are.”
Ross hums, considering, fixing his hair. “My warrant out, yet?”
Bucky checks his phone. “Twenty minutes ago.” He confirms, cramming it back into his pocket. “Good luck,”
Ross gives him a lazy salute as Bucky passes off the umbrella. He flips up his hood to protect himself from the rain and disappears around a corner. As the behavioral specialist rolls his shoulders, shaking out some tension before heading for the front steps to the consulate building, Bucky slides into the van, stripping off his wet jacket. Dan and Lee give him a brief nod, though they’re both wrapped up in their own projects, Dan keeping a watchful eye on Ross’s tracker on one screen and Percy and Mal’s on the other. Bucky sits in one of the open seats, similarly watching their teammates progress. “Ross has been delivered.”
“‘M not a package, Barnes,” Ross mutters over the comms. Dan snorts softly. “Shut up and go get arrested.”
“Aye-aye, captain,” Ross snips back.
Lee, standing against the far wall of the van, straightening his regulation tie, smiles, just a little.
Percy stands at the banks, feeling the icy mist scrape off the surface of the churning river wash over him. Beside him, Mal stands in a thick coat and heavy boots, her teeth chattering. “Are you sure about this?” She asks, voice muffled into the scarf she’s ducking behind.
“This,” Percy says, rolling his shoulder, “Is the easy part.”
She sighs. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
Percy taps his comm. “I’m ready when you are.”
A few keystrokes. “Alright,” Dan replies after a moment. “My visibility’s good. Footage is up and running. Go for it.”
Mal casts another look around the deserted river bank as Percy, far too casually for her taste, steps forwards off the steep bank and plunges into the frigid water. He lets himself sink down to the riverbed, the chaos of the whitewaters above him disappearing the further down he sinks. He waves his hand a few times in the vicinity of the small camera attached to his gear.
“Still a good picture,” Dan assures him. Percy gives a thumbs up to the camera. He cuts through the water easily, powerful strokes and strong movements taking him upstream with no problem. It’s blissfully silent beneath the surface—just the sounds of himself, his heartbeat in his ears and his soft exhales. Overhead, he can barely hear the soft sound of rain hitting the surface of the river, quickly taken into the churning waters.
The channel narrows as he swims further upriver. It’s rocky; sharp, obsidian-like stone sticking up roughly from the steep banks, a slope that shines like glass in the moonlight, one that could easily slice flesh to muscle if one steps wrong. By contrast, the stones that make up the riverbed are smooth and rounded, deeply eroded by time. Little vegetation springs up from the loose silt, the waters too cold for much to be able to survive. It’s mountain run-off—if you can even call it that, considering the already steep elevation of Novi Grad. They’re practically already on the mountain.
“Two miles.” Dan chimes in. Percy briefly slows to give another thumbs-up to the camera. He’s pinpointed the access point half a mile back, not that there’s really a way for him to communicate that to his team.
Another bout of silence, longer, before he comes across it. It’s a simple grate—almost built like a manhole cover, embedded into the riverbed. Percy drifts around it, inspecting it. It’s an extraordinarily strong seal, and he can feel even more power buzzing faintly in the electronics buried further beneath it.
“Alright, Lee is heading in. Hold tight.”
Twenty minutes after Ross is detained—he barely made it past the front lobby—, Lee grabs another umbrella from under the seat. She taps the small comm nestled in her ear once, waiting for Dan to nod at her, before heading out. The van is nestled behind a shut-down restaurant, half hidden by the tarp that protected the now defunct loading dock.
The rain flicks at the umbrella, wind ruffling the turned-up collar of her coat as she crosses the street, small splashes in the puddles burrowed into the potholes in the asphalt as she goes. It’s a near-silent walk, a block South to the consulate building, just the sounds of the rain overhead and the whistling wind through crumbling infrastructure.
She’s not looked at too closely, the slouch in her posture and lowered head disguising a bit of her height, pale skin and hair fitting in neatly with the statistical majority of the population. A brief, clipped greeting to the guard at the door, unaccented Slovak and a flash of her badge disguises her further. She shakes off her umbrella as she closes it, placing herself against the wall as she surveys the lobby.
It’s large, almost ornate, more so when compared to cold concrete and broken windows outside, not a few blocks away. A truly massive square rug covers the white floors, stretching a few feet from the doorway all the way to the semi-circle of desks situated in the middle of the room. Behind those desks—and the accompanying line of guards, stationed a few feet behind each secretary and manager, doorway and hallway—are two spiraling staircases, one on the far left and one on the right. There’s an elevator, as well, but a bright orange cone clearly dictates that it’s unusable. In the middle of the far wall, about thirty feet on each side from the staircases, a large set of double-doors stays firmly closed. She gets a quick glimpse as a man enters, flashing his badge at a guard and scanning it next to the handle, heading down the long hallway that’s only visible to her for a second.
Lee’s fingers briefly flex over the handle of her briefcase. She checks her watch, then heads straight for the desk, bypassing the first few guardstations with nothing more than her casual, hurried demeanor.
“ID?”
She pauses, pulling on her lanyard and holding it out to the guard. He eyes it for a second, then her, before nodding briefly and stepping aside. The doors are heavy, the handles thick, sculpted metal that curls at the ends. She steps into the hallway, and exhales softly once they shut soundlessly behind her. Momentarily alone, she murmurs, “Into the restricted sector.”
Dan gives a half-hearted cheer in response, but remains otherwise radio-silent, as requested.
Lee casts another look around before beginning to walk down the hallway. Even through the soles of her shoes, she can tell the carpet is lush, a rich scarlet color that offsets the pale walls. Though there are no visible windows, wall sconces with affixed lighting cast her surroundings in a neutral, pale yellow. Decoration is rather sparse—a small table with a vase of fake flowers to the side of one door, massive fern up against the wall, a few photo prints in a frame to her right. One of them seems to be of West Novi Grad, and she cannot help the way she slows, briefly stalling to look at it. Post-Soviet architecture, bleak and in fairly poor shape, but alive. Trees and shrubs dotted the sidewalks, a small stand selling perepichka nestled in the corner of the frame, and there were people everywhere . They were a slight blur in the lens of the camera, a fuzz of motion and life.
Lee looked away. She kept walking.
There are two doors on each side; security, janitorial, and two storage closets—nothing of interest to her, particularly. The hallway forks, a wide, open arch straight ahead revealing a large lounge. She hangs left and passes by a tall woman in a suit speaking into her phone. Lee ignores her completely as she forays deeper into the consulate building, passing a few houseplants and art prints hanging on the walls.
Meeting rooms line the hallway, some open with glass walls and large, round tables, others closed off and silent. She pauses briefly, looks around, then taps her ID to the small scanner to the left of the door to her right. It beeps softly, chiming with a green light, and she shoulders the door open, closing it behind her just as someone rounds the corner.
Inside, a concrete stairwell heads down, deep into the guts of the building. Lee locks the door behind her before setting a quick pace, jogging down, twitching at every echo of her footsteps reverberating throughout the stairwell.
She gets to the bottom and is greeted by another door. Again, her ID bullies through the scanner and the soft click of the lock is almost louder than her footsteps.
By contrast, the area she walks into next lacks even the minimal amount of the ground floors. The lighting is patchy, low in some areas and blindingly fluorescent in others. The floor is cold concrete, same as the walls and ceiling, though the long passage is far wider than those of the lobby and diplomat zones. It’s practically a maze, hallways and alcoved branching off and spreading out like the roots of a stubborn, old tree.
Lee recites the directions she’d spent the last few days memorizing as she walks. Third on the left, second on the right, first left, straight ahead. She winds further into the belly of the beast, subtle ramps and short stairs bringing her deeper into the earth. The building grows steadily colder, and, soon, she can hear the distant plink of droplets of water hitting the concrete ground.
If she tries hard enough, she swears she can hear the rush of water above. Lee comes to a halt in front of a wide, imposing round door, set about a foot back into the wall. Cold, scratched steel stares back at her, a wide handle sticking out towards her.
She digs her phone out of her pocket and holds it up. “This it?”
“That’s it.”
As she stared, Mal’s voice ran through her head. Steel-reinforced concrete…custom molding…tactile sensitive…something, something.
Lee sidestepped, going for the maintenance panel about twenty feet down from the door. She unhooked a multitool she’d clipped to her belt, flicking open the screwdriver. Making quick work of the panel, she detached the metal cover halfway, so it swung to the side like a door, and stuck her head in, staring upwards, the back end of the multitool functioning as a small penlight. It was more like a vent than anything, a tall, metal chute that ran upwards, clogged by thick bundles of wires and pipes.
She sighed heavily before looking back to the vault. “I’m doing it,” She announced.
Lee tucked her tools back into her belt before creeping back to the vault door. She stood in front of it for a moment, sizing it up, before exhaling again. Then, with a great lurch, she slammed her shoulder roughly into it. A loud clang reverberated throughout the room, and she winced, scrambling backwards and back to the maintenance cover as the lights dropped. A shrill alarm sounded, and a red, sweeping light lit up the hallway. Tactile sensitive, alright.
Lee crammed herself through the small hole, penlight back out and between her teeth. She hefted herself in, finding precarious standing with one foot crammed under a pipe. She yanked the maintenance cover shut before looking upwards once more.
The walls of the chute were smooth, flat though blemished. The pipes wouldn’t be nearly enough to withstand human weight, and, with no near handholds, there would be no way out.
Unless, of course, you were Lee; a matter of standing on her tip-toes and reaching upwards, and she was able to grip a small ledge, likely leading to some other sort of vent or maintenance box. Both hands holding tightly, Lee shifted, bringing her feet up to press against the side of the chute as she pulled herself upwards.
Through the thin, haphazardly closed cover, she could already hear the pounding of feet and the rushing of water as the security system kicked in behind the vault door.
Lee continued upwards, finding little purchase, but managing to lift herself a couple good feet off the ground. Her legs pressed against one side of the chute, her back against the other, she shimmied upwards until she didn’t dare to anymore for fear of being heard by the rapidly closing in guards.
She clicked off her penlight and shoved it into her collar, braced herself with her arms, and waited.
Beneath her, she could barely make out voices.
“Vault remains unbreached,” One said. “We’ll sweep the area, but it seems to be a false alarm. Cameras are clear.”
Thank you, Dan, she thought to herself. Lee steadied her breathing, teeth clamped on the inside of her cheek.
A glimpse of low red lighting crept inwards as the maintenance door, fifteen feet below her, creaked, the tip of a rifle prodding it open. She could make out the dim shape of a guard, armed and armored, poking his head in. For one, horrible second, he looked up, squinting, right at her hiding spot, tucked into a mess of wires, pipes, and shadows.
Then, he looked away.
Lee exhaled soundlessly.
He shut the panel. “Did the vault system go off?” He asked his squadmate.
“Already flooded,” The other confirmed. “Half an hour for it to drain.”
A muttered curse, the small noise of a radio. “Nobody’s here. False alarm.”
Far above Lee’s head, the river’s currents pick up, spiraling and twisting downwards as the grate slowly slides open in time with the alarms. Gallons upon gallons of water shoot down into the massive pipe, four-foot diameter allowing massive volumes of water to be sucked in at high speeds. Percy resists the pull for only a moment before letting go, letting the water drag him downwards.
The frigid water, rough and cold enough to have already killed anyone else a dozen times over, envelops him like an old friend. The high pressure sends him practically shooting through the twisting pipe.
He halts, stopping with hundreds of gallons of water pouding at his back, ten feet back from the opening. The pipe takes a dramatic turn ahead, straight downwards, spitting out of the ceiling and letting the water hit the floor. Percy hangs back for a count of a minute before letting it carry him in, dropping him down into the middle of the vault. There’s already five feet of water, more than enough to cushion his fall. He floats on his back for a moment, mapping out the room in his head as the water continues to flood in, raising another two feet in just a handful of minutes.
Percy reaches up and taps his comm. “I’m in the vault.” He dips his head back into the water. “Thanks for opening the door, Lee.”
Notes:
ross being a whore. again.
sokovian engineers: if someone breaks into the vault, it'll just flood with frozen water and drown them. no problem. what idiot would risk that?
percy, the idiot himself: :)sokovian engineers: yeah, this matinence chute will be fine. nobody is freakishly tall enough to get a grip on anything to pull themselves up
lee, the freak himself: :)this vault is based off the bank of spain's vault, which connects to the Cibeles fountain and floods when breached. if any of you have watched money heist, they based their vault off that!
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 36: Ferns
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday, May 11th, 2018
11:42 AM
International Consulate Building, East Novi Grad, Sokovia
Ross’s cuffs are tighter, this time. The guard behind him shoves him forwards, a strong grip on his upper arm. Ross stumbles slightly, flailing the best he can to upright himself. He’s pushed down into a chair, watched over by two more as he’s uncuffed, only to be re-chained with his hands in front of him, wrists pressed against the metal tabletop.
The guard on his left is younger, twitchier. He looks at Ross less, eyes more focused on his present task than the prisoner. A few times, Ross catches him biting the inside of his cheek. The one on the right is older, stiffer. He holds himself better in his uniform, weight more evenly distributed as he compensates for the bulk of his bulletproofs. Rather than the cuffs, he focuses more on Ross—smart.
Ross looks up at the man to his left. “Ooh,” Ross drawls with a lascivious grin, flexing his wrists in the cuffs. “Someone’s got experience with this.” He’s not entirely sure if the man can understand him, but the look on his face and tone of his voice seem to communicate enough. The guard fumbles with the cuffs for a second, and jerks forward, yanking forward and pulling the man close to him.
The soft click of the safety being flicked off echoes enormously. The older guard wasted no time in aiming, muzzle of his rifle a precious inch from the soft spot behind Ross’s ear. He says something in Slovak, clipped and short. Ross slowly turns to him, careful to move nothing but his head. Then, he smiles, mirthful, and releases the chains, splaying his palms upwards best he can. The younger guard exhales minutely through his nose before finishing tightening Ross’s cuffs. He checks them thrice over.
As soon as they step back, returning to their posts in the corner of the rooms, behind Ross, the older says something into his radio.
Neither notice the soft trill of the younger’s radio, the small bug burrowed into the side.
Two blocks down, Dan sits in the van, doing his best to ignore Bucky’s watchful eyes. As the data loads in, Dan messes with the radio in his lap. Percy’s tracker closes in to the grate they’d scoped out, hidden at the bottom of one of the deadliest rivers in the world, and Lee’s jogs down the stairs of the restricted area.
Dan glances back up at the screen, eyes flitting over the screens. He adjusts the frequency until the crackling decreases, fuzzing out into crisp words. A few keystrokes activate Ross’s bug, and, clear as day, the radio’s chatter cuts into their comms. Spinning in his chair to face Bucky, he raises a brow in question. Bucky listens for a moment, then nods.
Dan grins.
The vault was completely submerged. Heavy, bolted-down shelves burdened by rows upon rows of lockboxes, cases, and, what seemed to Percy, like lined-up bars of gold, lined the walls and divided the cavernous space into aisles. The influx of water sharpened everything to a delicious point, enhancing his spatial awareness to an extreme amount.
He drifted past most of the shelves—he could feel the weight of the items they held in how the water moved around them, and no painting would be that heavy. Similarly, he bypassed items that were bared to the mercy of the water, stacks of gold and lightly protected cases that boasted a myriad of precious stones.
There was a subtle slope to the floor, which the shelves compensated for perfectly, all built with the slightest angle to counteract it and keep their items level. The center of the floor was the lowest point, where a large, sealed-off drain sat. His hair floated up around him in a dark cloud. Internally, he bemoaned his lack of helmet—while protective, both of his identity and head, it was rather distinctive. Instead, dark, thick cloth was pulled up over the bridge of his nose from his neck, and Bridgette had dyed over the distinctive gray streak in his hair. The Mist would take care of the rest.
“Alright,” Dan tells him. “You’re looking for a package about sixteen by twelve, probably a little larger than, with all the casing. It’ll be heavily waterproofed—several layers.”
Percy heads to the back wall. Unlike the rest of the vault, it lacks a shelf or any sort of storage vessel. Instead, rectangular cases are lined up to rest against the concrete, a small tag attached to the outer handle floating upwards with the whims of the water.
He immediately rules out a few that are far too small. As he drifts down the line, he briefly holds the tags for Dan to inspect. The cases are thick, multi-layered, and definitely beyond water-tight. Experimentally, he flicks the side of one, listening to the slight echo. He can sense only the most miniscule bit of moisture, rattling around like the ghostly memory of a touch. As far as he can tell, the painting itself is wrapped in something soft and supportive, likely bubble wrap or something similar, then in a bag of some sort, likely water-proof. Then, covered in something thin and clingy, over and over again, and then a case of something tough and unyielding. More padding rests between that layer and the thick—steel? Titanium, maybe—case. He can feel the ridges and rounds of a combination lock embedded into the front, as well as a small keyhole on the bottom.
“Not any of those,” Dan replies. “Keep going.”
Percy does, pressing his fingers briefly into his forehead to stymie the encroaching headache. A few times, Dan has to have him adjust the tag so he can see it properly through the feed, including a lengthy silent moment before Dan informs him he’s holding it backwards. Each time Percy picks up a new one, Dan replies negative, and Percy moves on to the next one.
The sounds of the consulate security’s radio chatter are minimal, likely by design. It’s all in Slovak, anyway—not of much help to him. There’s a translator, grabbing audio and running it through to English, with only a few-seconds delay, reporting in his other ear. The dual input, potentially distracting to some, sets more of a background chatter for Percy as he works.
He goes over the rows three times before Dan starts getting twitchy. “The drains will open in a few minutes,” Percy can practically hear how he’s chewing his lip. “Jackson, I don’t think it’s here.”
“Not…here?” Lee repeats, voice pitched low—probably still in that damn maintenance shaft.
“Not in the vault. It’s in the building, it has to be.” Dan replies tightly. “But not in the vault.”
Percy swears vehemently, fingers pressed to his aching temples. It’s lost on them through the water, but it was more for him, anyway.
“We’re gonna need to case the entire fucking building,” Dan mumbles, voice overpowered by the thundering of his fingertips on the keys. “Well—most of it.”
“It won’t be in any rooms for specific delegations. Nobody would be willing to implicate an entire country. Far too many variables. Not in the publicly accessible areas, either, so sratch the lobby. We'll have to search the offices, the break rooms, the storage areas, the filing rooms." Bucky’s voice has gone flat like a forgotten soda.
A short exhale. “I can start looking.” Lee says.
Unable to answer verbally, Percy nods.
“The guard shift change is happening soon,” Dan warns. “We’re gonna have to figure out a new way to get you out of here.”
The water was beginning to drain.
Percy sighed, a stream of bubbles floating around him as he swam behind one of the shelves, ducking behind a large case of, presumably, some sort of ceramic. A statue, maybe? It was about half his height, but rather wide.
The slow, croaking sound of metal filled the room, reverberating through the water and the central drain opened. The water around it swirled like a rope tornado, long and thin, as it was sucked down into the pipes below, to be cycled and deposited back into the river above.
He waited, silent and still, floating and then crouching as the vault emptied. Streams of water sped from the far corners inwards and downwards, rivers and tiny tributaries.
Then, with a grand creak, the vault door opened.
Percy’s hands wrapped around the handle of his knife, worn bones creaking as they shifted. They entered in a two-by-three formation, their rifles raised and ready. The first two rows, four men, came to stand in a solid line, eyes watchful and trigger fingers itching. The two in the back released their weapons to turn their backs, pulling the heavy mass of concrete and metal to swing shut. It was a deafening clang, the sound of the vault door sealing. One of them shivered from the residual chill of the riverwater.
They fanned out—two going left, two right, and two straight down the middle.
Canines pressing painfully into his tongue, Percy released his grip on the blade. These men were faceless by design—whether they were Hydra affiliates or not would be impossible to discern at the moment. There was a chance that they were truly just men working security.
He exhaled through his nose. The pair coming from the left grew near as they swept the vault, the subtle humming of tech emanating from them. Only a few inches of water remained on the ground, rippling uncertainly with each step of a boot.
As the two turned the corner, Percy squeezed his eyes shut against the ache behind his eyes, and lunged forward. He caught the first by surprise, whipping around the corner and slamming his elbow into the man’s face, sending him staggering back. The second took aim, but before he could shoot, Percy grabbed his rifle and yanked upwards, sending a stray shot up towards the ceiling. He grabbed him by the shoulder, using it as leverage to drive his knee into the man’s gut, body armor creaking and cracking beneath demigod strength. A solid kick sent the second man careening back into the first, and the crack of the butt of the rifle sent them both into unconsciousness.
The deafening shots alerted the rest of the guards, who came rushing towards him like the flood of water that’d brought him into the vault in the first place. “Dajte ruky hore!” The one in front roared, the sights of his rifle aimed right between Percy’s eyes. Right-handed, Percy noted.
Slowly, Percy turned to face them, pain pulsing in his temples in time with his heartbeat. He raised his hands, palms out towards them, and slowly moved them behind his head.
“Kľaknite si na kolená!”
Percy rolled his shoulder, fingers stretching out to grasp familiar, cold metal. He would not kill these men, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t hurt them.
Metal sang as he detached the knife from the small sheath nestled between his shoulder blades. Faster than they could anticipate, he swung, the blade ripping through the air as it found its target. The man in front screamed as it embedded itself into his dominant arm, falling to his knees. Percy dropped down and slid forward across the waterlogged concrete, the spray of bullets barely kissing the air right above his head. The crook of his finger imperceptibly dragged the water forward, knocking the two men in the back off their feet. Percy spun, kicking out the back of a knee, gritting his teeth at the sickening crunch.
Blood roared in his ears; his heartbeat, all of theirs, the blood steadily leaking from a stab wound and pooling into the standing water. It, like the rasp of metal on leather, almost sang to him, a symphony in parts; the twist of a shoulder, the yank of separating it from its socket. Grabbing a head and slamming it against the metal of the shelves, the concrete of the walls and floor. A round-house, a bodyslam, the switch of a blade and the bang of a gun. He could hardly tell the men apart; similar sizes and weights, their armor similarly weighing them down and identical training guiding their hands. His head ached.
He hefted one up by the front of his bulletproofs and slammed him into the shelf behind him, sending a pile of stacked and tagged gold bars scattered backwards. A titanium lockbox cradled the man’s skull, and the alloy of the shelf itself bowed under the force of Percy’s throw. The man groaned feebly, rolling onto his side. He reached for his weapon, grasping out, fingers barely brushing the barrel of it. A current of water ripped it away, sent it careening across the room, up the subtle slope of the floor.
Percy ducked under a wide punch, jumped back from a strike. He braced himself as a man barreled down onto him, heavyweight force behind each thundering step. Percy grunted, his back hitting the wall. The man’s gloved hands dug into his chest, his throat, fingers digging into his windpipe, rapidly cutting off his air. Percy wheezed, his nails stabbing into the sliver of skin between his sleeve and glove, drawing bloody crescents, pain in his head screaming in time.
Percy grabbed the man’s wrist and lurched downwards, dropping to the ground. The man stumbled forward, caught off-guard, and Percy swept his legs out from under him. He rolled, swinging a leg overtop him, straddling the man’s chest. Percy yanked the strap of the downed man’s helmet, tearing it off of him. Not to go down without a fight, the guard grappled with him, bucking and throwing his weight to get Percy off of him. Percy’s fingers found short, soft hair, and he gripped it tightly, slamming the man’s head back into the concrete once, twice, thrice before he stopped fighting.
An audible wheeze to his chest, Percy rolled off him, staggering to his feet. “You,” He got out to the unconscious man, “Are very lucky I don’t want to hurt you that badly.” He rubbed at his sternum, swallowing painfully. Shit, he could practically already feel the bruises forming.
The water kicked up at his feet as he bent over, picking up the discarded, and now thoroughly waterlogged, rifle. He turned it over in his hand, deeming it useless, then tossing it aside. Percy squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to allay his sudden migrane.
The beating of his own heart almost exactly overlapped with the fire of the gun.
For a second, he thinks he’s been too careless, tossed aside something loaded and working.
Then, he feels the sting. His hand comes up to grip his bicep, feels and feels the warm blood leaking down.
On the floor, the man—the very first one Percy had targeted, stares up at him, trembling hands and fuzzy vision. He takes aim again, and Percy knows, this time, he will not miss.
A violent rip current tears the rifle from his hand. A jerk of Percy’s chin, and the man goes limp.
Lee fixes her tie with one hand as she briskly walks down the hallway, her knuckles tight around the handle of her briefcase. She hesitates, just a second, around a corner, listening to the echoing sound of boots. They were left, so she went right, scanning for the nearest exit.
She could hear a voice, the echo of the concrete maze making it nearly impossible to estimate distance. Lee tossed a quick look over her shoulder before shoving the nearest door open, throwing herself into the stairwell. It wasn’t the one she’d entered through—in fact, if her memory held, it seemed to be on the opposite side of the building.
It was almost identical, though that wasn’t a particularly difficult feat; sharp, gray concrete, and an unpainted handrail.
Lee passes an empty meeting room, the bustle of voices washing over her. She ducked her head, scratching at her hairline, hanging back around a corner as familiarly heavy footfalls, muffled by the carpet, sounded from down the hall. An officer, bulletproofs and helmet, walked past her, his face turned into his collar as he spoke. Lee was no Ross, but she could read the slight shine of sweat on his brow.
Jaw clenched, she turned on her heel and doubled back. The back door wasn’t an option. She wracked her brain, tongue running over the top of her teeth. She’d have to try the front.
Another patrol walked past her, this time a pair. Lee checked her watch, eyes flitting up towards the windows, then to the cameras stationed in the corner of the ceiling.
She kept walking.
Retracing her steps, past locked offices and filing rooms. A long row of flags, strung proudly and pristine, lined the hallway, the slightest breeze from the above AC vent tugged lightly at the corners. Lee’s knuckles on the briefcase handle were white.
To her left, rushed Slovak met hurried Ukrainian.
Lee’s nails dug into her palm. “Ace.” She said tightly, barely a breath of a word. “Something’s up.”
She sped up, harried-looking as she ducked around the corner and pressed into the wall of another twist, a small squadron passing her. Shoulders against the drywall, she squeezed her eyes shut. “They’re onto me.” She breathed. “Fuck. Fuck.”
“Get out,” Dan urged. “Shit. Get out, Echo.”
Lee pushed off from the wall. Alone in the hall, she abandoned all pretense and ran, lanyard whipping against her chest. She skidded to a stop at a fork in the maze, eyes flitting back and forth. She hung left, re-mapping her exits.
Two more patrols pass her.
One of them stops.
Lee darts away, heart leaping up into her throat. She ducks down, shouldering open a random door and letting it swing shut behind her. On the other side, through the frosted glass, she can hear yelling.
“ Faen ,” She bites. “Ace, I’m going for it. They definitely know I’m here.”
The hallway is long, dim, and, to her immense relief, familiar; scarlet scarlet, pale walls, large fern, and sconces. She runs a hand through her hair, yanking ash-blond strands out of her face. Lee checks her watch again and strides forward, adjusting her tie. “They definitely do,” Dan reports tightly. “Guards are posted at the front doors.”
Lee stops cold in the middle of the hall. The doorway is not even ten feet in front of her, tantalizingly close. She can practically hear the bustle of the open lobby. She turns for a second, back to where she came from, but knows, deep down, that’s no good either.
She looks around, heart stuttering. It’s the same, sparse hallway, framed photos and paintings. West Novi Grad stares at her, accusing, as she folds. “What do I do?” She rasps, the sudden chill only due in part to the AC vent breathing down her neck.
“I—I don’t know.”
Lee slumps back against the wall, looking anywhere but that photo. Her teeth dig into the meat of her cheek. All for fucking nothing.
The light in one of the sconces briefly flickers. The power grid is tenuous at best, she knows, based on their time in the city. Shortages, even still, are common. The sconce dims, then brightens more than the rest, casting a sudden shadow from the angle of the paintings and photo frames, before dying out.
“Shit, I’m trying. Just, let me—”
Lee jolts. The brief dramatization of the lighting had sharpened the room, drawing harsh contrasts and lines. Behind the fern dominating the corner, tucked behind a wide frawn, the sharp slant of a canvas corner revealed itself. She brushes it aside, and, hanging on the wall, is a small, sixteen-by-twelve painting.
Her inhale is painfully sharp. Lee drops her briefcase, wrenching it open and yanking the painting off it’s hanging. It fits, just barely, and she latches it shut. “Dan, it’s in the fucking hallway.” She rushes. “The painting. I’ve got it.”
“You’ve got it?” Dan echoes, shocked.
There’s a heavy bang down the hallway. She looks over her shoulder. “Not for long.” She hisses. Lee cranes her neck up. “Goddamnit,” She mutters, air conditioning caressing the top of her head.
For the second time that day, she pulls out her multitool. The fern’s planter is wide, thick terracotta and filled to brim with soil. Carefully, Lee braces herself on it, a foot on either side of the base of the plant. She’s barely able to reach, tall as she is, the vent, tucked into the upper corner of the wall. She unscrews the corners, holding the screws between her teeth. Lee grabs the briefcase and tosses it in, giving it a good shove to obscure it from view.
“Your description is all over the radios—fuck!” Dan snaps. “Echo, they’ve got you—they’re on their way!"
Lee crams the screws back into their place, sealing the vent. She jumps down, tucking away the tool. Footsteps, right outside the door. “It’s in the vent.” She says, flat and void. “Tell them it’s in the vent.”
“Lee—”
“Later, Ace.” She says firmly.
The guards burst into the hallway.
Lee puts her hands up.
Notes:
ross slut era, i say for the past 300k words
percy 'please let me retire' jackson doing a highly secret infiltration mission: head hurmt
lee jail era :/
reminder that they are all doing this at eleven in the fucking morning
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 37: Unistic
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday, May 11th, 2018
12:09 PM
Near the International Consulate Building, East Novi Grad, Sokovia
Dan yanked his headphones off. “They have Lee,” He gasped out.
Bucky’s spine shot straight. “What?”
There’s a shaky look on Dan's face, like a bitter wind has taken hold of gut, leaving him with a clammy shiver. “She…Lee’s in custody. She found the painting. It’s in the vent in the hallway that leads to the restricted area.” Dan squeezes his eyes shut, runs a hand over his face. He taps his comm. “Mal.” He rasps. “We fucked up. They got Lee.”
“What?” Mal asks shrilly.
Dan presses his fingers to his temple.
Bucky stands, mind racing. Their gap in the guard shift was well over, and, with it, their way out. Sure, Bucky, Mal, and Dan were free as could be, but Percy was stuck in the vault, unless he used the river above to bust the thing open like a cracked walnut, and Lee and Ross were certainly stuck.
The border security was tight. The current shitshow at the Consulate would certainly be reported, and trying to leave the way they came would be nigh impossible—he can already imagine the road blockades and checkpoints. If they could get to the river, somehow get their hands on a boat…That’d be a pain in the ass, too. It was miles before the river straightened out enough to not be a complete deathtrap. Even if they found a boat that could make the journey through incredibly narrow passages, the strain it would put on Percy would be immense, and it would only take one little slip-up for someone to end up dead.
The metal of his joints creak in protests as he digs nails into his palm, a plan slowly forming. It was risky—downright stupid, truthfully, but…they were in a foreign country with no backing, no resources. Not even Hanover. They didn’t have many options.
They didn’t really have any options.
“Dan, I need you to find everything you can for me on local news stations. Staff numbers, funding, resources. Everything.” A pause. “And take the cameras out. All of them.”
He was already at his computer. “Got it.”
“Mal,” Bucky says levelly. “I’m gonna be on the news in forty-five minutes. We’re going to need your…expertise. Can you take care of what we’ll leave behind?”
A beat. There’s a certain kind of steel in her voice that makes Bucky smile grimly. “Sure can.”
Lee gets slammed down in a chair next to Ross. The guard seems to take great pleasure in yanking her wrists together and linking the chain to the bolt in the middle of the table. She says nothing, even as the cold metal digs sharply into her skin, the grating noise making her want to flinch away.
Next to her, under the table, Ross’s fingers just barely curl into a fist.
“So,” Anna Bruzek sits down across from the two of them. There’s a sharp, dark glint in her eyes that wasn’t there before. “Quite the pair, here.”
Slowly, Lee turns to look at Ross, then back to Bruzek. Lee can do a great deal of things, and one of them is knowing when she is out of her depth. She can do patterns—statistical observations. Lee notices when Dan has a flare-up because he skips lunch. Lee notices when Jackson has a headache because he closes his office door instead of leaving it open. Lee notices when Bridgette is anxious when she leaves her nails unpainted because she chews them. Patterns. Lee likes patterns, and she notices when they’re broken.
Social cues, on the other hand, have never been her thing, nor being able to connect with people. Ross is almost her exact opposite in that way. He can strike up a conversation that’ll have you telling him things you’ve never told anymore, look at someone and pick them apart like Lee does the skin off a grape. Ross can get into people’s heads without them even noticing they’ve invited him in.
Lee leans back in her seat, natural monotone and flat expression in full force. “I’ve never met this man in my life.”
Ross smiles.
Lee doesn’t need to have an ounce of social skill to know there is nothing friendly about it.
It’s not the same, Bucky tells himself, sliding an extra magazine into the pocket on his thigh. Dan is sitting a few feet away, not his Hydra handler. There’s no red star emblazoned on his bicep. Though his face is covered, he’s not muzzled.
And if someone dies today, it will be purely of Bucky’s will. Nobody else's.
It’s not the same.
Bucky closes his eyes, exhaling a soft gust of air through his lips. Twin blades slide into sheathes on his ribs. A glock 19 at his left thigh, a P226R at his right. At his hip, a heavy pocket full of Mal’s lovely patent explosives—nasty things, arguably worse than Hydra’s. A Skorpion at his back. Three small canisters hooked into his belt.
In his hands, he hefts his last piece. An M4A1, custom-fitted with tranquilizers strong enough to knock even the Hulk on his ass, if Bucky could hit him enough times.
It’s not the same. He’s going to get people out, not put them under. He’s using these weapons because they’re what he knows, not because they’re what Hydra has given him.
It’s fine. Fine.
Bucky sets his comm to the private channel. “Percy?”
There’s a long pause. Too long, Bucky thinks. “Yeah?”
“Do you have a count of the guards?”
“Twenty.” Percy responds after a second. “Four locked in the vault. Two with Ross and Lee.”
Fourteen. Bucky could work with fourteen. He tightens the strap around his chest. “Could you get to the lobby in…” He checks his watch. “Ten minutes?”
A small grunt, the clang of metal, which Bucky supposes is the vault door. “I suppose.”
Through the ornate windows, Bucky can see that Percy’s changed, yanked the fabric that once concealed his face up into his hair like a folded bandana to keep his hair back, save for a few stubborn strands ghosting along his brow and the bridge of his nose. Though he can’t see it, there’s a distinctly fuzzy air around him, like a poor signal, that Bucky has come to know as the Mist. From somewhere—shithead probably broke into a locker room or something—he’s gotten a sweatshirt, something muted and worn, pulled over the kevlar blend and blade sheathes wrapped around his torso. He looks startlingly normal, standing across the lobby, leaning against the wall, on his phone— soft.
Bucky shoulders open the front door and points the heavy rifle right into the crowd. Short, clipped Ukrainian. “On the ground!”
The screaming starts up like a chorus. The guards rush him. Well-trained as they are, the ex-Winter Soldier stands among them. Four quick shots, one to each of their necks, and they collapse to the ground, heavy tranquilizers slamming into their system just as hard as a normal bullet would.
“We’re going to do this nice and easy,” Bucky says, a lethal sort of unwavering in his voice. “All of you are going to take your phones out and put them on the floor in front of you—tch, hands stay where I can see them,” He warns a middle-aged man by the leftmost desk. “And, you—” He points the rifle at his boyfriend’s chest. “You are going to grab the keys from the guard, right over there, his belt. You’re going to lock the doors. Try anything, and I will kill you. Understand?”
Percy’s lips are parted in surprise. Slowly, he nods. “Yes,” He says, quietly.
“What was that?”
“Yes.” Percy repeats, something raspy in his voice. He pushes up from the wall and, slowly, walks towards the closest guard, collapsed on the massive rug. Percy crouches down, keeping one hand splayed outwards as the other shakily unhooks the ring of keys from the man’s belt.
Bucky narrows his eyes. He’s holding himself oddly, though he compensates for it far too well. It’s subtle, but one arm is stiffer than the other. Bucky watches as Percy slowly crosses the lobby, two dozen bated breaths from the floor as he slowly shuts the grand front doors. The sound of the key turning the lock is almost louder than the crack of Bucky’s rifle.
“All of them.”
Percy looks over his shoulder at Bucky—purely for him to see the bitchy look on his face, Bucky knows. He slides the massive deadbolt, then turns the locks in the handles, as well.
“Drop the keys and slide them over to me.” Bucky orders. Percy does so, sending them across the floor. There’s definitely something odd about him. His jaw is tight, and it’s not fear—he clocked Bucky before he even entered the building, probably.
It looks like pain.
A small, momentary adjustment of his plan.
“Everyone, up.” He orders. When there’s the slightest second of hesitation, he yanks the gun from his waistband—this one, bullets real as can be, and fires up into the ceiling. “Up!”
The screams have since turned to sobbing. He ignores the creeping hoarfrost in his lungs as he forces one of the people working the desks to open the door to the restricted hallway. It was just as Lee had described, and Bucky zeroes in on the first door to his right. It’s storage, if he’s correct—once he has a hostage open the door, he confirms he is. “All of you, get in. You try to escape, I kill you. You try to get your phones back, I kill you. You make too much noise, I kill you. Understood?”
They shuffle into the storage room under Bucky’s watchful eye. As Percy steps forward uncertainly to join them, Bucky’s hand clamps down on the back of his collar. “And if you try anything, I kill him. Then, I come take another.” Without waiting for a response, Bucky slams the door shut and locks the hostages inside.
The hand on Percy’s collar shifts to rest on the side of his throat as Bucky holsters his weapon with his other hand. Bucky pulls him away, down the hallway and into a small alcove, Percy’s shoulder blades against the wall. He stands close, crowding him as he looks him over. “What’s wrong?” Bucky asks quietly.
Percy’s jaw flexes, chin tipped to his shoulder. He doesn’t try to lie. “Got hit,” He says softly—Bucky was right, he notes as he works Percy’s arm out of the sweatshirt. Percy’s voice was strained. Bucky takes a second to inspect the wound. It clipped Percy’s bicep, the kevlar weave absorbing most of the damage. It’s already mostly healed, looking more like a puncture wound than a bullet. Regardless, Bucky pulls out a roll of bandages and tapes it over as Percy speaks. “Stupid mistake. Wasn’t paying attention.”
There’s a weight on Bucky’s chest, like every word has been slowly stacking stones atop his lungs as he helps Percy’s arm back into the sleeve. He reaches up to catch Percy’s chin, tilting it up so he can get a better look at his face. Percy’s eyes scrunched, just a little. “Another headache?” He asks softly.
Percy nods in his hold.
Bucky stares at him for a long moment. Then, hooks a finger around the collar of Percy’s sweatshirt and tugs it down. A ring of yellow-green bruises encircles his throat in the shape of a hand. They’re already faded, looking a week old instead of twenty minutes, barely anything but a sickly hue. Most people might not have noticed them, but most people aren’t Bucky. As he dips his head down to press a soft kiss to the ring of bruises across his throat, something furious sets in the back of his tongue.
It’s moments like these that remind Bucky that, though the Soldier is dead, his remains are a scar that Bucky will always wear. It’s like freezer burn, frostbite, a chronic case of hypothermia that digs claws into the back of his skull. It’s Percy, bandage wrapped around his arm and a handprint around his throat, and Bucky wants to rip a human being to shreds.
“Shit, darling,” He breathes, hand ghosting across Percy’s jaw to cup his cheek. “You’re having a real rough time of it, huh?”
The soft exhale of Percy’s laugh ghosts his palm. “You could say that.” Percy’s brow takes on a small furrow as he leans his face into Bucky’s hand. “What are you gonna do, Jamie?”
“Oh, baby,” Bucky croons. He pulls his glock and empties it as a wide grin grows on his face. In his ear, Dan confirms that the entire building’s communications are down. “We’re about to be famous.”
Mal stands at the edge of the water, gloved hands clenched into fists in her pockets. The water looked foreboding enough—dark, frothing water, and steep, undercut banks that prevented any escape. Beyond the surface, she knew, was worse. Pitfalls and narrow tunnels hid beneath the water, waiting for the current to drag you in, and narrowing and widening seemingly at random. It’s almost as if the river was designed specifically to be uninhabitable, she thinks, staring over the dark surface.
She’d been worried about Jackson—of course she had. And now, she had to leave him. Mal was aware he was, technically, miles upstream from her, out of the water and standing in an opulent lobby, but the principle of the thing still made her stomach churn.
They’d be fine. Likely, if they weren’t already put together, Ross and Lee would be shoved into the same room. Ross could run fucking circles around whatever interrogation they laid before him. He’d rip them to shreds. Shit, by the end of it, he’d probably be the one interrogating the guards instead. And Lee…
Quite frankly, Mal was almost as confident in her as she was Ross. A tad more worried, sure, but confident. If there’s one thing Lee was fantastic at, it was silent stoicism. With Ross to contrast her, they’d be fine. They had to be.
Wind grabbed at Mal, tearing the collar of her coat up and plastering the few loose wisps of her to her eyes—she’d braided it and pulled it up in a heavy bun, secure and out of the way.
Mal chewed on the inside of her cheek until it bled.
Everything had gone to hell so incredibly fast. The frozen ache in her joints made it feel like she’d been standing here for days, but it couldn’t have been more than an hour. She squeezed her eyes shut, cold-numbed skin stiff.
“Mal?”
Dan’s voice is soft—not in the way of gentleness, but in the way of an immense burden. She exhales, and the warm air visibly clouds in front of her.
Mal dug into her coat pocket for her phone. She took off one of her gloves with her teeth and unlocked it, opening her maps app. Slightly muffled, she replies. “I’m on it. Heading out now.”
Then, she turned and walked to the car.
Twenty guards. Four unconscious, locked in the vault deep below them. Two in an interrogation room that's undoubtedly gone into lockdown. Four more are down for the count, tranquilized and dragged into a janitor’s closet. That leaves ten.
Boots storm down the hall like the roll of thunder.
Bucky gently tugs a stray strand of Percy’s hair back into place, hand around his waist tugging him and pressing a kiss to his temple. “Showtime, love,”
Percy’s strangled reply of “What—” Is cut off as Bucky grabs him around the hip, turning him around and plastering him to his chest. The barrel of his glock is pressed right where Bucky’s lips were moments before.
“Zastavenie!” On the opposite end of the hallway, the steady beat dies out. The guard in the front has a stripe along his sleeve denoting him as a higher rank—captain, most likely. His hand is held up, halting the squad behind him. Behind a bulletproof eyeshield, under a heavy helmet, the captain stares at Bucky, eyes narrowed and rifle—something heavy, automatic and definitely more than the previous guards had—raised.
In his ear, Dan clears his throat. “Building is on lockdown. All diplomats and their personal detail are barricaded in respective offices. They’ll stay put.” The individual security details aren’t of Sokovian hire, rather contracted by the governments of the ambassadors. Their priority will be keeping their charges safe, and, as long as Bucky doesn’t start kicking down doors, they won’t be a problem.
Bucky mockingly rests his chin on Percy’s head, hand fisting the front of his boyfriend’s sweatshirt, lightly tapping the muzzle against the side of his cheek. “I’d put that down, if I were you.”
The captain’s shoulders are squared. Slowly, he lowers it, but does not release his weapon. “What is your purpose here?”
Bucky ignores him. “All of you, weapons on the ground. If not, I kill this man. If you shoot me, the rest of the hostages will be dead before I hit the ground.” These men are certainly trained, evident in the familiarity of the captain’s grip on the weapon, but Bucky can still read them. The word hostages seems to practically blare in his eyes.
A few feet to the left of the squadron, a simple, unassuming door sits. It’s set off to the side, half-hidden by a large plant. Bucky smiles. “One by one, in that room.” He orders.
“Kapitán—” One of the men begins tersely. The captain holds his hand up to silence him, his eyes, a blue so similar, yet so different, to Bucky’s, don’t leave him. “Listen to him.” The captain says, something sombre and furious in his voice. “Drop them and go.”
They’re assuming Bucky has accomplices in the building, especially since the cameras are down—though, that’s Dan’s doing, he’s just good enough to do it from a block away. Bucky, technically, does have accomplices, but one’s miles away by a riverbank in the middle of nowhere, two are locked up in an interrogation room, and one is currently in Bucky’s arms with a gun pressed into his cheek.
As far as they’re aware, thanks to Dan, Bucky has a whole team holding two dozen people at gunpoint.
One by one, the men drop their rifles, and, under his sharp direction, they file into the closet.
Under his breath, Percy whispers, “Jamie—”
“I know.” He replies. Then, louder, in Ukrainian, “Shut the door.” The captain does as he’s told, sealing himself and his team into the closet, just like the hostages that, unbeknownst to them, are only a few dozen yards away. Bucky watches for a moment, eyes narrowed at the closed door. Then, he lowers his weapon and tucks it back into its holster. He releases Percy as well, who gives him yet another bitchy look. “We will be talking about this,” He warns.
Bucky grins at him, then gestures to the large fern. “Well, it’ll have to wait,” He says. “Unless you have a ladder, of course.” Percy makes a face at him as he pushes the large planter aside. “Y’know, Lee did this by herself.”
“Lee was created in a lab funded by the NBA,” Bucky dismisses. “Unless you’ve grown a foot in the last couple seconds, you’d better get over here.”
Percy sighs heavily. “I hate you.”
“Mhm, sure. C’mon, hop up.” Bucky bends down and easily hoists Percy up onto his shoulders. He passes up a small switchblade, which Percy uses as a makeshift screwdriver to dislodge the vent cover. He urges Bucky a bit closer, reaching inside the vent and feeling around before his hand closes around the handle. Percy pulls the briefcase free, and hands it down to Bucky, whose hands are resting on the front of his shins to keep him steady.
Bucky gently places it on the ground, then digs around in his pocket, one hand still on Percy’s leg. He hands him up a small, cylindrical canister. “Toss that in, would you?”
Percy inspects it for a moment before shaking his head, resigned. “You’re such a dick.” He says, but obliges. The canister hits the side of the vent before rolling away from them, following the course of the shaft and hanging left. Percy counts the standard five seconds before it emits a low hiss.
Bucky tilts his head to the side, allowing Percy to get his leg onto his other shoulder. Briefly supporting Percy on just his left, they both stop to listen through the vent shaft as one of the guards gives a startled cry, quickly echoed by his teammates, which, only a tad slower, turns to a dragged out slurry of words. Then, the sound of nine, muted thuds.
“You can’t just tranquilize all your problems,” Percy says blandly as he pushes off Bucky’s shoulder, landing on his feet.
“Seems to be working pretty well.” Bucky defends, picking the briefcase back up. Resting it on the edge of the small table, he pops it open. Inside, Unistic Composition stares back. Gloves on, Bucky lifts it out of the case and flips it over. He runs a fingertip over the back frame, and, sure enough, in the bottom, where a small piece of wood would typically be hammered into the frame to stretch out the canvas, a small chip is embedded. Bucky flips it back around and places it back into the case.
He taps his comm. “I’ve got it.”
Then, the alarm goes off.
Notes:
the combination of ross's psychological torture and lee's autism will bring the sokovian consulate to its knees
yeah i know nothing about guns and just went to the wiki page of all the weapons bucky uses in CA:WS. can you tell
percy, chilling in his cute lil outfit: :)
bucky, about to take him as a hostage: :)percy's got that cottagecore shit on rn with his little bandana
imagine this guy takes you hostage and shoots 4 people in front of you and then you see him kissing his boyfriend in the hallway. what do you even do from there
mal standing dramatically at the edge of the river: 🧍♂️
god im so active rn. might even write at least another sentence in the next month
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 38: Outlets
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday, May 11th, 2018
12:48 PM
International Consulate Building, East Novi Grad, Sokovia
Only Ross sees the way Lee’s fists clench around the fabric of her pants as the alarms begin blaring. Bruzek’s head snaps up to the source of the sound, then to the guards. “What the hell?” She asks.
One of them has a radio pressed to his ear over the noise. He leans in and says something to Bruzek, who looks thunderous. The other walks to the door and opens a small panel, turning a key from his belt to silence it. Lee’s shoulders drop slightly, and Ross’s jaw flexes.
Bruzek clears her throat, then fixes her face into something dismissive. Impressively fast, Ross thinks. She turns back to the pair, idly flicking up one of the paperclipped items in the folder before looking up at Ross, who she’s clearly picked out as the more talkative and more likely to let something slip.
“So,” She soldiers on. “You, Taylor, clearly have been quite busy.” Bruzek’s eyes meet his. “Does the whole ‘movie scout’ thing really get you that far? Does your company know you’ve been using it as a front?” She looks to Lee. “And have, apparently, been recruiting? What was it, a bribe? Blackmail? Before this, you seemed to be quite the upstanding citizen, Andriy.”
Lee says nothing, his eyes boring into her. Then, he looks to her left, to the guard—the same one Ross had bugged. He conceals a swallow, shifting under her gaze.
“Right, we can talk later.” Bruzek says. “Trust me, we’ll have plenty of time to wait until you’re feeling more talkative.” She returns her focus to Ross. “But you…you have warrants all over. It’s a miracle you even made it into the country.” She eyes the folder again. “Palau, Estonia, Nicaragua, India, and Somalia.”
Lee’s thumbnail digs into the pad of her pointer, and Ross inhales shakily. Bruzek stares at him, something accomplished shining in her eyes—probably assuming he’s shocked how much she knows about him, instead of trying to hold in a laugh that the countries he’s wanted in spell PENIS. Thanks, Dan.
“What can I say,” Ross gets out. “I’m Mr. Worldwide.”
Bruzek hums. She’s clearly stiff, though she hides it, and Ross is betting it has to do with whatever caused the alarms to go off. He almost shuddered to think what the rest of his team has done, because it was most definitely their fault.
“My turn for a question,” Ross says, suddenly. “No new interrogator?”
Bruzek raises a brow.
He waves a hand lazily, best he can with the cuffs. “I mean, you clearly did a shit job the first time.” He watches every microexpression—her eyes narrow, just a bit. “Seriously, you had me detained in this exact building, and you just…let me walk. Warrants in almost every continent, and you just let me go! That’s…shit, man, that’s …” Ross hums. “Well, that's just humiliating.”
Her jaw tightens.
He relishes every word. “Seriously, you’re wasting time in here with me? I know you clearly don’t have anything better to do, but, Christ, if I’m apparently such a big deal, you’d think they’d send someone who knows how to do their job.”
She exhales. “I am perfectly capable, not that it’s any of your business.”
The first crack in her armor.
You give Ross Bunmi an inch, he can take a mile.
Ross looks to her right, where the older guard stands, and gives him a commiserating glance. Bruzek catches it—of course she does, and turns sharply to the guard, lip curled ever so slightly in anger. When she sees his flat expression, she turns back to Ross.
He laughs in her face. “Made you look,” He gloats. Then, he smiles again. “But, seriously, you’re that insecure that you’ll believe your own coworkers are talking shit about you with a prisoner?” His tongue kisses his teeth as he leans back in his chair. “Yikes.”
“We’re not here to discuss my personal relationships with my coworkers,” She says flatly. “Now—”
“Aren’t we? I mean, you’re asking me how I got into the country, I can tell you—it’s because the dumbass at the border was half as stupid as you.” Sorry, Michal, Ross thinks. Not your fault.
Her hands clench around the edge of the manilla folder.
Ross suddenly straightens and leans in. “You’re asking all the wrong questions—not surprising—and this isn’t going anywhere. You want me to talk? Bring someone else in. Shit, bring the damn janitor in. Chances are, he can do better.” His eyes, dark obsidian, meet hers, taking in the hard set of her shoulders and the fury settling into her face. “You’re asking me all this shit, but let me ask you something—why are you still here? Why haven’t you left yet?”
“Trust me, if I could, I would!” She roars, slamming her hands down on the tabletop as she stands.
Bruzek’s face drops, drawing back in a sharp jerk as she realizes what she’s just let slip. Ross tosses his head back and laughs. “God,” He says meanly. “You really are bad at this.”
Next to him, Lee is sitting stonily, like she has been for the past near-hour. Her dead stillness, something Ross has gotten used to, seems to unnerve Bruzek and the two guards, particularly the younger, who she’s maintained direct eye contact with for almost five minutes now. Ross is fairly sure she’s actually zoned the hell out, and just happened to have fixed her eyes in his vicinity. The entire room, desaturated blue walls and harsh, white lighting, seems to draw all the color right out of her, leaving a looming, colorless ghost staring wordlessly next to Ross.
Ross rolls his shoulders casually, leaning into Bruzek. “Lockdown, huh? Looks like you’re just as stuck as I am.”
But he’s lying. Anna Bruzek is far more a prisoner than Ross will be in the next…well, he estimates a few hours. The end of the day, tops.
He swears that, next to him, Lee is smiling.
Mal leans out the window of her… borrowed truck, sunglasses perched on her nose to shield her from the glaring midday sun. She drums her gloved fingers on the steering wheel, working her jaw on the wad of bubblegum between her teeth.
Her comm crackles, screeching suddenly with the shrill sounds of an alarm, overlaying the low, panicked Slovak chatter.
In the passenger seat, a stack of folded blueprints is half-buried under a heavy toolkit.
She idles on the side-road for almost twenty minutes, blowing a sizable bubble, popping it, then repeating the process. The radio is cranked up, the beat thrumming all the way through her seat. Mal checks her watch, then messes with her comm, waiting.
In the rear-view mirror, the massive tank attached to the truck bed obscures most of her view, save for a bit around the edges. Definitely not legal, but, really, who is she to judge?
Police chatter is scattered through the radio resting on the dashboard.
“You’re clear,” Dan says, half-distracted and distant.
Mal throws the truck into gear and pulls away from the strip of dirt she’d interpreted as a curb.
The outside of the consulate building is deserted, she can tell even from here. Even the far side of the building, facing the street, is vacant. The pedestrians have cleared out, and, from Dan, she knows that the police have set up barricades completely barring off the main street. She turns down the street, creeping slowly around the block. Stuffed between two commercial buildings, a long, narrow alleyway lurks.
Carefully, Mal pulls the truck through it, muting the radio and cracking open the window to keep an ear out for sirens. As she eases her way through the alley, she comes to a narrow, high-walled breezeway that serves as a cross-path through the block.
There’s a small dumpster nestled into an alcove to her far left, a small stack of wooden pallets to her right. Other than that, she’s alone. There’s not even any cameras facing her direction, or, really, any direction near her.
Mal kills the engine, but leaves the keys dangling in the ignition.
She hops out of the truck, rounding to the passenger side and hefting her toolbox out of the seat. From atop it, a heavy-duty pair of gloves rest. She yanks them on and carries the toolbox to the far wall where her target sits, waiting.
Through a small, barely Mal-sized gap between the two buildings opposite where she entered, Mal is able to pull herself upwards onto a ledge, from where she can grab ahold of a service ladder affixed to the concrete.
It’s a small building, one very short storey. The ledge has a lip to it, about a foot of extra concrete encircling the rooftop—at least she doesn’t have to worry about any of her tools rolling off, she thinks. Mal drops her toolbox near her feet and, from beneath her zipped-up coat, pulls a pair of binoculars.
The wind drags at her, pulling her hair and tail of her coat. It has less of a chill than by the river, but it’s most definitely stronger, standing exposed atop the roof.
She walks to the opposite edge. Around forty feet away, a tall, chain-link fence wraps around the massive perimeter of the consulate building. Through her binoculars, Mal scans the back face of the building, taking in every inch and curve of it, until she catches sight of the large pipe running out the back and disappearing into the ground.
Behind her, down in the alleyway, the tank in the back of the truck sits innocuously. She can almost smell it from up there.
Mal leans back and grabs her blueprints.
Over the blaring sound of the alarms, Percy somehow manages to pin Bucky with a glare, hands clapped over his ears.
Bucky, briefcase in one hand and boyfriend’s elbow in the other, rolls his eyes. “Do not say that you told me so.”
Percy raises a slow brow as they rush down the corridor.
“One guard left, yes, I know.” Bucky huffs. “Trust me, alright?”
“What?” Percy exaggerates as they turn a corner. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over this stupid fucking alarm!”
“I hate you.”
“Huh?” Percy repeats. …He actually might not be able to hear Bucky that well, especially since he doesn’t have the added context of lip-reading.
Bucky leans in, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “Love you! Just trust me.”
As Percy grumbles something about a hostage situation, Bucky leads them further into the building. He’s memorized their path—kicking open a locked door gets them into the stairwell, which they take two at a time. The room Ross and Lee are being detained in lies around the corner at the far end of the hallway before them, a heavy steel door with no window.
Bucky puts a hand on Percy’s chest. “Stay,” He says firmly. Percy sighs, but doesn’t argue, the migraine pressing behind his eyes. He leans against the wall, tipping his head back, cool drywall against his scalp.
The thick, bolted door stands no chance against the strength that lies in Bucky’s shoulders. He shoves his open, and it bows, metal creaking and screaming as he slams the door inwards. He storms into the interrogation room—
Two guards, either side of the room. Armed, pistols at their hips. Ross and Lee are chained to the tabletop. One woman, sitting across from them.
—the guards hit the floor before they can even reach their weapons. The woman, Bruzek, puts her hands up the second Bucky whips towards her. Smart. “Stand up,” He orders. She does. Placatingly, she says, “Whatever you need, we can work it out. There’s no need to hurt anyone else.”
She’s compartmentalizing. As far as she knows, the guards on the floor are dead.
“Turn around, face the wall.” He orders. The M4A1 full of tranquilizers. The empty glock. The P226R, the Skorpion.
Even as she does, she’s still trying. “We can take this somewhere else,” She says—trying to get him out of the room, with Ross and Lee, who she perceives as defenseless.
Bucky turns to face Ross and Lee. The momentary shock that has struck them has faded out. He’s not surprised they both recognized him. Besides Percy, they’re the two he’d assume would do it fastest. He tips his head forward, primarily towards Ross, who’s eyes widen only slightly in understanding as he pulls his glock.
He yanks roughly at the chains binding his wrists. “Oh, my God,” Ross gets out. “Please, don’t, I—” Then, he screams. Bucky almost winces at the raw sound. Ross is way too good an actor, he thinks. Then, Bucky fires, and two blanks reverberate around the room like the crack of thunder.
Ross goes abruptly silent. Bruzek lets out a weak, shuddering noise, still facing the wall. A part of Bucky feels guilt scraping up his throat, but he shoves it down and holsters his glock.
There’s a spare cartridge in his left pocket for the M4A1, and, beneath it, a small container of just the tranquilizers. He yanks his face covering down for a moment to open it with his teeth, uncap one of the capsules, exposing the barely visible, thin needle. He jams it into Bruzek’s neck before she’s even able to tear up.
The keys are in her coat pocket.
He undoes both Ross and Lee’s cuffs. They both stand, Ross wincing slightly at Bruzek’s crumpled body while Lee stares ahead at nothing in particular at all.
Ross leans down and, gentle as he can, straightens her unconscious form so she’s not painfully slumped against the wall. Neither he nor Lee comment.
Percy is waiting for them. Bucky can still see the trace amounts of pain on his face, the slight stiffness of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes. Ross visibly halts for a second to take him in, and Lee tips her head to the side, just a bit. How unlucky is he, to be stuck with the three people who can most definitely read him, when he wants nothing more to dismiss it.
“Are you both alright?” Percy asks.
Ross shrugs a little. “The only thing anyone got out of us was probably a stress ulcer.” He nudges Lee with his elbow, a small smile playing on his lips. “And maybe a few nightmares about Norwegian Slenderman.”
Lee cuffs him on the back of his head, and Ross laughs.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Dan jumps in to all four of their comms. “But the media just picked up on the story. I’m watching a live broadcast of the front of the building right now.”
“Any chance of them attempting to breach it?” Percy asks. He reaches into his pocket and hands Lee a small, plastic package, which he tears open to pull out a pair of foam earplugs and then puts in gratefully.
“The police? No. But, uh—Sargeant, I sent the info you asked for to you, but I’ll give you the short version now. The HQ for what was the biggest news outlet is, well, dust, now. Three other companies—based in East Novi Grad—are pretty much in an all-out war to fill the gap. Seems pretty bad, from what I’ve seen. Like, corporate espionage to scalp stories, bad.”
Ross gives Bucky a curious look, but says nothing as Dan continues.
“So, obviously, all three are camped out around the consulate trying to get their scroop.”
“And the—”
“Vehicles? Just like you’d guessed. Seats six” A beat. “Also, Mal is on her way to me. I’m giving her the van keys—we’ll meet you at the drop-off.”
“Oh!” Mal suddenly chips. “Jackson, could you do me a favor? You should pass by the rooms with all the hostages in them. Block up the pipes connecting to the sprinklers, please!”
Bucky smiles, and Ross visibly shudders. “Ross, Lee,” Bucky says. “Get to the roof. Percy,” His boyfriend turns to him. “Let’s go find our final guy.”
One thing about Lee, Ross thinks, is that the guy doesn’t often ask a lot of questions. While he himself was brimming with them, Lee had just nodded, taken a brief look around, and then set off in the opposite direction. He only made it a few steps before pausing, and turning to look at Barnes. Two sets of pale eyes met, and Lee silently held out a hand, one brow raised.
Barnes wordlessly unclipped one of his guns and handed it to Lee. With a surprising familiarity, Lee ejected the magazine, checked it over and loaded it back in. He clicked the safety off. “Let’s go.”
She waits a second for Ross, who jogs a few paces to catch up, then does a sarcastic salute to Barnes and Jackson. “See you in a bit, I guess,” Ross calls back as they turn the corner.
Ross continues to jog after Lee and his ridiculously long legs. “You know the way to the roof?” He asks, a pace behind. Lee nods. “We’re close.” He promises, taking the stairs two at a time. He looks at Ross out of the corner of his eyes. “You need a lift?” He asks dryly. “Piggy-back ride?”
Never let it be said that Lee Van Keppel wasn’t a complete shithead.
They both cringe away from the onslaught of sunlight as lee shoulders open the roof access door atop the staircase. Ross shields his eyes, barely registering Lee stuffing the gun into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Above them, in the distance, Ross can hear the chopping blades of a helicopter.
The wind is almost frozen, biting at his exposed face and arms. He’d entered the consulate, hours ago, without his coat, knowing they wouldn’t let him keep it once he was detained, and very unwilling to lose a coat (...or leave any evidence, or whatever). Ross shivered, curling his shoulders in. From the rooftop, looking over the city, he could see practically the whole block bathed in police lights. The street in front of the consulate was deserted.
The sunlight was patchy, breaking in through the heavy clouds at random intervals. Half the building was obscured in shadow, the other in nigh blinding light. There’s a bit of fencing towards the back of the building, hooked to the ledge, and, assumedly, covering a fire escape of some sort. On the far edge, an empty helipad sits.
A hand still over his eyes, Ross sees the helicopter hovering about half a block away. It’s definitely not military or police, not government at all, based on its bright coloring and the logo on the side.
It hits him, then. Jesus Christ, Barnes, he thinks. Ross waves his arms up, trying his best to catch the attention of the chopper. Lee, too, raises one of his stupidly long arms—seriously, crazy wingspan on that man—and waves. It takes a long moment, in which Ross begins to jump up and down, but the helicopter slowly begins to descend.
Lee doesn’t look over as he speaks over the influx of noise. “ PRNV.” He reads aloud. “One of the three outlets Dan mentioned.” Then, Lee does move his head slightly to the side to see Ross. “Sorry.” He says.
Ross blinks. “What?”
Lee jams the tip of his finger into Ross’s stomach. He groans, doubling over. “What the fuck—” Lee puts a heavy hand on his shoulder and pushes him down onto his knees, then crouches down next to him. “I said sorry.” He reminds as the chopper lands on the corner of the rooftop, in the center of the helipad. With his proximity, Ross sees Lee slide his hand into his pocket, the movement obscured by the way the two of them are crouched down.
“Допоможіть!” Lee calls out. “Pomoc! Môj priateľ je zranený!”
Ross gives him a wide-eyed look. “You are a doctor,” He says, aghast. He’s only half-joking.
His fingers wrap around the gun. “I never took the oath.”
“What?”
The group of reporters flood out of the helicopter towards them. One of them, Ross can’t help but note, has his camera pointed at them. Trying to get the scoop, even if, to them, Ross might be bleeding out.
The second they’re near, Lee stands smoothly and whips the gun out from his pocket. “Odložte fotoaparát a ľahnite si na zem. Покладіть камеру і лягайте на землю.”
…Aw, he’s threatening them bilingually.
The cameraman slowly kneels and places his camera next to him. Then, he and the reporter, a woman bundled in a thick coat, lay on their stomachs, hands raised. Lee keeps the weapon trained on them, then jerks his head towards the helicopter. Ross straightens and jogs towards it. He pokes his head in, and an absolutely terrified pilot stares back. Ross just gives him a small half-smile and juts his thumb towards his two coworkers. Shakily, the pilot scrambles out of the helicopter and practically flings himself to the ground, joining them. Then, Ross hops in.
It’s only about a minute before the access door bursts open once more. Jackson and Barnes come sprinting out, Barnes carrying the briefcase in his iron (er, vibranium) grip, and there’s a smudge of blood on Jackson’s face that Ross doubts is his.
They practically leap into the back seats of the chopper. As soon as they’re in, Lee follows, and she gets into the pilot’s seat. At this point, Ross isn’t even surprised when she doesn’t even hesitate, putting the headset on and messing with the controls, lifting them seamlessly into the air.
Beneath them, the consulate building slowly shrinks.
Notes:
ross is such a shithead i love him
...don't worry about what mal is doing with that truck. dont even worry about it
the team: *doing an insane international heist*
percy: can i have an advil
percy: can i PLEASE have an advilYES i know nothing about guns. again. leave me alone ok. i don't want to do too much research or else ill start getting targeted ads. and i cannot bring myself to care that much
bucky is such a schemer lowkey. average gay plotting and planning. evil behavior. (if this was a normal-ish au he would have had a 27 step plan to seduce percy btw)
lee with every vehicle license ever: :)
edit: guys i put a picture in!! experimenting with inserting chapter art. tell me what you think! currently its an imgur hyperlink. this one is ross and lee in the interrogation room :)
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 39: Ukrainian Bleach
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday, May 11th, 2018
1:51 PM
Outside of Novi Grad, Sokovia
Bucky’s eyes constantly scan the sky around them, eyes narrowed as he leans back into his seat, Lee similarly focused, while Ross sits across from Percy, legs kicking idly.
“Are you alright?” Ross tilted his head, a brow raised at Percy, who sighed and nodded. “Migraine.” He replied.
“I didn’t know you got those.”
He rubbed his forehead. “It’s a recent development.” Percy replied.
Bucky turned in his seat to face them. “Also, he got shot.”
Immediately, Lee turned his head to side-eye him. Ross gave a full-body twitch. “Excuse me?”
Percy put his head in his hands. “Only a little.” He defended, weary. “A graze. Already half-healed.”
Lee called him something definitely rude in Norwegian under his breath.
Below them, the consulate building was a speck in the distance. Mal interrupted—Percy’s saving grace. “Hey, you blocked the sprinklers like I asked, right?”
Percy nodded absently. The noise of the helicopter, even with the headset on, is immense, almost vibrating between his ears.
“He did,” Bucky confirmed for her. Percy could feel his eyes on him.
Mal’s voice was breathy, exhilaration and adrenaline . “Cool,” On her end of the line, there was a soft click.
Then, Percy jolted. There was a sudden burst of pressure against his temple, like the bursting of a dam, releasing some of the tension behind his eyes but leaving an odd, ghosting touch across the back of his neck. Something almost familiar tugged in the base of his chest and the tips of his fingers tingled.
“What the fuck was that?” He demanded.
A pause. “What?” Ross asked. Bucky, too, was staring at him, brow furrowed.
He could feel it, miles away—4.3, his mind supplied, busting out from the pipes and fanning out, dropping down onto the ground in an umbrella-shaped arc. He could feel the sting against the ground and walls, and burn against wood. Percy could feel the plants in the hallways begin to corrode and wither away.
He shuddered.
“Oh, shit, you felt that?” Mal asked. “Damn, my bad. Didn’t know you had that kind of distance. Should’ve warned you,”
In the front, Lee’s eyes narrowed. “Mal, what did you do?” He asked. The whirring of the helicopter blades overhead seemed to, impossibly, fade into the background, almost static-like.
“Bleach.” Percy answered before she could. “She hooked up a tank full of bleach to the pipes that supply the fire sprinklers.”
Ross’s jaw dropped. Over the line, Mal let out a slightly winded laugh. He could hear her feet thudding across pavement as she dashed towards Dan’s van. “Damn right I did,” She said. “It went off everywhere, wiped the whole place clean—’cept for where Jackson blocked. Hostages are fine.”
Bucky rubbed a hand against his forehead, and Percy caught his soft “Insane,” Personally, Percy didn’t think Mister-Hostage-Taker had any room to judge, but he held his tongue.
“Well,” Ross says, recovered from his shock. “That’s one way to get rid of evidence.”
Percy tips his head back against the smooth interior, tries to ignore the way everyone continually sneaks glances at him, and closes his eyes.
They slowly begin to descend, hovering over a secluded mass of dirt and rocks. There’s long, deep gouges in the earth, and nearby, massive, uniform piles of gravel and excavated dirt. There are still deep tracks from heavy equipment coming in and out, though it's been over a decade. There’s a faint smell of coal dust, traces of it heavy in the air from years of excavation. The pollution’s taken out just about everything alive that the initial clearcutting didn’t, leaving a flat, dead plain spanning about a mile and a half in every direction.
Down below, Mal and Dan are waiting for them, the van parked on the far edge, nestled behind a stack of uniformly cut rock. Their hair is roughly tugged at as the helicopter touches down.
Mal was fiddling with her phone, which, for some inconceivable reason, had an odd bundle of wires connected to a small port sticking out of her pocket attached to it. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet, rocking back and forth, a hand over her eyes to protect them from the slowly dipping sun.
Behind her, the back doors of the van were open, and Dan had neatly packed all their equipment into a pile of cases on the ground next to one of the back wheels. He was sitting inside on the ground, legs dangling out and feet brushing the dirt. Unlike Mal, he was looking down at his lap, his laptop balanced on one knee.
As the blades slowed, Lee slid the headset down to around his neck. Jackson was the first one out, the slightest grimace on his face—not a fan of flying. Barnes was next, a hand rubbing up and down his back in a sweeping, soothing gesture. Ross hopped out after, who bounded right up to Mal and Dan, and Lee last.
Lee stood by Dan, casting a long shadow that blanketed his legs. “Got everything?”
Dan looked up at him and nodded, squinting slightly in the sun. Lee shifted, just a little, blocking it from his view. Dan lightly knocked the side of his foot against Lee’s shin, hooking his ankle around him. Lee allowed the contact, the slightest fond look on his face. “Packed everything, and Mal cleaned the place top to bottom. Switched the plates, too.”
Lee’s nose wrinkled slightly as a light breeze wafted the smell towards him. “Clorox?”
“Bleach,” Dan corrected mildly. “She had extra.”
Lee casts a long, speculative look over to Mal, then just shakes his head. “Right,” He says. Then, he lightly nudges Dan. “Butt over,” He says. Then, he looks across the flat clearing to where Percy is standing. At the same volume—Lee doesn’t really get louder than casual speaking, really—he says, “Jackson,”
Jackson’s head turns to him, and, after a second, he walks over. Barnes follows, and he, Mal, and Ross begin to lift the cases (...her and Barnes doing most of the work, because Ross is a diva). Lee tilts her head towards the van. “Sit.”
He’s got a lot of balls, Mal thinks. Jackson does without complaint, sitting next to Dan. Lee leans over him, then wordlessly, and very gently, tugs at the collar of his sweatshirt. Jackson sighs, and, with his help, takes it off, revealing his long sleeve, a tear in it across his bicep, darkened slightly with blood.
The corner of Lee’s mouth tugs downward. He practically folds in half to lean over him, and reaches over his head to open one of the small compartments on the interior wall of the van. A tightly filled first aid kit falls into his hand, and Lee balances it on Jackson’s leg as he pops it open. It’s not the place to fully take care of it, so he just wraps it, neatly tying some gauze around Jackson’s bicep.
Meanwhile, Mal helps Barnes heft the last case of equipment into the storage compartment of the helicopter. “Are you worried about us getting caught?” She asks him.
Barnes looks up at the sky for a moment, then shakes his head. “We’re about half an hour from the Hungarian border. By the time the Sokovians catch on to follow as and convince Hungary to let them in, we’ll be halfway across the Atlantic.”
“And we’re not asking permission to enter Hungary?”
“Of course not.”
They, of course, do not ask for permission to enter Hungary, which they do with a shocking lack of trouble—just in time, too, according to Lee, because they’d been cutting it awfully close with fuel. They’re seemingly in the middle of nowhere, nothing but flat, empty land surrounding them.
Then, Mal blows up the helicopter.
Sometimes, Bucky really forgets exactly what kind of engineering she specializes in, even with the tranquilizer bullets still in his pocket and the guns still on his hip and back. The initial shockwave had made them all wince, and he watched, slightly concerned, as the roaring blaze reflected in Mal’s eyes.
After a few minutes, Percy puts the fire out, and they just…move on.
Their next target, a private airfield a few miles away, causes the group to split. Dan’s having a fairly good day, but hiking that far still isn’t particularly in his best interest. Percy, too, Bucky insists, who’s still rubbing at his temple when he thinks nobody is looking (Bucky is always looking) and bleeding, however slowly and sluggishly. Ross ends up sticking with them, while Mal, who’s seemingly rejuvenated with an almost manic energy, bounces alongside Bucky and Lee.
They walk for a bit over a mile, into the woods, before splitting, far enough from the explosion site to be hidden. Ross plops right down into the grass and begins tearing into one of the dried ration packs that had been in Bucky’s bag. He doesn’t even argue, especially when Ross begins sorting out the dried fruits between the three—dates for him, apricots for Dan, and figs for Percy.
As expected, their hike is peaceful. Mal, clearly deeply engrossed in her own thoughts, walks ten feet ahead of them. Bucky doesn’t dare disturb her—chances are, she’s mentally reviewing the gas canisters or tranquilizers he used today, and, by the next week, she’ll drag him into one of the reinforced testing rooms to go over improvements. Also, she still seems to be running on that explosion high, just a little bit.
Lee matches his pace, despite being a head taller. Also as expected, he says practically nothing—in fact, dead silent for the first half-mile, until Bucky asks, “Where’d you learn Ukrainian?”
The forensic pathologist doesn’t look at him as he speaks. It’s one of the reasons speaking to Lee is so easy; there’s no eyes to meet, no emotions to have to read. “School,” He replies. “Grew up speaking it.”
Bucky nods. “I didn’t know,” He says.
Lee’s soft exhale is in tune with the light wind rusting the tall grass around them. “Hydra taught you?”
Something twists in his gut. “Taught is generous.” He replies. Then, “You never speak it.”
“Neither do you.” Lee says levelly. “Nor have I ever heard a word of German or Russian.” There’s a twitch to his jaw, a tightening to his eyes. “Similar reasons, I suppose.”
“Bad memories.” Bucky finishes. Lee nods.
It’s silent for a long time, save for their footsteps, the occasional crunch of a twig or dry grass under them. There’s a bird, lazily swooping through the air above, seemingly with no particular goal in mind. Bucky watches it as they walk, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun.
He can see the airfield in the distance. It’s nothing grand, at all—a sole, squat building that stretches east-to-west, a tarmac next to it that stretches across the field. In the near-hour since they’d touched down, he’s not heard even a whisper of a single plane, arriving or departing.
As they get closer, he can see only one plane, standing patient vigil at the end of the runway.
Standing on the edge of the tarmac, Lee asks, “Do you hate them?”
Bucky turns to him. “Anev?”
Lee nods.
When Bucky sighs, he feels like all the air in his chest deflates. The thing is,
“I do,” He finally answers. “But…not because of what they did to me. I—” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “I hate Hydra. I hate everything they stand for, everything they do. It’s because I hate Hydra, I hate the people that work for Hydra. It’s personal, but it’s not.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I hate Anev, yes, because they worked with Hydra, because they sent me back to that fucking place, because they valued their life over mine.”
The door of the plane opens, a set of stairs slowly lowering.
“Mostly, though,” Bucky says. “I don’t hate Anev because of what they did to me. I hate them because it was their fault that Dan got hurt, because they made Ross doubt his profiling for months, let that Hydra agent grab Bridgette while she was chained up in your own fucking boiler room, and Percy—” Bucky’s nails dig into his palm. “I hate Anev because they hurt me, and I fucking despise them for what they did to you.”
He knew Lee still wasn’t a huge fan of the conference room. A severed head would do that.
Lee nodded, just once, and said nothing more.
Inside the hangar, there was a black SUV, tucked away in the corner. The keys were in the front seat. While Lee kept a slightly unnerved eye on Mal, Bucky got in and doubled back to pick up the rest of their team and equipment. Ross helped him load it into the back, and he nabbed shotgun so he could fiddle with the radio. Neither Percy nor Dan complained, both too tired to put up a fight. Bucky considered smacking his hand away from the dials a few times, but in the end, was benevolent enough not to.
Once they pull back into the hangar, the jet has been moved—either Lee’s doing, or some sort of autopilot—and is right outside. Mal and Lee are already in it, and he and Ross load the jet in one go, the open cargo bay beckoning. The instant Bucky steps onto the stairway, Ross, Percy, and Dan behind him, he can feel the ghosting breeze of the air conditioner.
Inside is almost exactly as he expected. The walls are a smooth white, the seats plush tan leather. There’s a stocked minibar full of prepped food and ginger ale—the fancy kind—and a heavy duty first aid kit sits in clear view, hooked to the far wall.
Tony Stark smiled at them, lounging in one of the cushy seats like a king. He took a long sip out of a juicebox that had been resting on the arm of the seat. “Long trip?”
Lee insists on properly taking care of Percy’s arm once they're in the air. He stands in the cockpit for a bit, watching the autopilot with a fascinated expression until after takeoff, then he practically pins Percy and grabs the first aid kit off the wall. He puts up no resistance, half-asleep like the rest of the team.
It doesn’t even require stitches. The most arduous part is removing the scraps of fabric, stuck to his skin with congealed blood, without hurting Percy too bad. After that, Lee cleans it and secures a plaster over it. Rather unceremoniously, Lee dumps all the bloodied material into a biohazard bin, seals it, and then wanders back to the cockpit, Percy calling a tired thanks after her.
As everyone else begins to settle, Tony watches over them. Mal and Ross have taken over a couch, sitting on opposite ends on their sides with their shoulders and cheeks pressed against the back cushions, legs out straight and overlapping. Dan has curled into a ball in one of the arm chairs, shaggy hair obscuring his face. Percy and Bucky are on the other couch, Bucky sitting with his back against the arm, one leg stretched across the couch and the other hanging off. Settled between them is Percy, his head on Bucky’s chest, both of Bucky’s arms settled around him, vibranium hand resting over his wound like a second bandage.
By the time they were over the Atlantic, the entire team was asleep.
Notes:
bit of a short chapter to wrap up the sokovia arc
i know a lot of you were wondering what mal was up to. the answer was bleach. massive tank of bleach. dont ask how she got it
mal really did have the time of her life in this bit. stole a truck, fucked up some sprinkler systems, blew up a helicopter...great day for mal nation
welcome back my slutty king tony stark. a new bombshell has entered the villa or whatever
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 40: Blackout
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday, May 11th, 2018
8:39 PM
Teterboro Airport, NJ
Bucky wakes up to the warm weight of his boyfriend on his chest. Percy’s face is pressed into his shirt, close enough he’s pretty sure there’s a small damp spot on his collar. He rubs at his eyes with his free hand, the other resting heavy on Percy’s spine.
Around him, the other occupants of the plane are similarly waking. Mal is up, staring out of one of the windows, though Ross is seemingly dead to the world, and Dan is blearily peeking out from behind his fringe, eyes squinty. Lee is standing, which can’t be comfortable at all, based on how she has to slump forward to keep her head from hitting the wall.
Tony, too, is awake, lazily swiping through something on his phone. He makes eye contact with Bucky, clearly holding back a snicker at the dead weight on his chest, before speaking.
“Well,” Tony says, voice pitched low and hushed, “The flight was about nine hours, but the time difference is six.” He checks his watch. “So you’ve only lost three, but still feel like shit. Congrats.”
Bucky makes a face at him, jaw cracking in a yawn. He leans his head back against the couch, hand rhythmically stroking up and down Percy’s spine. “How long ‘till we land?”
“Twenty minutes,” It’s Lee who answers. Tony just tips his head in her direction.
The occupants of the jet rest in comfortable, sleep-heavy silence. Slowly, Percy comes to, making a slight face once he wakes.
Bucky nudges his nose against the crown of Percy’s head. “How’s the head?”
Percy squints. “You got complaints?” He snarks automatically, voice scratchy and wispy from sleep. He catches himself the moment the words leave his mouth, and he winces slightly. Thankfully, Tony is the only one close enough to have heard, and he makes an exaggerated gagging noise, but otherwise offers no comment.
A light flick to his cheek—Bucky’s right hand, not the vibranium—, and Percy huffs an exhale through his nose. “‘M fine.”
Bucky hums. “If you’re sure.” They both know the headaches have been getting worse, but neither says anything. There’s nothing to say.
Eventually, Percy wriggles his way out of Bucky’s grip and Mal leans over to wake Ross. By the time the plane touches down, they’re all antsy, though some (Bucky) hide it far better than others (Ross, who’s bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet).
Tony stands beside Percy, face uncharacteristically sober. His fingers are curled around the chip, pressing it into his palm.
“Is it bad?”
Tony nods.
He starts telling Percy just what's on it, and Percy wishes he'd never asked.
There’s a car waiting for them once they touch down. It’s late out, even the almost-summer sun disappeared behind the distant skyline. It’s silent, save for the roar-turned-whistle of the jet engines. A warm breeze drifts over them as they lug their baggage into the trunk. Everyone piles in except for Percy, who stands off to the side, jaw tight.
“You coming?” Mal asks. She’s joking, but Percy shakes his head. One of his hands rests on his hip, a tiny data chip, extracted from the frame of the painting and nestled securely in a case—Tony’s work, while they slept—rests in his pocket.
“I’ve got to get to DC.” He says. “I need to warn Hanover.”
That brings the mood down fast.
“I’ll be back in time for debrief tomorrow,” Percy tells them. After a second, he tacks on, “10:00, sharp.” They usually start at 9:00, so nobody complains.
Ross is frowning at him. “Jackson, you’ve been up for hours, and you’re hurt. Are you sure—”
Percy shakes his head. “I’m fine. I won’t be long.”
Bucky, too, is looking at him.
“The ride’s about 45 minutes to the Hub, or 30 to the tower. Your choice.” Percy resists the urge to scratch at the healing wound on his bicep. Then, firmer, “Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Ross relents, and shuts the door behind him as he gets in the car, Dan, Mal, and Lee following, leaving only Bucky standing on the tarmac with Percy, who takes a step towards him. “I’ll be back before you fall asleep,” Percy says.
“I know,” Bucky says, “Because I won’t be able to fall asleep until you get home.”
For no particular reason, Percy feels like crying. Standing on the empty tarmac, the soft purr of the car engine to his left and the whine of the plane’s to his right, a warm breeze on his skin and familiar ground and scent of home, he thinks about leaving it all behind. He thinks about taking Bucky’s hand, getting in that car, and never calling Hanover back. Never going back to the Hub— nobody going back.
Lee would get to become a heart surgeon, Spencer a step behind her through his residency. Bridgette as a public defender, maybe working for some non-profit. Ross working in a youth therapy group, Mal having the time of her life with some research grants, Dan patenting security software and retiring somewhere nice.
What would he even do?
Stay in the tower? Move back to his old apartment, that’s honestly more of a demigod drop-in these days? Would he leave the city? Could he leave the city?
He thinks about Lyon. He thinks about a place by the seaside, somewhere less crowded, less loud. He thinks about the man in front of him.
It’s a nice thought.
Ultimately, though, that’s all it is.
Percy takes Bucky’s hands in his, squeezing gently. “I’ll be home before you fall asleep.” He repeats.
He stands on the tarmac and listens to the disappearing engine of the car until he can’t anymore. Then, he pulls out his phone.
“Wade,” Percy says quietly. “I need a favor. Extraction.”
He’s in DC through a whirl and tug of shadows, Mrs. O’Leary at his side. Though DC is certainly big and busy, it’s no New York, and the streets are almost quiet. The weather is dreary, scatterings of rain sporadically hitting block-by-block. She darts off somewhere, and Percy lets her.
Percy walks up the long driveway, bracketed by tall evergreens, and stops at the red brick porch. He’s still dressed from the Consulate, sweatshirt over his tac gear, and tugs the makeshift bandana from his hair before knocking at the double doors.
He waits a few minutes, then rings the doorbell.
The woman that opens the door is short, hair run through with silvery streaks, her sharp face rounded by a handful of decades. She’s got a robe wrapped over her pajamas, her arms crossed over her chest. Her mouth is pursed as she takes him in.
“Sorry to bother,” Percy says, doing his best to keep his voice level. “I’m here for Willa. I’m a friend from work.”
The woman’s lips part slightly in surprise before she steps back, out of the doorway. When she gestures for him to come in, he steps over the threshold, toeing off his muddy, wet boots in the entryway. For some reason, this seems to amuse the woman.
“Marie Qin, right?” Percy asks.
That brings a slight smile to her lips. “Willie talks about me, I take it?”
Percy shrugs one shoulder. The truth is, Hanover doesn’t. None of them talk about their personal lives, or, Gods forbid, their families, not when they’re just ammunition. The woman just smells like Hanover, the type of familiarity and mingling that’s pressed into her very skin, the result of years of sharing a bed and a home.
Marie leads him into the sitting room, a couch and a pair of overstuffed armchairs encircling an old brick fireplace, the same rough material as the porch. “Sit, please,” Marie waves a hand. “I’ll get tea.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Percy says, because his mother raised him right, “But this is rather urgent. Is she up?”
Marie’s wispy dark brows draw together. Instead of towards the kitchen, she veers towards the staircase tucked behind a stretch of bookcases. “Willie, dear!” She calls up the stairs, a hint of panic in her voice. “Now, please!”
Hanover descends not a few seconds later. She, too, is in her pajamas, which makes Percy feel more like a stranger to the scene than anything—he still has a collection of hunting blades strapped to his ribs.
“Jackson?” Hanover does a double take before practically flying down the steps. “Is everything alright?”
Percy runs a hand down his face. “It might be best for you to sit.” He says. Hanover, joltingly, does, Marie joining her. They sit knee to knee, casual and instant, like it’s the only natural way for them to be. Something in Percy’s chest clenches.
“Graves is Hydra.” Percy says.
For a second, it’s only the pittering of the rain dripping off the corner of their drain pipes outside. Marie looks between Hanover and Percy, but says nothing, while her wife’s face is ashen. She’s staring at Percy like she’s never seen him before.
“Jackson,” She says quietly. “Why are you here? It’s late.”
He says what they’re both thinking. “I needed to beat him here." His mouth is dry. "The last communication stored on their servers was your address."
It’s been almost ten hours since they lifted the painting. They’d estimated a day before word got to DC that it was gone, overlooked in the chaos of bleach showers and gunpoint robberies, but once Tony had cracked open that chip and taken a look inside, they’d all realized just how wrong they were.
“You guys need to pack bags. Fifteen minutes.” Percy tells them. Hanover is up before he’s even finished, Marie’s hand clasped in hers.
“I’ll get the suitcases,” Marie says, shellshocked, disappearing around the corner.
Hanover stands frozen for a second, her eyes never leaving Percy’s face. Then, she turns on her heel, and heads for the stairs.
Percy is left standing in the living room, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace like a caged animal. He checks his phone by the minute, tracks the footsteps above his head as Marie and Hanover rush through their packing. To the closet, the bathroom, back to the closet, a safe beneath the bed, closet again. His skin feels taut over his bones, blood rushing like the spillway of a dam.
The collar of his stolen sweatshirt feels tight around his neck, and he fights the urge to rip it off.
He forces himself to close his eyes and takes a deep, measured breath. There’s the slightest tug—not quite pain, but not quite comfortable, either—in his chest. It’s always been there when he breathes like that, a parting gift from the corrosive air of the Pit, but he swears he feels it more these days. His own heart beats steady in his chest, almost as quick as the panicked meter of Hanover and Marie’s above.
Percy feels like he can’t get enough air. He feels like he needs to crawl out of his skin. He feels like he needs to hit something.
Gods, he doesn’t know what's wrong with him. He feels a little sick, suddenly nauseous enough to lean a shoulder against the wall. Percy clenches his jaw as the wave of dizziness passes over him like a rough tide, the wound in his arm pulsing in time with the desire to bend over and retch into the Hanover-Qin fireplace.
What is wrong with him?
Hanover’s got her shoes on, upstairs. He hears a suitcase zip.
The slam of a car door down the street jolts him out of his spiraling thoughts. It’s barely audible over the rain, but Percy feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up all the same.
Slowly, Percy pushes himself off the wall. His hand drifts to the knife on his thigh as he hears the stairs creak. “Hanover,” He says, levelly. “Both of you. Go back up. Lock the door. Barricade it with what you can.”
“What?” Marie asks. She’s clutching the handle of a well-loved suitcase in her hand, staring at him from the bottom step. “Barricade?”
Hanover’s voice is trembling from the step right behind her wife. “They’re here,”
It’s not a question.
He was too late.
“Go upstairs.” Percy repeats.
Hanover has to drag Marie, clumsy feet and stuttering breath. The suitcases clunk against every single step. They go upstairs, lock their bedroom door. The ceiling groans as they shove a bookcase in front of it, then retreat into the bathroom and lock that door, too.
Another car door shuts—not car, that’s not the right word, it’s more like a van, something big, heavy. Then, he hears the footsteps, pounding down the pavement, closing in on the house.
And then, Percy knows nothing.
The carpet is slick against his cheek.
That’s the first thing Percy notices as he slowly comes to, head heavy and ribs pressed uncomfortably against the floor. It’s quiet, too. The pounding, pulsing pain behind his eyes has abated, and if he wasn’t already completely prone, he wouldn’t slumped to the ground.
His ears are fuzzy, something low and static buzzing in them. If he strains himself, it almost sounds like the wind raking over the ocean’s surface.
Percy’s shoulders bow as he pushes himself up onto his elbows, a low groan involuntarily escaping him. To his surprise, as he rights himself, the wound in his bicep offers no argument.
Somewhere near him, there’s a strong, heavy thudding, rhythmic and hummingbird-quick. It overwhelms the static in his ears before falling in time with it, and something cold touches his shoulder, before jerking back.
“—cy? Percy? Fuck,” A voice bites out.
Blearily, Percy lifts his head. “Hanover,” He mumbles, the name tasting unfamiliar on his tongue. “Marie—get—”
“Oh, thank God,” They say. “They’re upstairs, okay? They’re fine.”
Percy groans, a strong arm helping him sit upright. He feels boneless, half-melted and ready to sag back into the carpet. “Wade?” He realizes.
“Yeah, sweetcheeks, it’s me,” Wade says, voice pitched all gentle and hushed. A hand lifts his chin. He doesn’t say anything, just watches Percy. His brow is all furrowed. Percy can feel it as his head tips forward, out of his hold. His forehead drops against Wade’s chest, that same thudding overwhelming him for just a second. Wade’s heart. It’s a nice noise.
“Percy,” Wade’s voice has a strain that Percy’s never heard before. Percy hums in answer. He feels oddly floaty, ready to seep into the earth or evaporate into the sky. More urgently— way more urgently. “Percy.”
When he doesn’t answer, a hand grips the side of his face. “Percy, I need you to snap out of this right fucking now.”
Percy pulls back from Wade. He squeezes his eyes shut and reaches up to rub at his face, but Wade’s iron grip on his wrist stops him. He tugs, but Wade doesn’t relent.
“Wh’ the fuck—”
“ Percy!”
His world flips like it’d been balancing on a knife’s edge.
Percy feels warm. So, very warm.
He blinks.
His hands are wet.
So is his hair, parts of his face—most of his face, so much so that he’s not sure why Wade stopped him from touching his face anyway—and his clothes, it’s soaked into his shoes and socks.
There’s residual warmth emanating around the room, slumped over the shattered glass tabletop and cracked television, underneath the holes in the plaster walls and broken shelves.
Everything is slick and warm.
“Wade?” Percy rasps out. He doesn’t feel an ounce of pain. He feels…fine. Better than fine, even. Percy feels fucking great.
Blood is soaked through the carpet of the Hanover-Qin living room, down into the floorboards beneath. It’s splattered across the walls, coats the loose shards of glass that crunch under Wade’s feet, trails across the house in a step-by-step path of carnage. It leaks out of the bodies strewn about. It’s under Percy’s nails. It’s on his tongue.
He sits in the middle of a massacre.
And Percy…
Percy doesn't feel anything at all.
“Wade,” Percy says. “I think I did something bad.”
Then, he doubles over and retches.
Notes:
hello (three months has passed)
i wanted so badly to express percy's disgust at being in new jersey but he was so stressed he couldnt be grossed out
uhh yeah don't mind percy. he's doing great guys.
very happy with the nap on boyfriend --> bloodbath progression of this chapter
my overall take from this chapter is mehehehehehehe
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 41: Pipecutters
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday, May 12th, 2018
1:02 AM
Hanover-Qin House, Washington DC
Wade hauls Percy to his feet, the demigod against his side stumbling once he is righted. He leads him out of the entryway and into the living room, where he lowers him down onto the couch. The upholstery is soaked through in spots, and Wade haltingly tosses a paisley throw pillow over the worst spot. Percy immediately slumps down onto the couch, Wade’s hand cradling the back of his skull.
He carefully lets go, and Percy’s head lolls back against the back cushions. “Percy,” Wade says, forcing some measure of evenness into his voice, “I need you to stay right here, okay? Just stay right here for me.”
There’s a vague movement of his head that Wade interprets as a nod.
Wade steps back, eyes not leaving his limp form. Percy’s fingertips are stained red, stretched out across the ruined upholstery, fingers scratching lightly up and down. If there isn’t already, which Wade doubts, there will be blood underneath his nails.
The house is a bloodbath. Wade stands at the edge of the puddle of Percy’s vomit and counts the bodies.
He stops at nine, because he realizes that he can’t quite tell which shredded chunk of flesh is which, which torn limb is whose, where the ripped entrails of one become the other’s.
There’s a knife on the floor. It’s Percy’s, and it’s sparklingly clean. There’s not a hint of violence on that blade—and, suddenly, Wade feels so incredibly, beyond out of his depth. He stands in a sea of crimson, the color of his suit a matching shade but so different.
Wade is no stranger to violence, but he wants to throw up. He doesn’t give a shit about these men—these bodies, because they are far from human now—Hydra is Hydra and they can rot, for all he cares, but…
It was Percy. Percy who used to challenge him to cherry pit spitting contests, Percy who would disappear for a few minutes to pet street dogs, Percy who would buy them both ice cream and kick his feet while he ate his. It’s Percy who did all this. Sweet, honest, loyal Percy, who tore apart these men like he wasn’t one of them.
Percy’s phone is in the pocket on his thigh, and he puts up no resistance when Wade pulls it out. It’s not hard to find the contact, a simple Jamie at the top of his recents. Wade dials the number, and steps away.
He picks up almost immediately. “Percy?”
Wade’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth.
It’s almost fascinating how quickly Bucky’s voice changes. “Who is this?”
“Wade,” He says after a second. “It’s Wade. Barnes…you need to get to DC.”
“What?” Bucky’s voice catches. “Wade, is he okay?”
The most damning part. “He’s fine.” Wade casts a glance over his shoulder. He can almost taste iron on his tongue. “But you need to get here.”
Wade goes upstairs. His steps are light, careful, as he dips in and out of rooms—bathroom, a cozy study, a den, and there’s two bedrooms, a bit sparse but lived in, and Wade stands at the threshold of them but doesn’t enter. There’s a poster above the bed in the first, a textbook on the desk of the second. Teenagers. Kids live in this house.
The door at the end of the hallway is locked. Wade first settles on picking it and continuing before he remembers what Percy had come here for. Instead, he knocks. “Hello?” Wade calls. There’s no answer. He knocks again, firmer. “Hey, whoever’s in there—I’m with Percy. Listen, we need to talk.”
There’s a long, heavy pause, and Wade can hear the minute shifts of a pair.
“Prove it.” A voice, shaking just a little but otherwise remarkably firm. It’s muffled heavily. “Jackson sent you? Prove it.”
Wade thinks for a second. “His dog’s name is Mrs. O’Leary, but he calls her Lea, and, five years ago, he gave up on trying to stop her from eating rats she finds in alleyways.”
There’s another pause, quiet whispers of a debate, and then the sounds of exertion as something heavy behind the door is pushed to the side. The lock clicks, and the door swings open to reveal the woman who Wade vaguely recognizes as Willa Hanover—he’s only seen her in the video that got leaked last summer, which he watched many, many times, in particular when he was feeling down. Percy screaming at politicians was always a mood booster.
Hanover’s lips are pursed. “I don’t know Jackson well enough to know if that’s true, but it sounds enough like him that I’ll buy it.” Her eyes narrow. “Would you care to tell me why Jackson is close enough with Deadpool to share this information?”
“No, I would not.” Wade replies.
Behind Hanover, a shorter woman peeks over her shoulder. “Is it safe to come down?”
See…here’s where Wade has to do some quick thinking. Morally, it would probably be best if he told the pair what exactly was waiting for them downstairs, and that, yes, the Hydra agents were all most certainly dead, but then they would see. They’d know just what Percy could do, what Percy had done, and while he might have a modicum of trust in Hanover, Wade didn’t. He might not go so far as to say she would betray him on purpose (or…maybe she would. People saw things they couldn’t control and got scared, and Percy was the definition of the uncontrollable), but…many people have many ways of extracting information from an unwilling.
The short of it was that between the technical moral right and Percy, Wade would never even hesitate in his choice.
“Don’t go downstairs. It's too dangerous.” He says. It’s like a weight on his chest. “And whoever those rooms down the hall belong to…pack them bags, too. Everything you’ll need. Everything…everything you want to keep.”
Bucky appears on the stairwell with Mrs. O’Leary with the smallest thump of appearing boots on the creaky steps. Wade, who’d been standing vigil at the top of the landing, listening to Hanover and Marie but watching Percy, meets him halfway down.
“Where is he?” Bucky asks, eyes dark.
“Barnes…it’s…” The Merc with a Mouth, speechless.
“Where is he, Wade,” Bucky snarls. It’s doubtless that he can smell the blood.
Wade points down. “Turn the corner; other side of the shelf.” A soft sigh. “None of it’s his.”
He knows what Bucky turns the corner to see—Percy, still slumped against the couch, half-conscious and a thousand miles away, blood dripping from his hair and soaked through his clothes, sitting in the epicenter of it all.
Years ago, Wade had been given a target by some disgruntled heiress. She didn’t want the man dead—she, more than anything, wanted Wade to just make his life a living hell for the next two weeks, which, obviously, he did with glee. At one point, he’d snuck a massive, pressure activated paint-bomb into the man’s office. The guy had sat down on it, and promptly found himself and his entire office magenta.
The downstairs of the Hanover-Qin house looked sort of like that.
Wade used to think back very fondly on that mission.
Now, his stomach churned.
Next to him, Mrs. O’Leary whines, paces in front of him, clearly upset. She disappears in a tug of shadows. He’s never seen her do that before. The pit in Wade’s stomach turns cavernous.
He hears Bucky gasp like a blade has been driven into his chest. It’s followed by panicked, hushed murmurs— ”Percy, baby?” Barnes raises his voice. “ Fuck! Wilson, what the hell happened here?”
Wade shakes his head, though Bucky can’t see him. “I don’t know. It was like this when I got here—only thing I did was put him on the couch.” Then, Wade winces.
“Where was he before this?” Bucky grits out.
He takes the last few steps and rounds the bookcase. Bucky is hovering over Percy, one hand on the side of his head, tilting his face back and forth. The other hand rests on the side of his neck, supporting him. Percy’s face is tilted into his hand, his eyes closed.
“On the floor. He—” Wade exhales roughly through his nose. “I got here, he was on the floor. He said Wade, I think I did something bad, threw up, and now he’s like this.”
Bucky eyes squeeze shut, and he tips his head forward to press his forehead to Percy’s. It’s a quiet moment, a look of such profound pain on Bucky’s face, Wade is almost compelled to look away.
The moment Bucky realizes what needs to happen next is visible to Wade. He presses a firm kiss to Percy’s forehead before straightening up, gently tipping Percy’s head back so he leans comfortably against the back of the couch. Bucky’s fingers flex then curl into fists. “Where’s Hanover?”
“With her wife, upstairs.” Wade looks at Bucky for a second, considering. “I told them to not come down.”
Bucky turns to face him, analytical. They size each other up for a second, the unwritten question heavy between them— how far are you willing to go for this? For him?
Wade answers. “I told them to pack bags.”
He receives a simple, slow nod in return. Between them, the answer lies— Nobody can find these bodies. If one could even call these remains bodies. Bucky checks his watch. It’s all business now. “It’s almost 2:00. Sunrise is in three and a half hours.” These types of affairs aren’t meant for daylight.
Wade shakes his head. “Not enough time.”
Bucky surveys the room, the… pieces, strewn across. Then, he begins to roll up his sleeves, echoing exactly Wade’s earlier thoughts as he does so. “If Hanover or her wife see, that’s a loose variable. We don’t know if they’ll tell. If it’ll get forced out of them.” His eyes are flinty. “That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”
“And if we get them out, and leave all this here, Hydra will find all this.” Wade finishes. Either way, Percy’s safety hangs in the balance.
Bucky’s jaw is tight. “We need to—” He steels himself. “We need to find out what they were going to do.”
“You mean—”
Bucky bends over and begins to prod at one of the half-intact torsos slumped against the wall. Chunks of flesh are missing, sloughed off the side and front of the chest, revealing patches of muscle and limp arteries, hanging out like a child’s yarn project. Bits of bare bone stick out.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Wade finds a leg under the coffee table. He bends down are starts going through the pants pockets. Now, Wade is uncomfortably familiar with the idea of dissociation. It happens, especially when you’ve lived as fucked a life as he has. The feeling of seemingly watching himself do tasks, as if he’s not the one in control of his body.
He feels sort of like that now.
He’s not dissociating—the accompanying floaty feeling is starkly absent—but he feels…not real. He feels like this isn’t happening. Wade feels wrong.
Bucky’s voice breaks Wade from his thoughts. “Shit,” He mutters. Then, he shakes his head. “No, this is good for us,” He’s holding a kit, bloodsoaked and dripping like the rest of the room. He unzips it, and, inside, there’s a pipe cutter and a reciprocating saw. “There’s the schematics of the house, too.” Bucky says. “They were going to cut the fucking gas main. Natural gas explosions can have triple the temp of cremation furnaces. They were going to kill them, then burn the fucking bodies to hide it.”
Wade is aware that Bucky's smart—tactical, as well as well-read, but he’s no Sherlock. That wasn’t guesswork. That was experience. There’s a raw guilt in Bucky’s voice, and Wade wonders how many times he was forced to be the one holding the pipe cutter.
The curtains are drawn, but Wade strides over and nudges one a hint open with the back of his hand. The Hanover-Qin house is nice, in an affluent area. The plots of land are large, separated with a tall fence and even taller trees—the nearest neighbors are at least a hundred yards away. Wade takes the blueprint from Bucky, smears of bloody handprints on the corners. “We’ll get them out through the back window.” He says. “They won’t see a thing.”
Bucky’s eyes are like ice. “Then we torch the fucking place.”
They drag all the…pieces they find near the center of the room, where the blaze will burn hottest. Upstairs, the both of them can still hear Hanover and Marie packing, though they’re now in the two other bedrooms, as well. From what Wade saw, they were rather sparse, so it can’t be too arduous of a task. He should probably feel guilty, but, casting another glance at Percy's slumped form, he can’t bring himself to.
“He’s not just an Enhanced,” Wade says quietly. “Is he?”
Bucky stops cold.
“I always knew there was something,” Wade continues. There’s a femur beneath one of the end tables. It’s picked clean, gleaming in the low lighting. “You can’t be close to him like I was and think he’s…just…” Wade shrugs. Just seems like a good enough word. Percy isn’t just anything.
Bucky exhales like the weight of the world is pressing down between his shoulder blades. “No,” He whispers. His voice is shaking. Wade’s never heard that before. “I guess you can’t.”
Again, he says it with an intimate experience.
When Bucky’s fingers curl against his palms, they’re so slicked with blood that the movement sends droplets flying to the floor. “And no,” He admits, voice cracking like water over ice. “He’s not just an Enhanced.”
Bucky sheds his jacket and drops it on the carpet. It’s beyond saving. He washes his hands, wrists to elbows, and parts of his face in the kitchen sink, then wipes down his shoes. The front door is warped and splintered around the hinge and frame from where it had been kicked in. Bucky jogs out onto the street, skirting around the glow of the scattering of street lamps. It takes him a moment to pick out the vehicle—big, commercial-grade, covered windows. It’s got the logo of some bullshit cable company that, come morning, wouldn’t look out of place in the neighborhood.
The keys are in the glovebox. They always keep the keys in the glovebox for a quick getaway.
Bucky pulls the van into the Hanover-Qin driveway. Inside, he can hear Wade calling up instructions to Hanover and Marie. Already, suitcases are being pushed down the sloped accent roof, dropping almost soundlessly into the grass. Bucky loads them into the back, one by one.
Eventually, Marie and Hanover, themselves, emerge from the window. Hopefully, it’s dark enough they can’t see the blood-soaked cuffs of his pants.
He slides open the van door and gestures for them to get inside. Neither of them speak as they follow his instructions, dropping down onto the seats, nestled between their luggage. The air is heavy between them, halfway between shock and a persisting horror, strong enough that Hanover doesn’t realize to ask where Percy is.
Down the block, around the corner, Bucky hears the faint hiss of old, heavy-duty brakes.
He whips around to face Hanover and Marie. “Are there any bus stops near here?”
Marie blinks. “Not for a mile or two,” She says. “Out of the residential areas.”
Bucky can hear footsteps. Two sets, and his eyes narrow down the street. The lighting is poor, but there are definitely people approaching, though at a leisurely, tired pace. Behind them, an old, yellow bus kicks back into action and disappears down the block. It's a school bus.
Hanover jolts. “Oh, my God.” She fumbles for her seatbelt and hauls herself out of the van. “They’re early!” Marie, too, bolts upright.
“Who?” Bucky demands.
“The kids!” Hanover is a few meters away before that even registers, and Bucky lurches forward. “Stay in the van!” He barks.
She halts, looks back at him, at the two approaching figures.
“Hanover…” He warns.
The three stand in a tense, stand-off of silence.
The two newcomers are talking, quiet, sleepy conversation as they grow closer.
Holy shit.
Bucky’s hand falls away from the holster at his side.
“Tara?” He manages. “Noah?”
It’s those two fucking kids, he realizes. He doesn’t like to think about those few days in that Hydra base in Alaska—can’t remember half of it, honestly—but he remembers their voices. He remembers a tremble in a defiant voice, Mr. Lewis didn’t deserve to have the gate open, how she still called the man she’d just helped send to death mister, like she’d never been able to consider anything but the utmost respect.
They’d taken the two—the only survivors from that base, thanks to Bucky—on the quinjet with them, but, well, Percy was fucking bleeding out in his lap, so he was a bit preoccupied. Afterwards, once Percy was awake, bedbound, but awake, he’d asked Tony about them, then had later relayed the message to Bucky.
“They’ll be alright. We found them a placement, somewhere that’ll be good for them.” Percy had told him. Bucky hadn’t been able to stop staring at the bandage that wrapped around his head.
“Don’t,” Bucky exhaled. “Don’t tell me any more. Just in case.”
In case I went back. In case Hydra found me. In case—
Percy had looked like Bucky’d punched him in the gut.
But he hadn’t said any more.
Well, shit, Bucky thought. Found them.
Both of them looked healthier—Noah had begun to grow into his lanky arms and legs and was growing out his cropped hair. Tara’s hair was in neat, long braids, strands of pastel pink braided in. One of Hanover’s braids had a small piece of pink, Bucky realized. They matched. Both of their faces were less hollow, their eyes less dark.
Noah stopped on the other side of the driveway. “Holy shit.” He’s staring right at Bucky. Tara’s eyes widen.
Hanover stepped around Bucky. “We’re leaving,” She says, brisk but somehow warm. “I’m sorry, I know this is abrupt, but it’s an emergency. Marie and I packed everything.”
Most kids would have argued. Tara and Noah just got in the van, ashen faced, where Marie was waiting for them with open arms. They both had tennis bags on their backs—they’d probably just been dropped off from an out of town game.
“What’s happening?” Tara asks, buckling her seatbelt. Both women look to Bucky, who glances at the house. “Hydra.” He said flatly. “They found your address.”
Tara’s hand shakily covers her mouth.
“SWORD took them down, but,” He doesn’t say Percy. He can’t say just Percy. “Their plans were to mess with the gas main—the whole house is rigged to blow.” The lie doesn’t hurt like he thought it would. Maybe it’s because, technically, it’s not a lie.
In a twisted way, Bucky Barnes is, once again, carrying out Hydra’s plans.
Inside the house, Wade hefts Percy’s arm over his shoulder and hauls him up.
“The best we can do is extraction.” Bucky finishes. “Now, everyone, in.”
He climbs in after them and slides the door shut. It’s almost completely pitch black inside, cramped between sports bags and luggage. There’s a few cardboard boxes on the floor of the van, full of loose papers, books, knickknacks and sentimentals. The windows are covered up by the wrapping of the van, and there’s a sturdy diver between the back and the seats up front.
The van shakes a bit as Wade carefully helps Percy into the front seat. He raps his knuckles on the side of the door, and Bucky exhales. “Just…stay, and stay quiet. We’ll get you out of here.” He slides the door open, and doesn’t turn back to look them in the eyes when he says, “And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
They’ll get some lovely hush money from whatever gas company worked on the house, and take it to buy a lovely three bedroom somewhere else, where Graves’s eyes aren’t—Dan will make sure of it.
Bucky climbs into the front. It’s a three-seater, Wade at the wheel, Percy in the narrow seat in the middle. Bucky slides into the passenger, and takes a gentle hold of Percy. He seems more present than he was in the house, nose scrunching slightly as Bucky shifts him.
Wade backs out of the driveway.
The van is two blocks away when the Hanover-Qin residence explodes. It’s deafening, quickly followed by a roaring blaze fueled by an unnatural heat.
The ground is burned two feet down by the time the fire department gets there.
Notes:
yeah so...that m rating coming in again with the violence. my b
imagine being so beautiful and charming that two of the most prolific killers alive are teaming up to cover up your oopsie
wade:👋 please do not go downstairs haha
hanover and marie: WHY ARE YOU IN OUR HOUSETARA AND NOAH!! after the whole alaska hydra base thing (last few chapters of the lost soldiers, if you've forgotten), hanover and her wife took them in :) they're both on the tennis team and noah is taking art classes and tara is the debate captain. they are thriving dw
bucky and wade are a crazy duo btw ive been envisioning them doing crazy shit for like a whole year...two extremely morally gray people united by their affection for one man
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 42: Bridging the Gap
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday, May 12th, 2018
5:52 AM
The Hub, New York
Percy wakes up in the infirmary.
He can smell the antiseptic, barely hear the buzzing of the lighting overhead. He’s been laid upon the soft cotton sheets, and his skin feels dry and tacky. He’s wearing the thin sweats they have stocked in the med store rooms, and there’s a matching shirt sitting folded off to the side. He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and makes a face. He feels fine, although a bit fuzzy.
“If you get up, I am going to burst into tears.”
Percy startles slightly and turns. Lee is standing in the doorway. She’s holding a bowl of warm water, a rag hanging over the side. The corner of it has dipped into the water, and floats on the surface lazily as she shifts. Wordlessly, Percy leans back against the headboard and pulls his legs back towards him, criss-cross on the bed.
Lee crosses the threshold and sits at the edge of his bed, long legs folded somewhat awkwardly. “Can I have your arm?” Her voice is soft, as usual, but her words are bogged down by tiredness. Percy haltingly lifts his arm and holds it out to her. Lee’s hands are cold, her fingers long and careful as she takes his wrist and settles his arm on her leg. She dips the rag into the water, wrings it out, and begins to wipe small circles on his skin, starting with the back of his hand.
“What are you doing?”
Her eyes flit up to meet his face, then back down as she continues. “You’re covered in blood.” There’s an odd, tight note in her voice that covers the unspoken question— how didn’t you know?
He doesn’t know the answer. Percy had just felt normal. Maybe it’s the lingering brain fog, but he feels… fine.
“What…” Percy trails off, shakes his head. “Lee, what am I doing here?”
She flips over his hand, cool flesh like ice against the unnatural warmth of his. She dips the rag back into the water, and this time, when she rings it out, he can feel how bloodsoaked the water is. “I don’t entirely know. Barnes called me half an hour ago, told me I needed to come in. He dropped you off then disappeared.” She’s trying to clean out the dried blood from under his nails. “Deadpool was with him.”
“Wade?” Percy repeats, brows raised. A pain behind his eyes is slowly building, low and throbbing.
“Wade?” Lee’s familiar monotone is somehow tinged with surprise. A soft puff of air through her nostrils. Another rinse, and she makes her way up his wrist. “Barnes told me to tell you that he’s bringing their cargo to your old place in Hell’s Kitchen.”
Percy squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of a headache. With his free hand—clean, Lee had clearly been doing this for a while—he rubs his temple. He can practically feel her eyes on him, observant yet silent.
It all comes rushing back like water through a broken levee. DC, Hanover, the house, Wade, Hydra—
Blood.
So much blood.
A wounded noise is punched out of him. His ears start ringing, the pounding in his head increasing tenfold. “Fuck,” Percy bites out, fingers clenching in his hair. Lee makes a concerned noise, and he waves her off. “Migraine,” He grits out.
That doesn’t seem to appease her in the slightest, but she continues, now making her way up to his elbow. Percy closes his eyes and leans back, head against the drywall. Through the jaw-clenching sensation behind his temples, he tries to focus on her. The rag is soft, microfiber or something, and the water is still warm. She moves in small circles and sections, methodic and so very Lee. Steady breathing and an even heart rate, both something he can latch onto instead of the mounting pain.
They’ve tried a whole list of things to try and manage his recent, and steadily worsening, migraines—cold compresses, dim lights and noise-cancelling headphones, exercise, a whole host of vitamins that are supposed to prevent and mitigate, more sleep, fuck , even yoga, once. Nothing’s been helping.
Tony had suggested, once, that it might be stress.
Percy had laughed bitterly. “I don’t think I’m more stressed than I have been in the last decade or so.”
That had just made Tony look sad.
“What time is it?” Percy eventually got out.
Lee’s eyes flicked down to her watch. “Almost six,” A pause. “AM, that is.”
Six AM? Percy’s skin crawls. The last he remembered was a bit after midnight. Five and a half hours, he didn’t remember.
His breathing hitches, and Lee pauses, looking up at him. Percy feels like he’s a mile away. “I think,” He manages, “I’m going to be sick.”
Lee lunges for the trashcan by the bed and gets it to him just in time. Percy curls over it, and when he throws up, it’s nothing but bile. His chest heaves, and, hesitantly, Lee puts a hand on his back. She’s clearly a bit uncomfortable with the contact, but she stays all the same, and Percy, suddenly aware of just how tired he is, feels like crying.
Bucky leaves the Hanover-Qin family in Percy’s living room, a newly awakened and armed Mal and Ross at the front door, and the van, once he gets back to the Hub, in the underground garage.
Uncharacteristically, Wade says nothing as he follows Bucky down the hallways towards the med bay. He doesn’t even poke around the Hub.
The two sole occupants look up upon their entrance. Percy is curled over himself, a trashcan by the foot of his bed, Lee looking out of place and slightly uncomfortable as she rubs between his shoulder blades. The second she sees the pair, she stands and steps back, eyes deeply shadowed by bruise-like dark circles. Bucky rushes to take her space, bypassing her chair and climbing half onto the bed to envelop Percy into his arms. Wade rounds the other side, stepping over a bowl full of bloodied water and a rag—God, Lee— and sits on the edge of the bed, sandwiching Percy in.
Bucky tucks Percy’s head into his neck, chin resting on messy black locks. He can feel how Percy’s shoulders tremble against him, his unsteady breathing. “Baby,” His voice is strangled. He pulls Percy away, just for a second, to get a good look at him. Percy’s eyes are wide and bloodshot, shiny at the corners with unshed tears.
“You with us?” Wade asks gently.
Percy nods, head still resting in Bucky’s hands. “Yeah,” He rasps. “Yeah, I—” Percy swallows. “I don’t—” He breaks off again, pained, and Bucky pulls him back into him.
Wade is leaning fully against Percy’s side, and, beneath the mask, Bucky can hear him exhale shakily.
The air conditioning is on, the vent above them whispering a cool breath across their pressed shoulders and tangled arms. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, but all he can see behind his lids is Percy, blood-soaked and non-responsive, barely cognizant. All he can see is how desperately he searched for a wound, a pulse.
All he can see is the carnage.
Percy’s here, he tells himself. Hurting, confused, apparently a bit sick, judging by the trash can, but here. Alive. Whole.
He squeezes tighter, but Percy doesn’t complain.
Bucky swallows down the panic that’s been mounting for the last twelve hours. It’s no secret that Bucky likes control—anyone would, after having absolutely none of it for eighty years. He likes deciding things for himself, he likes planning out his schedules and where he’ll go, and he likes feeling like he has a modicum of control in any situation he’s in. It’s not that he has to be in charge, it’s that he needs to have some self-determination, take an active role. But for the last few weeks, he feels like he’s been able to do nothing but respond.
Respond to the bodies— Code Banksy in the park, the one that poor boy found strung up in an alley. Respond to Natasha when she tries to build bridges, but he can’t start one of his own because he doesn’t know where to start. Respond to whatever a SWORD mission throws at him. Respond to Percy’s worsening migraines. All he’s been able to do is react and not act, because he has no idea what he can even do to whatever they’re facing.
He fucking hates it.
Bucky is beginning to feel helpless, and he swore to himself, the second he got out from Hydra’s grasp, he’d never feel helpless again.
For the nth time in his life, Bucky is getting hit in the face by the universe’s reminder that what he wants doesn’t really matter.
“What happened?” Wade’s voice is barely a whisper. “Percy…” The mercenary tilts his head back, looking up at clinically white fluorescent lights on the ceiling. “Percy, I’ve worked with plenty of Enhanced people, and I’ve never seen anything fucking like that.” Percy flinches, and Wade presses firmer against his side in silent apology. “Percy, I—I don’t even know what any of that was. I just…what kind of fucking lab accident, or whatever, makes a person do that, because I know that’s not something you would consciously do.” His voice breaks. “What was that?”
Lab accident?
“Wait—” Percy’s brow is knitted. “Wade, what?”
Bucky frowns. Admittedly, in the heat of the moment, he hadn’t thought about what Wade had said, back in the house. He’s not just an Enhanced, is he, like Wade didn’t already know. There was no way Percy hadn’t told him. No way. Lab accident?
Percy straightened, as much as he could while still in Bucky’s hold. “Wade, what do you mean lab accident?"
Wade was staring at the two of them blankly. “What?” He asks. “I mean, I just...guessed, and I…I get if it’s painful, but I just feel like I deserve some sort of explanation.” It’s more a plea than a demand.
“Wade, where do my enhancements come from?” Percy’s face is taught, drawn in brows and a frown.
He gets a face made at him. “That seems like something you should know, not me.” Wade’s joke is extremely strained. When all they do is stare, he shifts. “What?”
“What the fuck?” Bucky whispers. Percy shrugs helplessly, his nails biting into his palms. Bucky can hear the uptick in his heart, and resolves to momentarily shelve the matter until his boyfriend isn’t on the precipice of a complete nervous breakdown. Wade, this time, seems to be on the same page, and pulls away, standing. He's the deadliest mercenary in the world—his hands don't shake, but Bucky can't miss the way his thumb presses into the pad of his forefinger. “I’m just gonna give you two a minute,” He says, mutedly cheerful and beyond tense. “Conspire, kiss, whatever," He says quickly. "I’m investigating the secret government building. Tootles.”
Christ, that’s almost worse.
Percy is still fever-warm in his arms. His hands are trembling, and Bucky folds one of his own over the pair. Lee has done well cleaning the blood she could, but Bucky still catches a few stray flecks, especially dried in his hair.
She’d been his first call once they’d gotten near the city—of all the SWORD members, Percy had technically met her and Dan first, but Lee had spent part of her pre-SWORD post-SHIELD years in the tower, so Percy knew her better. Her voice had been groggy with sleep, but she’d still picked up.
“I need you to get to the Hub ASAP,” Bucky had said. “Alone.”
She hadn’t even asked questions, just whispered something quiet to Bridgette—fuck, that was the first time she’d seen her wife after almost ten days of life-threatening undercover work, and Bucky was pulling her away in the middle of the night after a few measly hours.
Lee hadn’t even complained. Bucky takes a moment to appreciate the people his boyfriend has surrounded himself with, and tries his best to keep his composure. Percy needs him, he can’t go losing it now.
“I told him.” Percy breaks the silence. “Years ago.”
“I believe you,” Bucky soothes, hand pressing firmly on the back of Percy’s neck. “I believe you.”
How had Wade forgotten? The existence of Gods isn’t something you just forget.
Would Bucky say it had changed his life? No, because those assholes don’t deserve to be life-changing. Percy changed his life. Not his dickhead family.
But still. Just forgetting? Wade would know is somebody had done something that drastic. Messing with memories is no easy task—Bucky shoves away memories of the Chair.
“What if—” Bucky pauses, frowning as he thinks aloud. “Percy, you told me that sometimes, the knowledge of the Gods existence can make a mortal go crazy and…well, kill them.” His boyfriend nods hesitantly, and Bucky continues. “The only surefire way to counteract that is the blessing of a God.” Another nod. “And Wade’s enhancement is, in summary, that he can’t die.”
“Where are you going with this?” Percy asks.
“What if Wade forgetting about the Gods is his enhancement’s way of protecting him?”
That makes his boyfriend still. There’s a slow, deliberate breath, and the plumbing in the walls groans. “If you’re right,” Percy says. “The only way that would be necessary is if the God who blessed him… withdrew their blessing.”
Bucky looks down at him. “Who’s blessing protected Wade?”
Percy’s jaw is so tight Bucky can hear the grit of his teeth. “My father.”
Oh.
Bucky goes quiet, as does Percy. Then, his boyfriend starts wiggling out of his grasp. “Let me up,”
“Percy—”
“James.”
Bucky sighs, but stands, and extends a hand to help Percy up, which his boyfriend takes. Bucky hovers closely, a steadying hand around Percy’s waist as he straightens. When Percy’s doesn’t waver, Bucky follows him out of the medbay.
“What about Tony and Peter?” Bucky asked as they walked down the hall. “Which God…”
Percy froze. “Fuck!” He turned to Bucky, eyes wide, heart stuttering in his chest. “Call them!”
Bucky scrambled for his phone. It rang once, twice, before Tony picked up. “Barnes?” He asked sleepily. “Everything alright?”
Unsure of what to say, Bucky just put the call on speaker, though Percy could hear it fine either way.
When he got no response, there was the sound of shifting, probably Tony sitting up. “Bucky?”
“Fine.” Bucky finally said. “I’m good. Just—answer this for me. You know what Percy’s abilities are, yeah?”
A slow, hesitant “Yes…” Tinged with suspicion. Now, Bucky can hear the quiet clicking of a keyboard, probably Tony ensuring that they’re actually at the Hub—maybe that he’s actually talking to Bucky.
“And you know where they come from?” Bucky presses.
He can hear FRIDAY relaying something to Tony before he responds. Another pause. “His dad.”
“Who is…?” He prompts. Next to him, Percy’s eyes are wide and furious.
“The fucking God, Barnes. What the hell is going on?”
Bucky rubs a hand down his face. “Nothing—well…shit, we’ll tell you later. Peter with you?”
“He slept over.” Tony says tightly. “Barnes, what—”
“Sorry, Tony. Just…if either of you start to feel weird, call me. Immediately. We’ll explain later, alright? Just stay in the tower for today.”
“I don’t like this.” Tony finally says.
“Yeah, me neither.” Bucky exhales. “Thanks.”
He hangs up and pockets his phone. “They seem fine,” He hedges. “So…just Wade? What sense does that make?”
Next to him, silent, Percy’s eyes are dark. “I’d say a warning,” He shakes his head. “But my father doesn’t do warnings. Not if he’s this pissed.”
“What, so…all or nothing?”
“All or nothing.” Percy confirms.
Bucky’s eyes don’t leave his face. “And me?”
A soft exhale leaves Percy. “I…I didn’t ask my dad about you.” He ducks his head down, outgrown hair falling in his eyes.
“Then, who?” Bucky tilts his head to look at Percy.
“Hestia,” Percy says quietly.
“Goddess of the hearth and the home,” Bucky finishes. “Oh, Percy,” He whispers. He steps forward and folds Percy into his arms, resting his chin atop his head for the second time that day. Percy sags in his hold, leaning into him. “She wouldn’t take it back,” Percy speaks against the side of Bucky’s neck. “She wouldn’t.”
“But your dad would.” Bucky says numbly.
“I guess.” There’s that spark of anger again, one that Bucky knows can roar into a wildfire.
“Do you think she's the one protecting Tony and Peter?” Bucky asks.
He can feel how Percy breathes. “Maybe.” He says. “I…”
“What is it?”
Percy pulls away, his arms still resting on Bucky’s shoulders. “I can feel Hestia’s blessing on you,” He confesses. “It’s warm. Nice.” His thumb absently brushes back and forth on the side of Bucky’s neck. “I could feel my dad’s on Peter, Tony, and Wade, too. It’s…” He hums. “It’s like, if I focus long enough, I could hear the ocean.” His mouth twists downwards. “I swore I could hear it on Wade, still. But—” His eyes slip shut. “Jamie, I’m going to say something kinda crazy, okay?”
“Okay,” Bucky agrees, brow furrowed.
“It doesn’t… seem like my father, anymore, when I’m with them. It just seems like me. Mine.” Percy says. Waves roll in his eyes. “I mean, fuck, who knows? It’s not like a demigod like me has ever gotten old enough to fully grow into their powers. Maybe…” He straightens. “Maybe I don’t fucking need a God.” Percy says quietly. “It seems like literally everything else they’ve told me is some half-truth, so, shit, who knows?” There’s a dark intensity to his eyes. “I’ve spent my entire life doing exactly what they can’t and won’t. My entire life, they’ve been telling me demigods are the perfect balance of mortal and immortal. If that’s true, why can’t I bridge the gap?” Percy takes Bucky by the hand and begins to lead him down the hallway as he speaks. Wade is sitting in the bullpen, on Ross’s desk, idly fiddling with one of the man’s fidgets he keeps by his pencil cup.
“Percy,” Bucky says warily. “What are you doing?”
Percy’s focus doesn’t leave Wade. “Do you really want to know?” He asks Wade, calling his attention. “It could be dangerous, Wade. You forgot the first time to protect yourself.”
Wade slowly puts down the fidget. He turns to face Percy fully, and nods. “If it can explain, even just a little, what happened to you, Percy—” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen a lot of fucked up shit, but never anything like what I walked into in that house.” He leans in. “Tell me.” His lips quirk upwards, halfheartedly. “Besides, if you’re wrong, guess I’ll just forget again.”
Percy strides across the room to meet him, and takes Wade’s wrist, fingers curling over his pulse point. The air feels heavy, and Bucky’s skin prickles.
“Wade,” Percy says. “Gods walk among us.”
Wade says nothing for a long second, as if waiting for Percy to crack a joke and tell the real truth. “What?”
“Greek Gods. Zeus, Hades, Athena, all of them.” Percy throws off names like they have no power to him. They might not, any more. “They were never just stories, and they're still around today. Demigods, too—Heracles, Achilles, Odysseus.”
“Perseus?” Wade nudges. The smile on his face slowly fades when Percy just nods. “My namesake. Son of Zeus, which my dad wasn’t too happy about, but my mom didn’t care.”
He looks almost dazed. “Your father?”
Something crackles in the air. “Poseidon. God of seas, storms, and earthquakes.”
Wade leans back, his gaze slowly drifting away to the ceiling. “Gods.” He repeats. There’s a long moment where Percy and Bucky stare, waiting, anticipating, but Wade just slowly nods. “Gods.” He repeats affirmingly. Then, “How does a God lead to…” He trails off, unsure of what to call the massacre he walked into.
“That part,” Bucky finally speaks from the side. “We’re still not sure.”
Wade’s looking at Percy, now. The intense darkness of his hair, the odd scars, the regalness of his face, the entire oceans swirling in his eyes. “Demigods.”
Percy finally released his pulse point.
“Demigods.”
Notes:
percy: 🤮🤮🤮
lee, in a monotone: there, there.btw when bucky says 'baby' when he first sees percy at the beginning, he says it specifically like alex claremont-diaz in the red white and royal blue movie over the phone to henry after the emails got leaked. look it up.
nobody:
wade: ??????
wade: !!!!!!!!this is a hestia fan account btw
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 43: All Hands on the Bad One
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Percy dreams in shades of red.
The sea has turned from salt to iron, thick and sticky and warm. He rests comfortably in the seafoam, letting it wash over his skin, clinging to his hair. The few rocks beneath him in the sand are smoothed and eroded.
He closes his eyes, humming softly in relaxation.
Percy runs his fingers across the sand, feeling the fine calcium dust in his fingers. The white has long since been stained red, leaving it a nice pink shade. It’s smooth and worn, albeit a tad chalky.
They’re bobbing in the water again. Percy feels one of the remnants begin to float closer, pulled by the tides, and he flicks his finger. It’s pulled under and drawn further out to sea.
He shakes his hand a little. Ugh, he thinks. Gross. Hair—one of the last things to go. Far too often he found a stray piece wrapped around his finger or settled in clumps on the beaches.
The bodies in the water bob up and down, pale and exsanguinated . Most had broken down, but a few stubborn ones remained.
Percy didn’t pay much mind to them. He had nothing but time to wait them out, after all.
He smooths his finger over one of the rocks in the sand. The curve on the side was from a lesser trochanter, he recognized vaguely. He dropped it back into the sand, where it blended in nicely.
He laid his head back and closed his eyes.
It’s nice, isn’t it?
Saturday, May 13th, 2018
3:18 AM
Stark Tower, New York
Percy woke up screaming.
He bolted upright, yanking at the covers, heart thudding to crack his ribs open. In an instant, Bucky was awake, a strong arm wrapped around his torso and pulling him back against his chest. Percy struggled, his nails digging into his own forearms.
He could smell it—metallic and cloyingly sweet, like overbrewed sweet tea and syrup.
Bodies, bodies everywhere—
“It’s okay,” Bucky was saying. “You’re okay,”
Sand made of disintegrated bodies, chunks of bone replacing rocks and human hair tangling at the seafloor instead of kelp—
Percy’s screams subsided into sobs, weakly yanking at the arms confining him.
“I’ve got you,” Bucky’s lips were against the shell of his ear. “Hey, stop, stop,” Vibranium fingers pried Percy’s nails out of his skin. Rivulets of blood welled up between splatterings of freckles and stripes of scars, but Percy didn’t even feel it.
He sagged back into Bucky, choking on a cry as his shoulders shook violently. He buried his face in the crook of his boyfriend’s neck, chest wrenching and hands shaking as he curled in on himself.
Bucky enveloped him completely in his arms, pulling him into the cradle of his legs. “What was it?” He whispered.
Percy was shaking his head. “I don’t—” He hiccuped on a sob. The admission burned. “I don’t know.”
It’s nice, isn’t it?
It’s nice—
It’s nice.
There was a smudge of blood on the sheets, and Bucky had no idea where it came from. It was dried, a dark smudge against pale blue.
He stayed awake through the night, through the dawn slowly illuminating their room. A patch of sunlight snaked across their bed, turning the smudge a red-bronze. He lifted Percy’s wrist, then the other, turning them over to look for nailmarks, one of his own hands still smoothing a thumb across Percy’s furrowed brow, but found nothing. Not even a papercut. Could he have gotten a bloody nose in the night?
Bucky leaned his head back against the headboard.
Screaming. He could still hear it.
It wasn’t new, but it was worse.
So much worse.
At exactly seven, Percy’s phone lit up with a text from Dan about the Hanover-Qin family. They’d stayed the night at Percy’s place in Hell’s Kitchen, but the news had already gotten out about the explosion—it’d been over 24 hours already. They needed to act fast.
Hanover had already made a statement through the WSC PR team that she and her family had been away, ‘on a trip’ when the house exploded, confirming they were all fine. Nobody had been hurt, not even the neighbors.
But now, they had to deal with everything else.
Graves.
Their evidence was inching towards indisputably solid. From here, it was largely up to Bridgette to put together a case, Ross’s insight at her side. Lee and Dan would probably be contributing some of their findings, the rest of the team on standby. There was a sense of satisfaction, a we got you, you son of a bitch, resting in Bucky’s chest, but it was being trodden down upon by everything else happening.
Bucky exhaled heavily, careful not to disturb Percy as he ran a hand down his face. They could deal with it—SWORD was capable. Percy could take a day off—he needed to take a day off, Bucky thought.
Then, he called Lee.
Saturday, May 13th, 2018
10:26 AM
The Jackson-Blofis Apartment, Ingram Street, NY
The apartment smelled like cookies.
A worn smile pulled itself onto Percy’s face as he opened the door. He toed off his shoes in the entryway, bag in hand, before wandering further in, drawn in by the warmth emanating from the kitchen. He resisted the urge to check his phone for anything from his boyfriend or team. He knew they could handle the Hanover-Qin family’s relocation, and he knew they were all worried about him.
(He was worried about him.)
A day off, Bucky’s voice flashed through his mind. Relax.
There’s something soft playing from the CD on the end table by the couch, and Percy pauses for a second to listen. It’s Sleater-Kinney, Percy realizes after a second. He knows this album—it’s one of the few they owned when he was a kid. His mother would always put something on when they were at home together (and Gabe was out—either gone out, or passed out in another room). It was probably still the same CD.
It’s odd, he thinks. Everything in life has changed, but this same CD is still playing. He’s leaning against the side of the couch, listening, like he used to do when he was six, only this time he’s not on his tippy-toes to see the player.
The pittering of small feet echoes down the hall as Estelle scrambles into the living room, her eyes wide and face lit up. “Percy!” She squeals, launching herself at him. He doesn’t think twice about dropping his bag to catch her, spinning her a little before holding her tight against his chest. She giggles into his neck, and he buries his nose into the side of her head. “Hey, there, estrela,” He says, before smushing his face into the side of hers, causing her to erupt in giggles.
The ruckus draws his mother and Lucas into the living room. Lucas is wearing an apron, much like their mother’s, and there’s a smudge of something sweet—chocolate, Percy thinks—on his cheek.
“Percy!” His mom beams, stepping forward and sweeping him, and, by proxy, Estelle, into a hug. Lucas darts forward and wraps his arms around Percy’s leg, joining the embrace. “Hi, mãe,” Percy says, ducking his head to rest it against her shoulder.
When she releases him, she takes his face in her hands, looking him over. Percy submits easily, used to it—-he’s also familiar with the way she clicks her tongue in worried disapproval. “Those dark circles, filho.”
He sighs. “I know, I know,” In his arms, Estelle wriggles around, and he begins to release her. “Piggy-back!” She demands. He indulges her, swinging her around onto his back, where she attaches herself happily. Lucas, seeing the opening, reaches up and tugs on Percy’s elbow. Percy lifts his brother onto his hip, supporting him with one arm and Estelle with the other.
“And how have you been?” Percy asks the quietest member of their family. “How’s school?”
Lucas smiles, to his relief. One of his front teeth is missing, and something in Percy’s heart aches. Lucas’s face is round with baby fat, his dark curls bouncy and unruly—a far cry from the malnourished, neglected kid Percy had coaxed out of the hull of a ship. “We’re going to the zoo,” Lucas tells him with the kind of intensity only a child has.
“Oh, I see,” Percy nods seriously. “You’re gonna see a lot of animals?” Please not the Staten Island Zoo, he thinks distantly. Gods, thinking about Phobos and Deimos still pisses him off.
Lucas nods eagerly. “They have dinosaurs now.”
“Do they, now?” Percy asks.
Under her breath, his mother adds on for his benefit, “The Bronx Zoo. Animatronics.” Then, he hears a soft click. He tilts his head in her direction, and she just smiles and slides her phone into her back pocket.
Then, she claps her hands. “Alright,” She says. “While the cookies bake, why don’t the two of you go pick up your rooms—” They both whine, and she holds a finger up. “And, when you’re done, we can all watch a movie together. Deal?”
Lucas and Estelle exchange a look over Percy’s shoulder, and, in sync, “Deal!”
He lowers them both to the ground and they scamper down the hallway, already chattering on about which movie to pick.
Percy grabs his bag and follows his mother to the kitchen. He puts it on the counter—a tiramisu Peter had bullied Tony into teaching him to make, and slides between her and the kitchen sink. The tap comes on with a flick of his finger, and he doesn’t bother with the dish gloves hanging off the drying rack as he plugs the sink. He can feel his mother frowning at him—and, to be clear, that’s something he could do even before he knew he was a demigod, forget before he was blind. A disapproving mother has a tangible aura.
“Ay, sit down, mãe.” He says, exasperated. “I can do the dishes.”
“You’re stressed and tired,” She says. “You sit.”
“And, between the two of us, who has the water-based healing?” He asks, squirting some of the dish soap onto the scrub brush for emphasis. “Right, me. So, really, doing the dishes is the best thing I can be doing right now.” One of the plates is being scrubbed at by a tenacious tendril of dishwater. “Besides, this is kinda, like, my whole thing.”
She’s raising her eyebrow at him, he just knows it. “Oh,” There’s a smile in her voice. “Seas, earthquakes, horses, and dishwater. Right.”
“Water is water, no?”
Sally puts her hands on her hips. “So you think you’re just better at it than me, I see.” She sighs dramatically, leaning against the counter. “Fancy godly powers, and suddenly my mere mortal dishwashing is subpar.”
“Exactly.” Percy deadpans, flipping the now clean mixing bowl upside-down onto the drying rack.
They make it about ten seconds before bursting into peals of laughter.
As he finishes the dishes, they keep up a constant chatter—Lucas’s new friend from youth soccer, Estelle practicing her cartwheels, Paul’s stories from his weirdest students out of this semester’s batch, how her writing is going. Percy replies in kind, though edges around anything too heavy. He tells her about Ross and Dan’s three month 8 Ball streak in the groupchat they think he doesn’t know about, the massive spider Lee found and kidnapped from the parking lot, Bridgette’s new knitting adventure (and Spencer’s unwilling model career for said knitting), Mal’s war against the break room coffee machine…the light stuff. He skirts around the migraines, the (admittedly, perfectly healed) bullet wound on his bicep, the—
The nightmares.
The bodies.
There’s nothing his mother can do about any of that, despite her strength. There are some things even the breadth of her love can’t fix for him, and this is one of them.
The oven timer beeps, and his mother steps away to get a hot pad and rotate the baking sheet. Percy takes a towel from the counter and begins to dry out one of the bowls on the drying rack. It’s on the tip of his tongue, the one thing she absolutely deserves to know, but…
He exhales out of his nose as he moves to the next bowl. His mom closes the oven, sets another timer, and turns to face him again. Her brow furrows. “What’s that look?”
Percy puts the towel down. “Can you sit down, for a second?”
“Percy…”
“Please,” He asks tiredly.
His mom takes a seat in one of the barstools on the other side of the island. “What is it, baby?”
Percy leans back against the counter and tips his head back. There’s an AC vent right above him, cool air fighting against the warmth of May outside being deposited onto his shoulders and the top of his head. #1 Must Have fills the space between him and his mother from the CD player in the living room.
“Two months ago, dad and I got into a fight.”
His mother regards him with the slightest of raised brows, her face open and unguarded. “I…wasn’t aware you’d been speaking.” She replied.
He exhaled again. “We hadn’t.” He admitted. “You know how he is.” She’d last asked him about Poseidon, Gods, it was last July, when Peter had tagged along to drop off Lucas at their apartment. Even worse, he’d honestly told her that he hadn’t spoken to his father since he’d woken up from everything after Ontario.
She nodded, mouth pursed. “That, I do.”
“He dropped by the apartment James and I were staying in when we were overseas,” She couldn’t know he was in Lyon, at least not specifically. Overseas on a reconnaissance mission was the extent he was allowed to share with civilians, even his mother—for her safety, as well as SWORD’s. “And, he,” Percy twisted the towel around his fingers. “He wasn’t happy about my, uh, career choices, let’s say.”
His mother’s eyes were narrowed, ever-so-slightly. “What did he say?”
“At first, it was fine, y’know? He was inviting me to go stay with him for a while, but, then, I figured out he meant immediately. I told him I couldn’t—we’d just finished up everything overseas, but I still had reports to give and evidence to process.” The dishtowel was knotted around one of his knuckles. “And it just seemed to spiral downhill from there.”
His mother was nodding along, face pinched in concern overtop of Ironclad starting up from the living room.
“I wasn’t in a good mood in the first place,” Percy admitted. “And then he, he implied some stuff about James, and—”
“What did he say, Percy?” His mother asked. She loved James, and made sure Percy knew it. She’d invited him over for every holiday, plus a few random weekends for dinner, and was always sending things over for Percy to give him. It made something melt in his chest, but right now, her concern was sharp and forceful. Percy dragged a hand down his face. “He implied,” He said quietly, “That James was going to hurt me. Kill me.”
People always told Percy that he was a near carbon copy of his father—the brow to the jaw, the hair to the nose. The way his eyes swirled with the seas, the stubborn set of his mouth. It’s all he’d heard the second he got claimed, and he believed it, too.
Annabeth was the first one to tell him otherwise. In their quiet meadow, her gentle slice of the afterlife, she’d tugged lightly at a piece of his hair. “You do look like him,” She’d said. “But that’s about as far as it goes.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He’d asked.
Annabeth had shrugged, best as she could, laying in the grass next to him. “You don’t act like him.”
“Stubborn, willful, doesn’t know when to stop?” Percy had snorted. “Nah, I think they’ve got me pegged.”
She’d hummed. “Sounds a lot like your mother, too.” She’d said. “That’s probably why he liked her, y’know.”
He’d paused. “I guess I never thought about that,”
“Yeah, well, if all anybody tells you is that you are your father, that’s all you’ll ever be.” She’d told him. Annabeth rolled her head to the side to face him. “Your outlet of anger might be from him, but all that anger you’ve got?” She poked him in the cheek, and he made a face. “You’ve got your mother’s rage.”
Fury was not a common expression on Sally Jackson’s face. She was remarkably even-tempered, far quicker to laugh than to yell. People often mistook that for a lack of will, not the incredible surplus it was.
You have your mother’s rage, Annabeth’s voice rang in his head as his mother’s nails dug into her palms. Mother and son, crescent-shaped indents in their hands. “He said what?” Her voice was almost a whisper.
Percy just nodded. “Mãe, I—I lost it.” He confesses. “I screamed at him. I screamed at him, and then I kicked him out,” There's a shake in his voice. “And he hasn’t had the guts to come near me since. And, I, I don’t know, mãe. Athena came to the Hub, and I couldn’t even stop myself. She was telling me I needed to reach out, because, apparently, Dad’s been losing it, and I snapped at her, too. I’m so tired of having to be the adult in this relationship, because he’s millennia old but still so fucking childish.” He grits. “I told her it wasn’t my problem— he wasn’t my problem.” Percy’s shoulders slump. “I thought, maybe, that would make him at least come talk to me, if I made it clear I wasn’t going to him. Instead, Triton showed up in the tower.” He presses his lips together, head ducked.
“Filho,” His mother says. “What did you do?”
He drops the towel onto the counter. “He showed up to my home,” Percy says. “My apartment and my workplace weren’t enough, they needed to invade my home, too.” He shakes his head. “Nothing’s out of their reach.” Down the hall, he can hear Estelle and Lucas’s soft laugh accompany what sounds like a tumble of blocks. “He was just…Triton, you know how he is, too.” Even when he was younger, Percy had never liked his half-brother, and his mother knew that. The scar across the back of Percy’s hand ripples as he flexes his fingers. “I made him bleed.” Percy whispers. He lifts his head. “I made him bleed.”
Her hand covers her mouth. “Bleed?” She whispers.
“I—I didn’t even mean to. Mãe, I don’t know if there’s any going back from that.” He admits.
In the living room, All Hands on the Bad One starts up, and his mother chews on her lip. He wants to tell her about Wade, Poseidon’s blessing, but—
Something stops him.
The timer goes off again, and, automatically, his mother stands and rounds the kitchen island. She takes the hot pads and pulls the cookie sheet from the oven rack, places it on the stovetop, and turns off the oven, before turning to face him.
It’s only under his mother’s eyes does Percy shift. She reaches out and runs her short nails through his hair, and, for just a minute, Sleater-Kinney and the smell of cookies, he feels like a child again. She skims over the raised scar behind his temple he got when he was fourteen, and the one on the nape of his neck he got when he was seventeen.
“And maybe that’s okay,” She finally says. His mother comes to stand next to him, hip to shoulder, but doesn’t let go of him. She won’t until he steps back, until he has to go—like always. “We find our absolution from ourselves, in regards to your father.” Percy tilts his head into her hand. “I moved on. I clawed my way away from Gabe. I married Paul, I had Estelle and Lucas.” Her lips brush against his temple. “Us Jacksons find our freedom on the tightrope of love and anger, filho.”
His eyes slip shut. “I didn’t know Dad was something you felt like you needed to be free from.” The honesty scrapes him hoarse.
He can feel her exhale against his shoulder. “Your father was…a good experience. I don’t regret being with him—how can I, when I got you? But your father and I were never meant for anything more than a summer, filho.” She brushes a finger down his cheek. “I spent the next twenty-five years learning that it’s a quality of Gods to see a creature with its back broken and feel unmoved.” Another pass over the scars hidden by his hair. “They made my baby boy into a weapon and then told him to find peace. As a mother, how can I not want to be free from what they call love?”
“You never said anything,” Percy finds himself saying.
“He’s your father, baby. He’s half your world.” A minute shrug. “You’re my son, but…you’re a demigod, too.”
Percy’s eyes sting. “I don’t need him.” He echoes himself from a day ago, standing between Bucky and Wade, a secret on his tongue and fury in his eyes, but, this time, it’s quiet surety in his voice. “I never did, Mom. All he’s done is take, but you gave me everything.”
That was the nature of them, wasn’t it? When his father gave, it was in the blood of others, but when his mother did, it was her own. His father exerted violence on a whim, but his mother took it deliberately in the name of her son.
Maybe that’s who Percy was—a man who dished out pain like his father but took it like his mother.
She pulls him into his arms and holds him until Estelle and Lucas come running out of their rooms. They’re on Percy in an instant, climbing all over him, and they each take one of his hands to lead him into the living room. Their entire hands wrap around only one of his fingers. Such small hands, he thinks—unblemished. Trusting.
With every passing day, he understands his father less and less.
Notes:
percy's concerning dreams part 673902
bucky gaining a gray hair part 854382
sally jackson is a top-tier bucky defender btw
percy 'mother's rage' jackson
"it’s a quality of Gods to see a creature with its back broken and feel unmoved" pinterest quotes strike again
anyway this concludes my thesis that percy is defined by his relationship with his mother, not his father. thank you and goodnight
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 44: Drowning
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Monday, May 15th, 2018
8:41 AM
The Hub, NY
They got the Hanover-Qins set up in a nice old Victorian-style house about three blocks from the remains of their old one. Some slight intervention from Bridgette ensured the entire real estate deal was done under wraps through a buyer representative…and maybe through a shell corporation or two. Dan stepped in, too, and made the records of even that nigh untraceable.
They weren’t going to be in danger again, SWORD had silently agreed. Hydra was theirs to deal with, and, despite her position in the WSC, Willa Hanover had no business being in the crossfire.
Graves.
He was like a whisper hanging over the Hub—though, momentarily not loud enough to weigh down the happiness of SWORD’s post-Sokovia reunion.
There’s a whopping round of cheers from Ross as he all but tackles Bridgette and Spencer in a hug. “I missed both of you! Oh, you missed out! We had a grand old time!”
Bridgette shakes her head, even in the embrace. “You got detained, Ross.”
Ross waves her off with a pfffft noise. Mal bounces on the balls of her feet, waving cheerily. Dan, too, is beaming, and a rare smile graces Lee’s face. “We missed you guys,” Dan says. “Bridgette, your husband is insufferable.”
She rolls her eyes. “Dan, Lee’s been yours longer than he’s been mine.”
“Okay, but when he’s annoying, he’s yours.” Dan refutes. “And he kept talking shit about us in Slovak.”
Bridgette’s laugh is like windchimes. She looks around, hand covering her giggle. “So,” She says, looking at her recently returned teammates. “Tell me everything.”
“What,” Ross asks, “Lee not a great storyteller?”
Lee, standing quietly his wife, huffs. Spencer pokes his head around the group to see him, and waves. Before Lee can respond, Barnes and Jackson emerge.
“Woah,” Ross can’t help but blurt. Mal’s hand flies up to slap over his mouth.
Jackson grunts, dropping down into one of the chairs. “I look like shit, I know.”
The circles under his eyes are bruise-like, his eyes slightly red and half-lidded with sleeplessness. Barnes hovers at his side with a crease in his brow, but smiles at Bridgette and Spencer. “Good to see you two,” He says.
There's little time for pleasantries. They dive headfirst into Graves's case, splitting up and dividing to conquer. It's nice to fall back into the familiar rhythm of working all together, familiar sounds and quirks as they passed files around, the clicking of pens and keyboards.
It lasts for about an hour.
“GUYS!” Dan’s voice echoes down the hallway. Everyone snaps to attention, dropping whatever they’re holding to turn towards him as he walks into the bullpen. He wheels into the room, eyes wide and frantic. “Just picked up a call—some kids playing in a creek found a body. Tied up, with ‘runes’ carved into the torso.”
There was a tense moment of silence as his words settled in.
“Fuck,” Bridgette whispered.
Percy stood, running a hand through his unkempt hair. “Do you have a location?”
“North Bergen,” Dan replies, holding up his phone. “I’ve got the coordinates.”
“Lee—” Percy didn’t even finish before he was standing up. “I’ll get the keys.” Lee said.
Ross and Mal exchanged uneasy looks. “Jersey,” They both murmured, heading for their gear. “Fuckin’ Jersey.”
10:55 AM
Bellmans Creek, New Jersey
There’s a long stretch of railroad beside the road, and Lee maneuvers them over and off the asphalt. The ground slopes immediately towards the marsh, sun-baked and cracked mud slowly turning to dense mud, and when he parks, the back tires are in an inch of water.
It’s incredibly green, long grass and low-hanging trees, the sun blazing overhead as mosquitoes zip back and forth, skimming the surface of the creek. They slide the door of the van open, Ross and Mal sitting on the edge with their legs hanging over. Mal has the tablet in her lap, the heavy case with the drones between her and Bridgette. Dan sits further in the van, booting up his computer systems.
Lee and Spencer stand at the edge of the water. Lee stares forward, light skin and hair practically glowing in the harsh sun. Without looking over, he asks, “Do you want to stay behind?”
Spencer looks down, moistening his lips. “I,” He exhales. “No. I’ll go.”
That gets him a sideways glance, but Lee just nods. Ahead of them, Percy’s already ankle-deep in the water, seemingly uncaring of the canvas of his shoes and ankles of his pants getting soaked.
“All good?” Dan asks through the comms. A round of affirmatives, and he clicks his tongue against his teeth as he types. “Alright…” Dan murmurs. “I rerouted the local PD, so we’re in the clear. The location was a bit vague—they’d already ran a bit before making the call, so that’s the location I have, but—”
“No worries,” Percy cuts in. His hair is hanging in front of his eyes, loose, messy waves slightly frizzy from the humidity. He exhales sharply through his nose. “I can feel it.”
Mal cranes her neck to share a look with Dan behind her, but says nothing. Dan swallows. “Right.” Is all he offers.
Bucky clearly doesn’t like it, but he sticks with the van. Graves is on his toes, now, and after sending a killsquad to Hanover’s house, he’s clearly not afraid to make drastic moves—leaving Bridgette, Mal, and Dan alone would be a mistake.
Lee, Spencer, and Ross trudge after Percy, who does what he can to ensure they don’t sink into the mud or trip in the marsh. They duck under low-hanging branches and step through tangles of cattails and horsetail reeds, caked to the knees in mud and scum. It was already warm by the side of the creek, but in the midst of the marsh it’s sweltering. Ross slaps a mosquito off his arm, and mourns overlooking bug spray.
Percy stops about five minutes in. Overhead, the barely imperceptible sound of Mal’s drones buzzes in time with the insects that call the creek home. Algae swipes at Ross’s shins, deepening the dark blue of his trousers. There’s patches of almost complete shade from the arching trees, contrasted violently by the overhead sun, blindingly reflecting off the surface of the water in the plant-free spots.
“Right through here,” Percy’s voice crackles like the dry mud they’d left behind. He brushes aside the reach of a willow, and leads them forward.
They’re damn near in the center of the creek, mud beneath their feet turning to smoothed-out stones. Lee brushes a mosquito off Spencer’s shoulder as they fan out to stand next to Percy. About fifty feet in front of them, the mud and silt has settled into a pile, forming an almost-island that’s about four feet at its widest.
Half-anchored in the dirt is a floating lump.
The trees above rustle with the warm breeze, momentarily allowing a blotch of bright sunlight to piece through the canopy. Just for a second, a bloated, colorless face is illuminated, turned right in their direction. Wide, blank eyes stare.
Percy inhales, fortifying himself, before stepping forward. He moves through the water with far more ease than his team, whose focus is half on their next step. Lee is right behind him, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Not much hope in examining the scene,” He speaks for the first time since entering the water.
In agreement, Percy shakes his head. “The creek is tidally influenced. If anything was light enough to be carried away by the water, it was.”
Lee’s voice goes clinical, hard, as he looks down at the remains. “The water’s warm enough that it’s sped up the decomp process.” He tilted his head. “Body’s not in the drowning position—” He looks over at the other three. “Limbs reaching down, back arched down and in, a bit—”
“Face down.” Percy finishes hollowly. Lee blinks, then nods. “Yes. Face down.”
Percy’s familiar.
He’s so, very fucking familiar with what happens to humans when they drown.
Lee looks back down at the body. A swarm of flies practically form a second layer of skin, buzzing creating a layer of static over the forensic pathologist’s voice. “Saponification’s underway, as well,” Lee squats down to get a closer look, nose slightly scrunches at the smell. “Adipocere, it’s that waxy film that covers the body.” He looks up at Percy. “Jackson, I’d say this one’s been here a while.”
“How long?” Ross asks, neck craned to look upwards, squinting at the trees.
Lee’s mouth twitches to the side as he thinks. “Based just off a first look, I’d estimate…about five to seven weeks,” He says. “Late March, maybe early April.” He looks down one last time. “Once we pull it, putrefaction will speed up.” He warns.
He can feel how bloated the body is, puffed up and engorged like a sponge. The comparison makes him sick, but it’s not entirely inaccurate. The body’s been stripped bare, like the others, revealing mottled and waxy flesh.
“That branch is broken,” Ross says. He’s staring up, right above the small island, pointing. He frowns slightly and looks around, squinting in the harsh lighting contrast. “Is there any rope nearby?” He asks Percy.
Percy exhales, closing his eyes for a second. Besides the four of them, he feels practically nothing in the creek. Small amounts of wildlife, the subtle shifting of the water, and the warmer spots from the sun…
There’s barely even any blood, long since drained and washed away, he supposes.
Then, he feels it—wrapped around the submerged root of a tree, a long coil of ragged, soaked rope, strands of plant matter entangled around it. Percy holds a hand out, and the rope gently floats towards them. Lee sighs, and pulls a large evidence bag from the pack on her shoulder. She opens it and holds it out, and Percy, as carefully as he can, uses the water soaked into the rope to lift it into the bag. Lee seals it and places it securely in her duffel.
It’s confirmation enough, but Lee calls Spencer over all the same. He’s watching the younger man carefully as he pulls on a pair of gloves. “Help me roll it over,” Lee orders, albeit gently. Together, the two turn the body onto its back.
Carved into bloated flesh, half-covered by scum and mud, sickeningly familiar symbols greet them.
𐀴𐀔𐀠𐀭𐀳𐀭
“Storm.” Percy says flatly, face blank. “It means storm.”
Lee and Spencer take all the samples they can, though the environment and age of the corpse will be anything but helpful to clues. Ross walks around the site, occasionally taking notes. Eventually, they pull the body and get it bagged. Percy and Bucky each take one side of the stretcher to lift it above the water.
When they return to the van, sweaty and mud-coated yet pale, the rest of the team snaps to attention.
“Is it…” Bridgette trails off.
Percy exhales. “It matches the other two. That makes three.”
Dan scrubs a hand across his face, disturbing his glasses. “Christ,” He mutters.
Bucky is staring at Percy, who just shakes his head. He feels weighed down, lethargic and overly tired. He’d like to say it’s the oppressive heat, but, considering he’s survived actual lava, it’s safe to say that’s not it.
Mal’s drones land on the hood of the van, and Bucky grabs them and hands them over to pack up. Spencer is using Lee’s elbow to steady himself as he kicks a long, curled leaf from around his ankle. He’s gotten it the worst, being one of the shortest in the group that ventured into the creek, sans Ross. Lee’s pants are only wet to the middle of the shins.
Percy leans against the side of the van, waving the water and mud off everyone’s pants and shoes as they step inside.
The ride back is silent, only broken by Lee occasionally flicking the blinker on. Percy’s in the front next to him, the others sitting in the back. There’s a long metal box, over six feet in length and three in width. Layers of coolant and temperature regulation are built in, along with grooves to slide the stretcher in and lock it in place.
Percy swears when Lee takes a turn, he can hear the body bag inside shift.
They pull into the Hub, and Spencer and Lee usher everyone out before unlocking it, pulling the stretcher and carrying the body inside and down into the labs. Everyone else files into the bullpen. Bridgette goes straight to her desk and starts making calls to the WSC to affirm their jurisdiction and get the scene dealt with. A biohazard team will get sent out soon to go over the scene with a fine tooth comb—though, they won’t know the particulars of the crime, only that there was a body. It’s one of the security checks set in place between departments in the WSC, to keep a monopoly of information from being spread too far in case of a leak. Dan eventually disappears to his computer lab, Mal following him with the drone case at her side to get everything rendered.
Ross clicks his pen at his desk as he looks at his notepad, open on his propped up knee. “Weird,” He mutters, half to himself. Bridgette turns to look at him, dark eyebrow raised. “They’re all pretty fucking weird, Ross,” She says, uncharacteristically pursed.
He’s not really listening, standing up and walking to the far wall. There’s a map set up on a board, and he taps his bottom lip with his pen. He doubles back and snatches a marker from the labeled organizer on Lee’s desk.
“The first two were in urban environments,” Ross says, facing the map. “High-risk spots, both bodies found almost immediately. That behavior leans towards a profile of an experienced, confident killer.” He uncaps the marker. “One who’s intimately familiar with the area, enough to be comfortable taking risks. Based off the first body, I’d assume somebody who lives, works, or both in the Lower East side, or at least close by.” He circles the park where Peter and Matt had found the first body.
“But,” Ross continues, “The second was all the way in the Bronx. It’s not impossible to be extremely familiar with both areas—it’s, what, a half hour drive—, just a bit harder.” Ross says as he circles the alleyway the second body had been found in. “The profile held. An urban killer. I mean, the Son of Sam killed from the Bronx to Queens to Brooklyn, so moving between boroughs to kill isn’t anything new.”
He steps back for a second, returning to Lee’s desk to snatch a ruler. “But, on the subject of the Son of Sam, those were, crudely, quick kills. He’d shoot and leave. Our killer takes time to make a display of it, hanging the bodies and marking them. Berkowitz didn’t need to be extremely familiar with the areas he killed in, because the whole thing could be done in under a minute. Not our killer.”
Ross moves back up to the map and began drawing a line between the two circled spots. “So, I figured most of the profile still held—urban killer, but probably somebody who is meticulous. Plans the kills, or at least the location days beforehand. Probably stalks the area, taking note of police patrols, foot traffic, all that.”
He pulls out his phone, shooting a text to Dan before continuing. “The display element is typical of a killer with a message. Somebody who wants— needs— attention. Fear.” His phone pings with Dan’s reply—the coordinates of the third kill. Ross circles it on the map. “But this third one broke that profile completely. Not only was it not urban, it wasn’t even in an area with a lot of foot traffic. The body was there for a month before anybody even found it. If our killer was attention-motivated, that would have driven them nuts. They would have given us something; another body, a message, a taunt of sorts. But instead…” He begins tracing a line from the park to the creek. “Radio silence. Plus, the third kill crossed state lines. Typically, killers do that in an attempt to go unnoticed—same with killing in different boroughs in the jurisdiction of different P.D.s.” Ross draws the last line, connecting the creek to the alleyway. Now, there’s a neat triangle on the map.
He caps the marker. “It’s—it doesn’t make sense. Displaying bodies but not caring if they’re seen. Urban to a random creek. The first two could maybe have been opportunistic kills—there are plenty of homeless people in the city. Pick a location, and wait for a target. But the third…the killer either had to have brought the victim to the location to kill them, banked on somebody coming to the secluded creek, which would be plain stupid…or, somehow had known somebody would be there.” He tugs at his hair. “Normally, I’d say it’d have to be option one, but, with what Dr. Strange said about the weird energy, or whatever, about the murder scenes…fuck me, I’m leaning towards the last one.”
“You think that the killer just… knew somebody was going to be at the creek?” Bucky speaks up, brow furrowed.
Ross gestures wildly into the air. “Well, a little, yeah!” He defends. “Transporting a person—unconscious or not—all the way into the creek would be really fucking hard. It took two Enhanced to get the corpse out on a stretcher. Picking the creek and hoping real hard somebody would show up in that exact spot is just idiotic and would take months to work, if ever.” Ross explains. “Maybe the killer lured somebody there so they came of their own free will, but, personally, nothing natural could get me into that creek. I mean, remember the footage of Dean? The kid just stopped cold and walked directly into the alley."
Bridgette shivers, remembering the eerily blank look that had came over Dean's face as he walked out of frame. “So…” Bridgette interjects. “What do we know, for sure?”
Ross’s shoulders slump. “That whoever—shit, maybe whatever— this is, they’re really fucking up my profile.” He says, turning back to the map. “Usually, once three crime scenes are found, we can do a bit of geographical guesswork—within this triangle is likely where a killer lives and works, and where they will continue to kill.” His mouth twitches downwards. “Other than that, based on the seemingly random choices of sites, we can assume that they are of some significance to the killer. The history of the locations, their geographical position, maybe some sort of personal connection. A park, an alley, and a creek.” Ross slumps down in his chair.
Half of Manhattan, a chunk of Jersey and the South Bronx were all closed in by the triangle.
Sitting in the back of the bullpen, Percy was frowning.
Down beneath the bullpen, Spencer sits at a lab table—as directed by Lee—as he preps the body, large frame partially blocking Spencer’s view. Not that he minds.
“Can you grab a bag?” Lee calls. He stands, gloves already on, and walks over. Lee is holding a pair of tweezers, a delicate white flower between them. He carefully lowers it into the bag Spencer holds open, and he watches it curiously. “What is it?” He asks.
Lee puts the tweezers down onto the tray. “Bogbean,” He says. “It’s an aquatic plant found in wetlands and bogs.” He gives Lee a curious look, wondering why he’d know that, and Lee shrugs. “It’s the host plant to the endangered buck moth.”
“Good to know if you ever get bored of this, you’ll have a future in entomology.” Spencer says with a weighted smile.
Lee huffs an exhale, shaking his head. He turns back to the examination table. “It was in his hair,” He says after a long second. Spencer looks down at the body, then looks away.
He leans against the wall and watches Lee work. His hands don’t shake. They never shake. He’s already completed the external examination, documenting marks on the skin, and moves on swiftly. As Lee goes, he narrates to the recorder set on the side table. Spencer is relegated to taking the occasional photo and bagging the samples.
Lee suddenly looks to the side, frowning. “Spencer, could you take notes for me? The recorder is skipping. The recording light keeps turning off.” He asks. “I don’t want to lose anything.”
Spencer blinks. “Uh, sure. Computer?”
“Please.”
Spencer takes a step back from the examination table, then goes to sit back at the counter where his computer is. Luckily for the procedure, he’s a fast typer, and luckily for his queasy stomach, Lee’s broad back blocks most of the autopsy.
He diligently notes as Lee cleans the body, weighs, and measures it, then lifts it to place a rubber block beneath the back of the victim, causing the chest to protrude and the arms to fall back.
Then, he starts cutting. He makes the y-shaped incision across the chest, and peels back the skin, muscle, and tissue with a scalpel, pulls the chest flap over the face, to expose the ribcage and neck muscles. He removes the rib cage, arteries, larynx, esophagus, and ligaments. From there, he starts cutting out and weighing the organs. Samples are taken and logged, and then, the rubber block is removed and placed behind the neck, instead.
This is the part Spencer has to force himself to listen to. Lee readies his scalpel and cuts from behind one ear to the other and around the back of the head. Then, he readies the electrical saw, and pops the top of the skull off. The brain is severed from the spinal cord, removed, and given the same treatment as the rest of the removed organs.
Spencer continues writing. If he tries hard enough, it’s almost like he’s back in school, furiously scribbling down notes as his professors work. He tries to keep that mentality all the way through the rest of the examination, up until Lee begins to sew the chest flaps closed and reaffix the skull.
He helps him clean and decontaminate the room, securing samples while Lee transports the body to the morgue.
Once he returns and they’re finished cleaning, they sit across from each other at one of the tables, filling out the reports. It’s silent, save for the clicking of a keyboard and the way their breathing echoes strangely throughout the large rooms.
“You don’t have to force yourself to do this kind of stuff.”
Spencer’s head snaps up to look at Lee. “What?”
Lee’s eyes bore into his own. “You’re uncomfortable. Even I can see that. It’s alright.”
His mouth opens, trying to form words but failing.
“I can handle the bodies.” He continues, voice flat but brows every so slightly pinched in concern. “Spencer, I appreciate your help, but it’s clear that forensic pathology isn’t what you favor. You were brought on this team because of your research in pathology and toxicology.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “You don’t have to try and be something you’re not for the sake of this team.”
Spencer’s breath hitches in his chest, fingers curling in and nails digging into his palms. “Lee—” He breaks off, looking down at the pristine tabletop. “I…” God, he wants to tell him so bad, but his tongue is heavy in his mouth.
“You can finish school with a focus on what you want, Spencer. I’m happy to train and assist in any way I can.” Lee’s voice is quiet. “I just…I want you to be happy, Spencer. I do. And, right now, you’re not.”
The dam that had been building in his chest breaks. Spencer slumps forward, like a puppet with its strings cut. “I, just,” He closes his eyes.
Lee’s eyes don’t leave him.
“You’re right, I, I don’t—I can’t handle this stuff, not like you do. I’m not,” He shakes his head. “I just want to do something right.” He whispers.
Lee blinks. The thing about Lee, Spencer is learning, is that his often accidental bluntness creates an odd form of sincerity. “I think you’re doing perfectly fine.” He says with just a hint of confusion, head tipped to the side. “You’re…good.”
“Good?” He repeats, half-sarcastic and half-self deprecating.
“Yes.” Lee affirms. “You are good at your job. You are smart. You’re kind, you get along with everyone. They all like you. I like you.”
To Spencer’s horror, he feels tears welling up in his eyes. “Lee,” It feels like a weight tilting off his lungs. “I have something to tell you.”
Lee nods. “Okay.”
Spencer takes a deep breath. “I’m trans.”
For a second, Lee just stares. Then, he nods. “Okay.”
“...Okay?” He asks quietly, eyes wide and searching.
Lee just nods. “Okay,” He repeats. “I appreciate you telling me. Also, I am proud of you.” He says it so matter-of-fact that a teary laugh escapes Spencer. After a second, Lee haltingly reaches out a hand and puts it on Spencer’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you.” He repeats. “What do you want me to call you?”
Spencer wipes at wet lashes. “Still Spencer, just… she.”
Solemnly, Lee nods. “Good. Having a cisgender person in my lab never sat right with me.” He says seriously. Spencer blinks. Then, there’s a rare display of Lee’s slight dimples as he smiles.
“Oh, my God,” Spencer blurts out. “Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?” She asks.
Lee stands up, brushing off his pants. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He says.
“Lee!” She screams after Lee, scrambling up to follow him—and Spencer swears to God she hears Lee laugh. Spencer runs after him, and, on the way, passes by the recorder on the side table. The light is blinking, perfectly fine.
Notes:
sword reunion!!
all these poor sword babes gotten eaten ALIVE by mosquitoes. when they get back bucky spends like half an hour putting little blobs of itch cream on percy's bites btw
percy missed his true calling as a bogman
ross's moment was based entirely off my knowledge of criminal minds
so to all of you who didn't see the notes of the last texts chapter, the sword team is loosely representative of some people i know, and the person who is loosely inspired by spencer came out as trans, so i made spencer trans too now. diversity win. sword is down to like four cis people. we've got another one, boys (also, yeah, ik she sorta came out to lee in the text fic? idk. not my problem)
allyship and pride month is about encouraging trans people to study biological warfare, in case you guys didnt know
btw im a big bogbean fan
i hope you guys know i accidentally watched part of a real fucking autopsy for this. i thought it was going to be little infographics and animation. i was wrong.
lee: you don't have to hang out with me and the dead bodies, man
spencer: im a girl
lee:
lee: you dont have to hang out with me and the dead bodies, girlalso i do have a map of all the body locations and some other important locations from the file. would you guys want to see that?
happy captain america day to all who celebrate btw (and logan sargeant day to all my f1 fans)
some of you might have seen, but i started another fic! it's a 9-1-1 buck/eddie love island au that is less serious and far cuter than this fic lmao, so if you're interested and want a break from the angst, its in my works :) and if any of you are worried, it's taking a backseat to this fic, which i will literally never abandon
and lastly, again, if any of you live near these locations i keep putting dead bodies in...im sorry
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 45: Blood Kit
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, May 16th, 2018
7:10 AM
Stark Tower, NY
“I need to tell them.”
Bucky looks over at Percy, who’s standing on the other side of their bed, shoulders dropped, with his shirt half-buttoned and belt not yet done.
“SWORD?” Bucky asks, buttoning up his pants.
Percy nods slowly, as if his head weighs a thousand pounds. “I talked to Wade earlier,” They’d both just woken up, so Bucky can only assume he means late last night, the combination of nightmares and a time difference. “He’s fine. Completely fine.”
“No symptoms?” Bucky asked. Percy nodded grimly, a bitter smile plastered onto his face. “Not a single one.”
“You think you were right, then?” Bucky asks tightly, biting down the all too familiar surge of anger that swarms his chest.
Percy nods. “I know I am.”
Every time Bucky thinks the Gods can’t sink lower, they manage to surprise him.
They’d finally decided to take the plunge and invite Strange to the Hub. It had gotten to a point, they’d decided, where the crimes took precedent over the secrecy of their headquarters. (Plus, Percy and Bucky had mentally added, he’d probably be too busy staring at Tony to be snooping around. It was a fairly recent development, but, by God, was it an annoying one.”
Tony, Strange, and maybe Matt would be there, though Bucky was unsure if it would be as Daredevil or himself. That man was a mystery to even him, sometimes.
The journey to the Hub was a quiet, tense one, as was the way Percy walked into the bullpen. SWORD is scattered around, prepping for the meeting, stacks of files and open computers littering the shared space. Lee is giving a brief overview of the results she’s gotten so far from the lab, and Ross is redelivering his profile to those who’d missed it the last time.
“Before you all get started,” Percy calls, “I need to tell you guys something.”
Hesitantly, everybody halts. He can tell, even without his powers, a few wide-eyed looks are being exchanged. Percy leans back against Lee’s desk—the least cluttered—and exhales heavily. “I…honestly, I’d have liked to have never felt it necessary to tell any of you this,” He confesses. “I’d been hoping that all of this would be kept separate from you guys.” Bucky, standing to his left, gives his hand a small squeeze.
“But, at this point, it would be wrong of me to continue like this, especially because…now, there’s a chance that all of you may be in danger.”
There’s a small swish that comes from Mal’s long hair when she tips her head back to study him.
Percy closes his eyes, the now almost constant pressure behind them prodding at the edge of his awareness. “Lee, Ross,” He says, choosing his words carefully, doing his best to ease them into the everything -ness that is half his life. “That woman that came to the Hub, her name is Athena, and…” Percy steadies himself, knowing there's no use in sugarcoating it. “She is, at the very least, older than humanity as you all know it.”
There’s a long moment of silence.
Ross’s voice is raspy. “Athena,” He repeats quietly. “As…as in, like, Athena?”
A distant part of Percy (about twelve years old and absolutely terrified) whispers something about names and power and listening Gods—
But this is his. The Hub is his. He’s driven Athena away once.
He doubts he’ll have to do it twice.
“Yes,” Percy confirms.
He can feel every single one of their heartbeats, thudding almost in time, the slightest uptick as they swallow down his words.
“She knew your father.” Gods, Lee. Lee.
Percy takes a long, deep breath. “My father,” He whispers, “Is even older than her.”
Bridgette’s knees give out, just for a second, and she stumbles back to prop herself up against a desk. Dan’s inhale is so sharp it sounds painful.
“And…you?” Spencer asks quietly.
Percy’s smile is crooked and humorless. “I’m twenty-six.” Nobody speaks, and he shakes his head, pressing his lips together to prevent something raw and guttural from escaping. “I guess you guys didn’t know that either, though.” Bucky was the oldest among them, just a few years older than Percy, and God, that was sobering. Percy had known they thought him a little bit older; the scars, gray streak of hair, and persistently dark under-eye circles probably helped, and he had just...allowed it, when, in truth, they were all about the same age.
“Who…” Ross swallows audibly. “Jackson, your father…”
They’re all staring at him.
His shoulders are slumped, like something great is pushing down on them, thumbs digging painfully into the sensitive sides of his neck. “Poseidon.” He says. “I’m the son of Poseidon.”
He used to say that with pride, Percy remembers distantly.
“And whatever is leaving those bodies,” Percy tells them, “Is leaving them for me.”
Percy tells them everything.
He tells them about where his abilities really come from, he tells them about Athena and Poseidon and even Triton, three visits and three screaming matches, he tells them he’s the Pit-Walker and the God Killer and the Storm. Once he starts, he can’t stop. He tells them about the dreams, the monsters, the sword he’s kept no more than a foot away from himself in thirteen years.
The entire time, they stay completely silent.
Maybe, in another world, he’d find that comforting, but in this one, he can hear Mal’s heart thudding, Ross swallowing, Dan’s hand clenching and unclenching around the handle of his cane. He can hear how Spencer inhales sharply, how Bridgette is tugging on a strand of her own hair, how Lee is doing that tapping pattern, thumb against the pad of each finger.
“Do you know what’s killing people?” Mal whispers. She sounds so fucking hopeful, and Percy is so glad he didn’t get a chance to take off his sunglasses before they started, because he’s fighting back tears.
“No,” He says. “No, Mal, I don’t.” I’m sorry, he wants to scream. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. This thing is after me, and I’ve made it all your problems.
“I’m sorry.” The words seem like they’ve escaped him, but they came from Lee. “I’m sorry this has happened to you.” Her words are a little more stilted than normal, catching on some syllables, but she's as sincere as ever, and he almost takes a step back.
Bridgette looks at her wife, then back at Percy. Her brow is drawn together, quirked up in something that tastes a little bit like sorrow. She takes Lee’s arm, and she’s nodding, her lower lip trembling.
Ross licks his lips, fingers clenched in his own sleeves. “Will I get smited if—”
“No,” Percy doesn’t even let him finish. “They won’t hurt you.” I won’t let them. Bucky’s fingers tighten around his, just a little.
Ross nods. Then, “So…that…Athena. She’s…”
“Family. I guess.” Percy confirms.
“Shit,” Ross breathes. Then, quieter, “Shit.” And Percy knows what he’s thinking, recontextualizing the argument he’d overhead in the shape of child soldiers and uncaring Gods.
Percy’s fingers dig into the meat of his forearm. Bucky’s thumb is sweeping over the back of his knuckles, smoothing over ridges of bone and overlapping scars.
“Somehow,” Dan suddenly says, “This is less shocking than when you told us you were screwing the ex-Winter Soldier.” He tosses a quick look towards Bucky. “Sorry,” He tacks on. Percy can feel the way Bucky nods through his astonishment. “That’s…fine.”
Ross whips towards Dan, and Percy is now resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “For the last fucking time, Dan, nobody was shocked.” Ross says vehemently.
“There’s no way you called that!” Dan insists, instantly falling into the familiar rhythm of this argument—they’ve been having it for over six months.
“Oh, my God, I’m literally a fucking profiler, Dan. Noticing is my whole job!” Ross snaps back.
Speaking of patterns—now Mal inserts herself. “I mean…” She drawls out. “It was kind of obvious, even for us non-profilers,” She says.
Bridgette sighs. “Mal, I told you, like, a month after they got together, and you got so overwhelmed you started crying.” She reminds.
Mal whips towards her, a betrayed look on her face. “What the fuck, Bridgette! That was in confidence!” She makes a face. “I don’t even know how you knew…” She tacks on under her breath.
Lee, who was the only one Percy actually told, has been staring blankly into the distance for the past five minutes. Honestly…out of all of them, her reaction was the one he dwelled on the most. She’s still doing that little tapping pattern, and, as Dan and Ross start yelling, she slips away, down the hall.
“I mean,” Spencer pipes in quietly, “Nobody even told me…I just, kinda…saw them…uh,” Spencer pauses. “Be the way they are,” Spencer finishes delicately.
The contribution goes largely unnoticed as the argument ramps up.
Bucky wraps an arm around Percy’s waist and pulls him closer. He presses a kiss to the side of his face. “Something tells me,” Bucky murmurs, “They’ll be just fine.”
Percy huffs out a small laugh, leaning his head against his boyfriend.
They keep going for another fifteen minutes before Percy reminds them of the meeting they have in an hour—sort of the whole reason had decided to tell them that day in the first place.
He gets a couple pairs of wide, panicked eyes before they scramble away like the rats from Ratatouille.
Behind them, Spencer frowns, craning her neck around the bullpen. She doesn’t see Lee.
Spencer slips away, down the hall. The Hub isn’t a large building—it’s technically two storeys above ground, plus the sublevels. The front hallway slopes down to the square bullpen, with two staircases on either side leading to a wrap-around walkway that houses Jackson’s office, the conference room, their bathrooms, and active evidence storage. The hallway branching off the side leads to Dan’s computer lair, training rooms, medbay, and the weapons storage. Beneath that, a narrow staircase leads down to Spencer and Lee’s domain—the labs. Hidden away in the corner of the labs is an elevator down to the morgue.
Another set of stairs, from the main hallway, leads down to the basement.
None of the SWORD members like going down there, for reasons unknown to Spencer—-Bridgette, Ross, and Mal in particular. On the off chance they need something, one of the others usually gets it. The basement houses the storage closets, the retired evidence stores, and the boiler room. It’s the boiler room in particular the three seem to hate, though none are fans. For that reason, Spencer disregards the lowest level in her search.
She didn’t see Lee go up the stairs, either, so she begins down the hallway. Dan’s lair is locked, per usual, and poking her head in reveals all the training rooms empty. Spencer jogs down the steps, already feeling the chillier air the second she nears the stairwell. It’s pleasant, especially in the relative warmth of late Spring outside. She always likes being in the labs, especially since she’s most comfortable in layers—the labs are always the perfect temperature for it, no matter the weather.
“Lee?” Spencer calls quietly as she enters.
She finds her sitting on the edge of one of the lab tables, one of their file boxes between her knees. She’s sorting through them, headphones pulled over her ears. Spencer looks around for a second, then flicks the lightswitch on and off to get her attention.
Lee looks up, and slips them off her neck, tapping the side to pause whatever she was listening to.
“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as the door swings shut behind her.
“Hello,” Lee returns. She seems…fine, Spencer supposes, but, then again, Lee always seems fine.
She contemplates asking about the technically earth-shattering knowledge that just got dropped on them, but...Lee's probably already dwelling on it enough. “What are you doing?” Spencer asks.
She shrugs a broad shoulder. “Re-alphabetizing,” Lee looks down at the box. “Just wanted something to do, I guess. Started going through samples and cleaning up.”
Spencer runs a hand through her hair. The coppery strands are starting to really hang down in her face as she grows it out—she’ll need to start keeping hair ties around. The idea makes something warm glow in her stomach, despite the relative mood of the Hub.
“Not a bad idea,” Spencer exhales. “Need help?”
Lee looks at her, analytical, and nods. Then, Lee picks up her phone, taps something, and music flows freely around the room instead of to her headphones. It’s, funnily enough, exactly what Spencer would expect Lee to listen to—some sort of drawn out indie rock with a bassline.
Spencer slowly gravitates towards the lab fridge. She casts a glance back to Lee, who now has one overly long leg drawn up close to her chest while the other swings idly, and is still engrossed in the box of files.
She stands with one hand on the handle, and, suddenly, she finds herself back in Lyon, in the lab with Lee.
Blinking away the memory, Spencer opens the fridge and pulls out a rack of tubes, each neatly labeled in either Lee’s font-like handwriting or Spencer’s overly loopy script.
She looks through them until she finds the odd one out—dated, but in place of a name, there was a location. Consulate - 5/11/18 - 2. They never put Jackson’s name on his, on the extremely off chance somebody else got their hands on it.
Spencer blinks, and she can see herself in Lyon again, staring down through a microscope. Lee had been so intense about it all, and Spencer had been equally confused as she was scared until she’d stepped up to look at the sample. (Lee had…threatened her life, if Spencer remembered correctly she totally did, Lee could be terrifying when she wanted to God, Spencer thought— Gods? —and, now, Lee was probably one of her best friends).
She can't stop thinking about what she’d seen—that golden sheen that came over the incredibly rich red when she stared at one spot for too long. The evidence of the immortal had been staring at her right back.
If she saw it again, would it look the same? Would she see something completely new, now that she knew what it was?
She preps the slide and slid it under the microscope.
Spencer felt like she should be looking into the cosmos.
…It just looked red.
She blinks, refocused the microscope, and looks again. Then she wiggles the slide a bit.
Spencer pulls back and looks across the lab. “Lee—”
Lee is already staring at her, wide pale eyes shadowed by her browline. Christ, Lee could be creepy. “Can you come here?” Spencer watches the forensic pathologist unfold herself from the odd position she was sitting in. When she comes to stand next to her, Spencer holds up the tube she pulled the sample from. “What’s this?” She feels the need to double check, now, because she knows she wasn’t imagining that whole…thing with Jackson’s blood sample in Lyon.
“Jackson’s blood.” Lee replies promptly.
Spencer rocks back on her feet. “Just—look,” She says, sounding a tad desperate.
Lee leans down to look through the eyepiece. Spencer can see the way her brow furrows slightly, how she leans back minutely and adjusts it to get another look.
“That’s—that’s weird, right? That’s not just me?” By weird, Spencer met how completely normal it was, which, for their boss, was extremely strange.
Lee says nothing, eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes,” She says evenly. “That’s quite odd.” Lee straightens, lips pursed. She turns on her heel and strides back to the sample fridge, pulling another tube, placing it in the holder by the microscope before heading to their drawer storage. Spencer looks at the new tube— Infirmary – 5/12/18. She frowned a little, not remembering why exactly the sample would’ve been taken.
Lee returns with a yellow evidence folder, tagged and labeled. She opens it and pulls out an evidence bindle, and, from it, a long sterile swab, coated red at the tip. She preps and swaps out the samples, from both the swab and the tube, then the slides. As she works, Spencer looks at the tube, which seems to be from a blood draw rather than evidence. Spencer reads the date from the tube again. “Why’d he get blood work?” Spencer asks. It’s only a couple of days old.
“He didn’t.” Lee replies as she works. “I drew some blood from him when he was unconscious.”
Spencer’s brows shoot up. “I’m sorry— unconscious?” She shrieks. “Also, that’s, like, so fucking unethical, right?”
“He knows I did it.” Lee replies simply. “He always knows. I don’t think he cares when it’s me.” Ignoring the implication that this sounds like a routine between the two of them, Spencer watches Lee work.
Lee gestures for her to take a look, and, when Spencer does, it, once again, looks like a plain, regular blood sample. Then, Lee switches the slides, and Spencer’s vision erupts in gold. She blinks away stars in her eyes, and it’s there again, just like she remembers. Rich, rich red, and if her eyes don’t wander, a glimmery sheen takes over. It’s hair-raising, but also familiar.
She pulls back, blinking furiously. “I don’t get it,” She says, looking over at Lee—an action which she almost regrets, eyes meeting Lee’s pale, drawn face. Lee moistens her lips, then runs an agitated hand through her hair. “I need to test something,” She says. “And, Spencer—” Lee shakes her head. “Pray to every God out there that I’m wrong.”
Notes:
PERCY FINALLY TOLD SWORD!!!!!!!
lee was listening to How to Be a Human Being by Glass Animals btw. its important to me that you know that
percy, waking up from his little post-massacre nap: whuh
lee, standing over him with a blood draw kit: go back to sleep.
percy:
percy: yeah oksome percy blood normal...some percy blood not normal....he's just bisexual guys dont even worry about it
also! i put the map in!! it should be interactive and at the bottom of the chapter :) and, again, if any of you live in these locations, IM SORRY, i pick randomly. please.
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 46: DNA
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, May 16th, 2018
7:10 AM
Outskirts of New York City, NY
Percy is waiting for Matt once he steps out of the taxi, balancing listlessly on the edge of the curb, a large dog at his hip. The city buzzes faintly around them as Matt approaches, cane tapping rhythmically on the sidewalk.
“No red?” Percy asks idly as he turns to lead Matt down the street. He doesn’t carry a cane, doesn’t even have a proper harness on the dog that trots faithfully at his side. They’re purely opposite in that way, Matt can’t help but notice. Matt uses his disability as a way to take off the mask, so to speak, to create a firm line between Matt Murdock and Daredevil, while Percy seems well accustomed to hiding his all together.
Matt shrugs. “Didn’t think it’d be the most inconspicuous.”
Percy hums, taking a turn down a narrow alleyway. There’s a chainlink fence strung up between two buildings, topped with razorwire. It hums oddly, almost electrically. Percy jabs his thumb against a small divot in the fence post, and anybody but Matt would have missed the soft chime as the gate swung open. “I do have to warn you,” Percy says lightly, “I don’t think being blind will count you out from being a vigilante, in SWORD’s eyes,” A small smile curls on his face.
“Suppose not,” Matt agrees. “Fool me twice, and all that,” He trails off.
Percy snorts.
They walk down the rest of the alleyway, which opens up into a gravel lot with a low, square concrete building, a narrow road stretching across the other side. The loose rocks crunch beneath their feet as they approach the building, overlapping shadows from neighboring buildings blocking out the sun.
A thorough set of passcodes and scans opens the door, which the dog—a very odd dog, the longer Matt focuses on it, the more his head hurts—holds open for them.
The second he enters, Matt can feel the coolness of the air conditioning wash over him. The echo of his feet makes out a clear picture of the sloping hallway opening up to a large square room. There’s another level above them, to which they are heading, but Matt can distantly hear two sets of footsteps below them, down in some sort of sublevel.
Though it’s minimal, far less than somebody’s home, the building smells like a mixture of people, at least a few, all tied together with the crisp sea breeze and lavender surrounding the man leading Matt up the stairs. There’s a large rectangular table in the center of the room, with some sort of white board on the far wall, based on the humming overhead, a projector, as well.
Already, some of the seats are taken, and a quick round of enthusiastic introductions are made—Foxglove, Tremor, Archangel, and Ace. They’re quickly joined by two more that smell far more chemically, halfway between a hospital and a lab, that are introduced as Echo and Neon.
Tremor darts off at some point and returns with four more people—Spider-Man, Matt recognizes, and trailing behind him is Tony Stark, who Matt’s heard on the news enough to recognize. The other two—a woman who walks near-silently, even to Matt, and a tall man, something swishing behind him like some sort of…cape? Everyone has to have a schtick, these days—though Matt supposes he can’t judge. He’s fairly sure a not-insignificant amount of people think he’s got some sort of connection to the actual Devil.
A round of introductions start the meeting—Natasha Romanoff and a Dr. Strange (...fitting), to put a name to a metaphorical face.
Finding out that Matt wasn’t the only one to discover a body is chilling. It puts him in a unique, haunted spot—him, Spider-Man, and a deeply unfortunate twelve-year-old boy. Not even five days apart.
Dr. Strange has an odd, fuzzy sense about him. It’s entirely foreign to Matt, and it makes something prickle along the back of his neck. “And no sigils have been found?” He asks. “Markings of any kind, on or around the bodies?”
“Nothing on the foreheads, or the symbol you showed us.” Echo says. He’s quite tall, Matt realizes, his voice coming from a spot a good half foot above the rest of them, at least. The person next to him—Neon—shifts a little. There’s a tight, tense second, and then Percy exhales a little, muscles in his jaw flexing as he tips his head slightly in Dr. Strange’s direction. Neon makes a small, uncertain noise, and Percy nods.
The rustling of papers, and something lands on the table in front of Dr. Strange.
“It’s Linear B, or something close.” Percy says after a long moment. “Mycenaean Greek.”
“Ancient.” Dr. Strange says. “But…native to this dimension, likely.” He looks up, eyes hard. “How long have you known about this?”
Percy doesn’t even blink. “Since the first body.”
Strange is not a man of extreme outward anger, but Matt doesn’t need him to be to understand what courses through his veins at the admission. “And you kept this to yourself?”
“You asked about Dormammu. Luckily, it’s not him.” Percy says. “This,” He taps one of the photos on the tabletop. “isn’t your area of expertise.”
“And it’s yours?” It’s less accusing than one would think. Percy shrugs, though it’s more a roll of his shoulders. “Yes.”
He doesn’t offer up any more information. Next to him, Archangel and Tremor tense up a little.
Dr. Strange puts the photos down and leans back in his chair, clearly unhappy but unwilling to argue the point more. “Why tell us—” Matt abruptly realized he’s being included in that, as well as Romanoff, based on the (truly minuscule) way her heartrate blips. “—now? It’s been months.”
Pain is not an emotion. Anger, sadness, regret, guilt…those are emotions. Not pain.
Matt cannot sense emotions.
He can tell when somebody’s blood pressure has been raised, he can smell tears on someone’s cheeks, he can hear how their muscles creak or their heart beats. All of that can be indicative of emotions, but not a certain giveaway. No amount of training of his skills would give him that ability.
Pain is different. It’s not a feeling. It’s a state of being.
For something so profoundly deep, pain can be easier.
It’s in the sharp intake of breath from Neon, the way Archangel’s habitual chewing has suddenly broken the skin of her lip, how Foxglove’s eyes squeeze shut. It’s in the way Matt swears the room grows colder, but with Percy here, he’s almost certain it actually did.
“We found a third body in a creek about six miles from here.”
Strange goes deathly still. Next to him, Matt goes still, a familiar sickly feeling crawling over his skin. He still dreams about it, the chill of the night and the abrupt fizzling out of the streetlights, the steady drip of blood and Spider-Man’s terrified inhale.
“What? ” Matt Strange’s joints creak, hands tightening into fists.
One was enough to imprint itself into his brain.
Three?
Percy runs a hand through his hair, the first sign of true unease so far. “Ace intercepted a call—two kids wandered into a creek, were playing around, and found a body. They ran back home and one of their mothers called it in.” He exhales, and Matt can hear how it creaks and groans in his chest. “We went to the site and pulled the body. It’s a match to the other sites in terms of the—” His heart stutters, just a bit. “Damage done to the body. We estimate it was killed around the same time as the first two.”
For the first time, Matt speaks. “What’s on the bodies?” It’s not a question, not really. “You said you were an expert.”
“And why bring us here?” Strange asks.
Romanoff is quiet, contemplative. Her eyes are narrowed into slits, fixed entirely on Percy, something tensely uncertain in her posture. “This building is kept quieter than a CIA black site. There’s only a handful of people outside this room that even know this location exists, but you brought me, a sorcerer, and whoever this is, inside.” She says. “What I want to know is; what’s bad enough that you weighed it against the risk of exposing the Hub to us?”
Percy stands up. Stark is watching him with wide, curious eyes and bated breath. Strange looks to Stark—he does that a lot, actually, Matt can’t help but note.
An inhale.
An exhale.
And then Matt’s entire world flips on its axis.
“I’m an expert in Mycenaean Greek because I’m a Greek demigod, and whatever is killing people is somehow connected to that, and to me.”
Percy Jackson would never cease to surprise her.
An agent. A good one. A right one, who saw Hydra when she didn’t.
Stark’s bodyguard.
Enhanced.
A commander.
A blind man.
Dating Bucky fucking Barnes, which was a whole other thing—
A living classical relic. A man with the blood of a God running through his veins.
It was shot after shot with him, and, for once, Natasha felt like she just couldn’t keep up. She knew people, how they ticked and how they hid, but no matter what she tried, he continuously evaded his grasp.
In a way, this was almost soothing to learn. She was many great things, but still just human.
He, apparently, was not. Mortal, yes, but human?
…Not entirely.
Strange and—seriously, whoever the fuck that was with the red tinted glasses (Jackson had just introduced him as a legal consultant, which….)—sat in similar states of shock.
Gods.
Not like Thor. Thor was, technically, an alien—a tremendously powerful one, yes, but the myths surrounding him and Asgard resulting from visits to Earth (Midgard, he called it) thousands of years ago. Thor was a god, not a God.
Natasha had never believed in higher powers, but now 50% of one was standing in front of her, and he wore socks with cartoon sharks on them and had a mild addiction to blue jell-o.
Fuck.
Natasha lowered her head and rested it on the cool tabletop. Next to her, Tony gives her a light, brief pat on the shoulder. “It’s a lot, huh?”
She rolls her head to the side, cheek pressed against the wood to look at him. “How long have you known?”
“Like, December.”
“Oh.”
“Of 2016.”
“Ugh.” To be clear, she’s not upset Jackson didn’t tell her. She gets that part. They had a long history, sure, but they weren’t close like that.
She’s just…
Natasha doesn’t even know how she’s feeling.
Are Gods kind?
She doesn’t know why that’s her first question. Not only does it not matter—it is what it is, obviously—but she knows the answer. She was fucking bought by the Red Room, underwent a involuntary hysterectomy, and killed somebody all before her last growth spurt, and she wasn’t even completely unique in that regard. There is no world where that can happen with kind Gods watching over them.
And then, there’s Jackson.
She looks at Jackson—scarred, blinded (not blind, blinded, she’s seen the scars), Jackson, who’s looking sicker by the day and was a top SHIELD agent—a killer—before he hit his mid-twenties. Jackson is unfailingly kind and good, honest and loyal.
He was born of a God, and if their kindness does not extend to him, it cannot exist.
Anger. Maybe that is what she’s feeling.
Yes.
It’s definitely anger.
The rest of SWORD had filed out after Jackson dropped the bomb. They, too, had already known—that much Natasha can tell, though they’re clearly less familiar and comfortable with it than Tony, Barnes, and Spider-Man. He, too, had wandered off, following Ace, talking quietly about some sort of program, voices cutting through the charged blanket of silence. Tony’s eyes drifted from her to Strange, whose face was pinched in thought. Who had a harder time accepting what they’d just learned—the faithless killer, or a man who thought he mastered the supernatural?
Maybe the third option—neither. To their left, at the end of the table, the man with the can sat, barely even moving. Was he religious, Natasha wondered? Was this a confirmation or a disproof of his way of making sense of life?
“It doesn’t really get easier,” Tony said. It wasn’t entirely clear which one of them that was directed to. “Knowing, I mean.” He shrugs. “You learn to accept it, but the more you do that, the angrier you get.”
Kind Gods.
Natasha wants to scoff.
What a joke.
The door slammed open with enough force that it ricocheted off the wall. Percy whipped around as Matt clapped his hands over his ears—the first time he’d moved in about ten minutes. Fuck, Percy felt bad. He was pretty sure Matt was, like, very Catholic. Learning about the existence of a whole pantheon would be rough. (As if it could ever be easy.)
Lee was standing in the doorway, one hand still out and jaw clenched hard enough to break. “I need you to come with me.” He says tightly.
The descent down to the labs is cold. That’s not new. It doesn’t bother Percy much—most temperatures didn’t. Lee leads the way, Spencer right behind him, and Percy taking the steps two at a time at the end. The lab isn’t properly closed up, which in itself is odd enough to make Percy falter. Lee seals all the doors when he has to go to the bathroom for a few minutes.
He follows them to one of the far walls, scattered lab equipment across the counters. It’s no colossal mess, but it’s far less orderly than usual—there’s a loose couple of papers being rustled by the overhead vent, a test tube rack off to the side, and three microscopes in different positions across the closest counter.
“What’s going on?” Percy asks.
They exchange a look between themselves.
“When we were back in Lyon, and Lee and I were working on a cure,” Spencer starts, “I…saw your blood for the first time, and, and it, like…glowed. Like, gold-ish? Sort of. But Lee told me that was normal, for you, and we kinda had bigger problems, so we just kept working. I assumed it had something to do with your Enhancement, but…” She shook her head. “Then you, uhm, you told us what you…are.” Spencer blinked. “Uhm, not what, not that you’re a what, I didn’t mean it like that—” She rambled, hands wringing.
“Spencer.” Lee interjects firmly.
She nods. “Right, uhm. So, I guess I just…wanted to see it again? Now that I knew why it glowed like that, sort of. Gold-ish demigod blood. So I pulled one of the samples we had from you, and looked at it, but it was, like, completely normal. As in, normal for everybody else. I told Lee, and he pulled two more, and one was just-normal, and the other was you-normal.”
Percy slowly raised his head. “Sorry,” He says, something tight in his chest. “What are you saying?”
Lee steps forward. “Out of the three samples we looked at, only one was consistent with the 'glow' of your typical blood. I…” He sighs, mouth one corner of his mouth twitching downwards. “I just…I had a feeling, alright?” He says.
That takes Percy aback. Lee is pretty much the opposite of running on gut feelings, and, suddenly, he feels like he’s standing on a cliff’s edge, teetering into something far deeper. His heart thuds in his ears like a New Rome war drum. It’s almost deafening.
“Will you sit down?” Lee asks.
“Lee…” He says tightly, a sharp undercurrent of fear.
“Please, just, sit down.” He squeezes his eyes shut, takes an inhale so deep his shoulders raise with it. “I ran the samples, and, Percy…”
He almost never uses his first name.
Percy steps back to take a seat at one of the stools by a lab table.
“They were matches to DNA we already had in the system.” Spencer’s hands are shaking as Lee talks. “Percy,” Lee’s eyes bore into his. “They were matches to the bodies we found.”
Everything goes cold.
“What?” Percy whispers.
“Out of the three samples, one matched your DNA, one matched the first body's, and one matched the second.”
“I…I don’t understand,” Percy stammered uncharacteristically.
“I drew your blood when you came back from DC and you, uh, stopped by the infirmary.” He explains. “That sample, the one I drew directly from your elbow, matches. It’s yours. Glow and everything. But the other two are from clean-up, when you got hurt in Sokovia. Those two are the matches for the bodies.”
There’s a denial resting on the tip of his tongue, but it can’t pass his lips. There’s no viable explanation, no way to deflect—the only thing less likely than one of the bodies ending up in Sokovia is Lee mislabeling the samples.
The only thing that comes out is a choked, broken, “How?”
Spencer inhales shakily. “We’re gonna figure it out.” She says. “I swear. We’re, we’re going to do everything we can.”
Percy swallows thickly, and suddenly, he feels like he might throw up. “You showed me,” He rasps. “The body in the morgue had lost all its blood. You…didn’t know where it had gone. What had happened.”
He can hear how tightly Lee grips his own forearm. “Yes.” His voice is barely a breath. “I think we know, now.”
Notes:
"pray to every god out there that im wrong" lee was not wrong.
matt having a complete crisis of faith upstairs while percy is losing his shit downstairs
yay the whole crew knows about demigods!! small victories
i hope every single one of you is ready, because basically all the shit is going to go down very soon
plumbing baby. goodbye
Chapter 47: The Standover Man
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, May 16th, 2018
11:48 AM
The Hub, NY
They take more blood samples from him. One from each elbow, the back of his hand, his ankle—Lee even goes for his jugular, literally, and draws some from there. She hands each sample off to Spencer who immediately runs them to the microscopes, making an increasingly frustrated noise each time.
There’s a delicate knock on the door. “Bridgette,” Percy says, zipping his pants back up. Lee just had to try the damn femoral, too.
Spencer darts over and opens the door for her, but Bridgette hangs back at the doorway, a little flushed, as if she’d run from the bullpen. “The warrant got approved,” She says breathlessly. “We’re good to move in on Graves when we’re ready.”
Lee pauses, faucet still running, and looks up, eyes wide. “Really?”
Bridgette nods, beaming. “I got it pushed through.”
Lee dries off her hands and smiles at her wife. “You are wonderful,” She says. Bridgette turns pink, then scarlet as Spencer and Percy both voice their agreements. “Oh, well,” She says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “The incredibly incriminating data chip that was, essentially, a confession, went a long way, too.”
“Anything handled by you would go a long way.” Lee says as she labels the test vials. “Because you are wonderful.”
Any more, and Percy was fairly sure Bridgette would combust. She clears her throat, face burning. “Dan’s got eyes on Graves—pretty sure he won’t be able to sneeze without us knowing. Ross is upstairs convincing Barnes to not track him down like, now. He seems pissed. Like, super pissed.”
Percy winces a little. “Yeah, well…Graves did kinda send a team to kill me and the Hanover family.”
“He’s also, less directly, part of the reason you got shot in Sokovia. And, perhaps, part of the reason Barnes got kidnapped last August.” Lee added helpfully. And the reason I almost bled out in the middle of nowhere, Alaska. Percy mentally finishes. Lee, at least, has enough tact to not add that on.
“So, was he definitely working with Evil-Ross?” Spencer asks, confused.
“It’s highly likely,” Bridgette says. “Dan held off going through all of the data on the chip once we got enough to get the warrant. He’s in full surveillance mode, now. Figured we should strike sooner rather than later.”
Percy ran a hand through his hair. Graves first, he told himself. Graves first, then…Gods, then whatever the fuck Lee and Spencer had found.
Whatever was wrong with him—
“Lead the way,” He says.
They can’t wait. Bucky knows they can’t.
SWORD has some of the brightest minds in the country, a top secret building stocked with cutting edge technology, and not one, but expert two Enhanced combatants. They have the ear of the WSC, of Willa Hanover herself, and the allyship of the fucking Avengers.
The only thing they need, ironically, is the one thing they don’t have— time.
Between the bodies and Hydra, they’re scrambling. They can’t wait, not with this. Not when Graves knows they’re onto him and could strike back at any moment. He already demonstrated how far he was willing to go at the Hanover-Qin house, and if not for…whatever the fuck happened that night (whatever the fuck happened to Percy) , there was a fair chance they’d all be dead.
Something prickles across his shoulders and down his arms. Bucky flexes his fingers, nails digging into his palms as he stares at the picture of Graves up on the big screen. A moderately squared jaw, thick, brown hair greying at the temples, and pale green eyes stare back. Graves looks like anybody else, Bucky thinks—but, then again, isn’t that the point?
He looks like Karpov. He looks like Zola, Piece, Sitwell, Rumlow, and Strucker. They all look the same to him—it's in the eyes. Remorseless eyes.
Some days, Bucky remembers seeing those eyes reflected back at him through the grimy mirror of the accommodations Hydra had shoved him in while he circled his prey.
Next to him, Percy is a thousand miles away. There’s something unfocused in his eyes, his thumbnail digging in harshly to the meat of his pointer. Spencer keeps looking at him. Lee has a much better poker face, but there’s not much that gets past him.
Bucky reaches out and tugs Percy’s hand until he relaxes his hand. “You okay?” He asks quietly.
His boyfriend shakes his head. “Later,” He says, and Bucky believes him. “Are you?”
Bucky takes in a measured breath, eyes flicking back to the projected image of Graves. God, those eyes. A sudden chill dances across his skin, and he shifts a little closer to the warmth that consistently emanates from Percy.
“Sometimes,” he says, “I feel like we’ll never get them all. Every time I think it's over—” Bucky shakes his head. “Cut off one head, and two more will grow, right?” He says humorlessly.
Percy hums, interlacing their fingers. “You know,” He offers quietly. “When I was thirteen, Annabeth, Tyson, and I stumbled across a real Hydra. It didn’t go well. Clarisse had to save our asses with a whole warship.” His nose wrinkles slightly in the way it does when he thinks back. “I felt like there was nothing I could do. Nine problems multiplied into, like, twenty, and it felt like everything we did just made it worse.”
Bucky wants to make some sort of snide remark about his boyfriend’s future as a motivational speaker, but he can’t get it past his chest. Not when one of the metaphorical heads (almost killed him, almost killed Percy, almost made him kill Percy—) is staring at him from the projected screen.
“Pipes, Jason, and I ended up fighting one a few years after that.” Percy nudges Bucky’s side with his elbow. “And, that time, I didn’t need Clarisse. I learned to stop cutting heads off.”
“Yeah?” Bucky asks. “What’d you do?”
Percy’s hand slides to cup his neck, pulling him in and pecking him on the cheek. “I blew the entire fucking thing up at once.”
And, Gods help him, a small laugh bubbles out from Bucky’s chest. “Of course you did,” he says. He doesn’t have to look to know Percy is smiling, that little half one that tugs the corners of his lips upwards.
Percy gives his hand a last quick squeeze before turning to address the rest of the team. “Bridgette got the warrant pushed through. We’ve been able to keep it under wraps, for now, but it’s only a matter of time.” He says. “Graves is dangerous. Powerful. He’s already displayed how overtly he’s willing to move, and now that he knows someone is onto him, he’s bound to be ready to run.”
The team straightens, meeting Bucky’s eyes straight on. He nods at them.
“We go tonight. By sunrise, he’ll be in cuffs, or he’ll be dead.” Percy says. “Clear?”
There’s a collective exhale.
Crystal.
Tuesday, May 16th, 2018
7:31 PM
Washington DC
Two hours later, their strike plan is set, acquisitions ready for them on location.
They’re in DC three hours after that, go bags stuffed in the back of a tinted SUV. They take positions up and down the street, lying in wait.
It feels like forever, but also barely enough time to breathe, before Dan speaks up. He’s set up in the back, his comm in and laptop open, propped up on his thigh. “He’s pulling onto his street,” he announces. “Everyone in position?”
“Ready.” Lee is the first to respond, more for everyone else’s benefit rather than Dan’s, as she’s in the front seat, firearm at her hip. Nobody is going to be alone for this one.
Just in case.
They’re parked two houses down, van with some service logo slapped on the side parked against the curb.
“Foxglove and I are good,” Bridgette says next. “Neighbors to the left are evacuated.”
“Same with the ones on the right,” Mal says. “Neon and I are ready.”
There’s a pause, then, “Sargeant and I are in.” Percy’s voice is quiet, but level. “I’ve got the back door covered. Strike teams are in position surrounding the backyard and the street.”
This one was big. They’d never had WSC strike teams on a mission with them.
“We’re sure he’s heading straight here?” Mal asks. “I mean, he’s got to know about the chip being gone, right?”
“Maybe not,” Ross replies. “He knows it’s gone, sure, but that wasn’t too long ago. Hydra’s networks are practically in shambles. Whoever he was planning on having deliver the chip, it’s unlikely he’s had any contact with them—too risky. He knows we’ve been breathing down his neck.”
“And,” Dan chimes in, fingers flying across his keyboard, “Our little…field trip, to Sokovia, wasn’t an officially sanctioned mission. There’s no record of it for him to access. As far as he knows, SWORD stayed firmly in New York.”
“Nobody expects Willa Hanover,” Ross agreed lightly. For a profiler, he’s not hiding the tension in his voice particularly well. “...Or how reckless we are, I guess.”
“As far as Graves knows, that damn chip is in the wind and his idiot team accidentally blew up an empty fucking house.” Percy finally says. Bucky can hear his heartbeat from across the house. As snickers flow over the comm line, he tries to focus on it, to quell the trembling rage in his hands.
Cut off one head…
It’s a warm, humid night. The air is thick, the moon hidden away by a heavy tarp of clouds overhead. Christopher’s skin is warm beneath his shirt and coat, uncomfortably so. As the garage door closes behind him, he fishes out his keys and unlocks his door.
He steps over the threshold, sliding the deadbolt behind him. Christopher drops his work bag on the cushioned bench in the mudroom and heads straight through the kitchen and living room, then up the staircase to his bedroom while opening his phone with one hand. With a tap, he sets the house alarm, the other hand loosening his tie.
It’d been a long, dragging day at the Council chambers, hours upon hours or monotone voices and dense briefings. Willa Hanover hadn’t shown up, and Christopher briefly toys with the idea that they’d scared her off for good. It’s not an unpleasant idea. She’s been a thorn in his side for years, and ever since she’d been the final approval for SWORD, his hatred for her had reached new bounds.
SWORD.
His lip curls.
Hydra is circling the wagons, so to speak, and with Captain America run off and SHIELD now rubble, there’s nobody to blame but them. It’d only been a couple days since he’d secured the data chip—Sokovia had been lucrative, but Christopher was one of the last high-ranking agents left. It was time to start keeping secrets close to his chest.
A few more days, he tells himself, and he would be holding what was left of Hydra. It’s a fraction of what it used to be, but it was a great deal more than what he had currently.
Christopher steps into the bedroom, cool air of the oscillating fan in the corner washing over him. He slips his coat off and hangs it over the corner of the headboard, then sits on the edge of his mattress, leaning down to untie his shoes. He hadn’t drawn the curtains that morning, and the night sky was illuminated through the window pane.
“Save us time and keep them on.”
Christopher jerks back, whipping around. His hand darts towards his coat pocket as one of the clouds shifts, allowing a pale beam of moonlight to pass over the figure standing against his wall. The metal of his shoulder glints.
“Do you really think you can shoot faster than I can?” There’s a shaken second, and Christopher’s fingers slowly uncurl from the weapon inside his coat. “Stand up.”
Jaw flexing, Christopher stands. He smooths out his slacks, and turns to the wraith that has invaded his home. He opens his mouth to speak, but before a sole syllable can escape him, a crushing hand is wrapped around his throat and his shoulders slam against the wall. Christopher wheezes.
The Soldier’s cold eyes bore into his own.
“Did you work with Thaddeus Ross?” His voice is like steel. “Don’t try to speak. Nod or don’t.”
After a long moment, Christopher nods, mind working into overdrive. If it was an agent that ratted him out—because clearly, he had been— they would already be dead. No need for him to work there. Hydra agents would die for their cause, but God knows what sort of technology Stark had these days. Something that could get into somebody’s head wasn’t far-fetched (Hydra had already done it, the intoxicatingly powerful Wanda Maximoff, they’d done it first—) .
SWORD was not only aware of his allegiance, but sure of it. The Winter fucking Soldier wouldn’t be in his house, otherwise. It would be a wild gamble to show up in his house without solid evidence. There’s not much use in disputing it at the moment.
“Were you an accomplice to the kidnapping, trafficking, experimentation, and murder of at least twelve Enhanced children?”
One of Thaddeus Ross’s many follies. He’d spent weeks ranting and raving about the potential benefits of the program, going on about some sort of Enhanced he wanted to recreate. Personally, Christopher thought the recreation of anything named after a bomb— Subject C-4, he was fairly sure—didn’t seem like the basket to put all his eggs in. But, well, Christopher had money to spare. Whoever that subject was, they were certainly promising.
Christopher nods.
“Were you an accomplice to my attempted murder in the WSC chamber and the assault of a SWORD agent?”
Christopher nods. That one was easy. He, after all, had top access to the chambers.
“Were you an accomplice to the bombing of the Raft?”
Christopher shakes his head. That one was just pure stupidity. Christopher didn’t shed a sole tear when Ross was killed. He was more interested in covering his own ass than mourning an idiot like that.
The Soldier’s fingers tighten, digging into his flesh. “Were you an accomplice in bringing back the Winter Soldier last August?"
Christopher smiles—a strained, but undeniably well-pleased thing as spots appear in his vision.
And he nods.
The hand around his throat drops, and Christopher rubs at the skin, heaving in deep lungfulls of air. “You know,” His voice is wheezy and airy. “I’ve seen the footage.” Another smile. “You used to interrogate people for us just like that.” Christopher tilts his head. “You know, seeing you like this, I really do wonder just how much of him is left—”
His head snaps to the side with a deafening crack. Christopher falls to the carpeted floor, a hand clutching his jaw and cheek. The Soldier stands over him, then, slowly, crouches down to level with Christopher. “We have the authority to kill on sight when it comes to Hydra.” There’s something glinting in his eyes, a cat standing over a bird it ripped down from its nest. “You are lucky we’ve decided the humiliation and agony of a trial suits us better.” He stands.
“Whatever I just said won’t be admissible in court,” Christoper says, lips curling upwards as he staggers to his feet. “Something this brutal won’t even make it past the judge.” He stares into the Soldier’s eyes. Hydra’s greatest success. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Christopher says suddenly. “You went in front of the Council and claimed to be healed, but…no matter what you do, you keep dragging yourself back in front of Hydra. You may claim to be your own man, but…” A grated, scraped chuckle escapes him. “Still somebody’s attack dog, hm? Seems it’s just in your nature.” Christopher taunts.
A knee is driven into his gut, and he doubles over, bile rushing up his throat. Knuckles crash against his cheekbone on the other side of his face, and he drops to his knees. The Soldier tips his head to the side as he watches. “Aw, look,” He says tonelessly. “Now both sides match. Get up.”
Christopher pushes himself up, swaying slightly. “You can’t do this,” He wheezes. “I’m still a Councilman, Soldier. This is unnecessary force.”
His head slams against the wall, hand wrapped against his throat. “You and Thaddeus Ross almost cost me somebody very dear to me.” The Soldier says, eyes dark, and it’s then Christopher realizes, every time he has laid a hand on him, it has been flesh, not metal. “I could paint the walls with your blood and not lose a wink of sleep.” His grip slides down to Christopher’s collar and he yanks him forward, turns him around, and slams him against the wall once more. The Soldier grabs a wrist and slaps a cuff around it, then the other. As he does, another man enters the room, this one suited up with a dark helmet covering his face. “Christopher Graves,” The newcomer says, “You are under arrest by the authority of the WSC. Come quietly or we will use force.”
Christopher wrenches his head to the side to face the man. Without the light of the window nearby, he can barely make him out. “Unncesessary force has already been applied,” He spits.
The man cocks his head. “No, I don’t think it has.” He says mildly.
Christopher Graves is arrested quietly.
There are cameras lining up and down the street, WSC strike teams lined up in front of them, facing the house. The car that idles in front of the house is a police car, blue and red lights washing over the face of the building. There are no sirens. The news anchors are silent, but they are filming. Percy is the one who pushes Graves’s head down into the car. Bucky is the one that closes the door.
There is no discreet SUV to take him away. No Council representatives. Nobody in a suit and a special clearance.
Christopher Graves is taken away by the DC police like every other criminal. Nobody special, because he isn’t special.
And isn’t that just devastating?
There is nothing special about Christopher Graves. He is a man.
They all know his life inside and out. He was raised in a good home. Two parents that loved him. Academic achievement, good, close friends.
He scrambles for power, but Christopher Graves has always had power. There has never been a man standing over him. Nobody has ever taken what he’s had, and, for that reason, he’s always wanted more.
That is perhaps the scariest thing about Christopher Graves.
He has never suffered.
Notes:
nobody;
lee, holding a blood draw kit: take your pants off.bucky and the attack dog metaphor...very important to me
yay graves arrested! all problems are solved now. no other issues :)
taking him away in a regular old cop car...also very important to me. breaking the law is breaking the law. positions of political power don't differentiate you from the common criminal (can you sense im mad about something)plumbing baby. goodbye