Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. Nope, nope, nope! (If you get that reference, I will know which generation you belong to.)
Chapter 1: Little White Lies
Hal tended to the map of Sharpie wrapping her body. Standing in front of the mirror, her work clothes piled at her feet, she examined herself.
Lines spiraled into shapes, carving books and stars spread under meaningless calligraphy. A constellation on her right hip was fading, but she didn't bother retracing it. All things had their time, and since she only had a certain amount of skin she could easily conceal in her day to day activities, the doodles were all doomed to be replaced. Eventually.
The little forest of pines climbing up her thigh still seemed right, but the black lines were turning a bit purple. Time for a touch-up. The permanent marker felt perfectly cool and solid in her grip, and the felt tip left a pleasant tickle in its wake.
Even after months in her new life, she had trouble reconciling the world she interacted with mentally from the one she occupied physically. Thoughts, dreams, actions. Sanity wasn't so great a challenge as it once was, but Hal suspected she'd never escape the more burdensome aspects of her "gifts." Art helped bridge the gap on good days. On bad days, she turned herself into art.
She had a lot of bad days.
Transformation was no easy thing. She had trouble deciding what parts of herself to keep and what was better left in the bunker's dustiest files.
Hal didn't cherish her early memories. White walls and warm rooms. Strangers' thoughts pouring from her mouth like vomit. Dreaming of James. Meeting him in the snow. Escape. Rescue. The cabin and the motel where her only friend and confidant abandoned her.
Still, she'd learned important lessons, even from her haziest memories. She knew how and when to lie. Words, clothes, make-up – she could use anything to deceive, thanks in part to Pepper's lessons and in part to YouTube. A little paint could erase a sleepless night. A bit of lipstick made her daring. And heaven knew a short skirt could help even the shakiest excuse pass without much notice.
Unfortunately, it was harder to lie about pain, especially the over-powering headaches brought on by crowds. So she avoided busy streets. Or slightly-larger-than-small towns.
It was good Stark knew that. She'd put herself in his hands, and even if he wasn't the most responsible man in the world, he did take care of the things he valued. Hal still wasn't sure if she rated above a 'thing' to him. He wanted to like her, but he couldn't quite make the commitment. But he'd found her a good job in small town in upstate New York where she couldn't get into too much trouble. He even arranged for her to live in an isolated farmhouse a couple miles out of town. While Hal would like to believe he had her comfort in mind, she knew her residence had more to do with the problems of securing an apartment with state of the art security systems.
She spent her days working in the labyrinthine bowls of the Stark Heritage Archives and her nights reading in her house, surrounded by her smothering security blanket. At least she had Jarvis. Sad as it was to admit, the AI was probably the closest thing she had to a regular friend. Sure, Pepper called from time to time, and Hal owed about half her wardrobe to the woman, but they didn't share secrets. They didn't have real conversations. Maybe one day Steve would be her friend, but that would take a lot of work, and Hal preferred to take that acquaintance slowly. Recently, they'd progressed past awkward small talk in favor of sarcasm and shallow teasing. There wasn't enough depth to their history yet to give the conversations any weight.
Speaking of which…
"Steve Rogers is on the line, Miss Hal. Shall I put the call on speaker?"
Hal capped her marker and grabbed the tunic and lounge pants she'd set aside for the evening. It wasn't a video call. She only had to deal with those on Mondays. It didn't matter how she looked. "Yes, please, Jarvis."
"Very good."
The line clicked and Jarvis' voice was replaced by Captain America's.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Rogers."
"Good morning, Hal."
"It's evening here, Rogers."
"Oh, right. Sorry."
"What country are you in? China? South Korea?"
"You know I can't tell you that."
"Yes, because as soon as I've milked you for information, I'm gonna go tell the Squirrel Militia. They will launch their acorn fleet from the west coast and attack within the hour. Damn fast, those squirrels."
"I always thought chipmunks would be a greater threat. They rule the underground networks."
"Sure. But they pay protection money to the moles, and you know it. In all seriousness, though, Jarvis is running this line. The fact that you can call me at all means your phone has passed Stark's endless security games. You could give me nuclear launch codes and it wouldn't matter."
"Better safe than sorry."
"Technically you could tell me and we'd both be safe, but you might be sorry."
He didn't bother continuing the debate. "How's work?"
"Treacherous. One of my coworkers almost squished me between the rolling shelves in the basement. I'm surprised my screams didn't make it across the ocean."
"Huh. I wondered why the mirror shattered. Here I thought it was a sniper."
"Making friends?"
"I'm such a friendly guy. Everybody loves me."
"Now you just sound like Stark."
"God forbid. Hey, Wilson's here. We might be out of touch for a while, and he wanted to take the opportunity to have Monday's session ahead of schedule."
"Fine. But no video. I didn't put on any make-up after my shower."
"Whatever makes you comfortable. Here he is."
"Hey, Sam."
"Hey, Hal. Been out of the house this week?"
"Yeah. Every day."
"For something other than work?"
"Definitely."
"Been past the mailbox?"
"The mailbox and I have a very convoluted relationship. Don't belittle our time together."
"You know, it might be a good thing if you made friends with sentient beings."
"You and Steve are my friends."
"Barely, smart-ass. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you think of us that way, but I'm talking about people you trust. People you have lunch with."
"I have lunch with my coworkers every day."
"Come on, Hal."
"When you find someone with common life experiences and the necessary clearance level for a good heart-to-heart, do share. Until then, please knock it off. I'm doing the best I can."
"I'll lay off. I didn't mean to criticize. I'm sorry. But – you know we have a mutual acquaintance with some damn similar experiences…"
Hal threw herself out of the conversation. "The kettle's whistling. Gotta go."
"Hal…"
"Talk to you next week. Bye."
She hung up before he could say something annoyingly honest.
The conversation was at an end. And that was that. None of them dared discuss anything that mattered. For matters of security. For matters of comfort. For matters of survival. They never, for instance, discussed the dead Hal and her connection to the two soldiers. They certainly never discussed the Soldier. Steve tried once. Hal shut him down before he could finish the first ten syllables.
Every call, they played the same dance. Weave, touch, move on. Trust Sam to try waltzing to a foxtrot.
Jarvis, the century's answer to Jimmy the Cricket, chose that moment to correct her. "Miss Hal, the kettle is in the sink. Are you feeling well?"
"I'm fine, Jarvis. It was a little white lie is all."
"Very well. Would you like me to rate your interaction?"
It was a learning game she'd invented before she even left Stark's tower. Whenever Hal tried to interact with other people as a normal human being, she had Jarvis rate her performance. It was like having her private theatre critic.
"Go ahead."
"A solid four out of ten."
"Shut-up, Jarvis."
"Very good, Miss Hal."
.O.O.O.
Silence was his greatest enemy.
Well, at least "companionable" silence.
It wasn't that he needed words, not even background noise from the street. But here, his closest allies sat around him, expecting him to relax. To enjoy the calm. The trusting bond they shared ought to have been a relief from the chaotic violence of their latest mission. But his mind swam with adrenaline, shivering with frigid delight as the Soldier recalled the battle. He analyzed his performance, considered how he could have made the Hydra agents' deaths slower, more painful. How he could have spared them any pain at all. If he'd found the base alone, if Steve and Falcon hadn't called him as back-up, would he have bothered with prisoners at all? His thoughts felt dirty, utterly inappropriate for Steve's living room, where the three men sat, talking about future missions and their dinner plans in the same breath.
But that wasn't the worst of it.
Even now, years after he'd reclaimed his freedom, he half expected his handlers to appear and put him back in the chair. Wipe his memory. Lock him in the freezer until the next time someone needed to die.
James Buchanan Barnes – the Winter Soldier – sat tense, practically at attention, failing to imitate Sam Wilson's easy posture. The Falcon lounged on a couch, one ankle bent over the opposite knee, arm hung along the back of the sofa. Strange to think they'd tried to kill each other. Stranger to think Barnes had almost succeeded. Sometimes he wondered if Steve would've been able to forgive him if he'd eliminated Wilson. It would've been difficult. Although Steve knew about the blood on his old friend's hands, he'd never lost someone he loved to the Winter Soldier's rifle, never felt the empty helplessness of grief when the Soldier pulled a knife across a friend's throat. Steve almost lost Fury, but he hadn't. James told himself it wouldn't have mattered, but he couldn't help wondering. His redemption had grown from fire, smoke, and a living library. His mind rested on the edge of a blade as he tried to rediscover his past and march into the future. Fortunately, he'd tipped off the point into the safe arms of people who cared about his recovery.
He didn't dare call Wilson a friend yet. But he knew Steve was, and always would be.
Steeling himself, James folded his back to meet the curve of Steve's armchair. Judging from Wilson's expression, his attempt at relaxation was less than successful.
Steve walked in with three beers dangling from his grasp. "There's a great little deli on the block who delivers. Thought I could call in if we're all – uh –" He sputtered when he met James' baleful look, and Steve failed to hide his grin. Captain America cleared his throat. "If we're all ready to eat something?"
"Sure." Wilson wasted no time excusing himself from the awkward situation, springing across the room to look at the menu tucked between the beers. "What have they got? No corn beef. I don't care how traditional it is. I'd like to kiss a girl sometime this century."
"I ate it all the time as a kid," Steve said, somewhere between patronizing and offended.
Sam gave him a look. "I rest my case. Where's your phone? I'll call it in."
"I don't think we're ready."
"Well, get ready. I'm starving."
Squabbling, the two men worked their way into the kitchen, leaving James with a blissful moment of quiet. His eyes roved the apartment as he grounded himself in the details. In the corner, a record player. On the back of the couch, an afghan. Quiet colors and simple shapes – flotsam of a time gone by. And so quintessentially Steve. James missed the years Hydra had stolen from him, but not in the same way Steve did. Steve fell asleep and woke up the same man. It was the world around him that had changed, that had changed him. James napped through the better part of a century, changing with the world Hydra used him to influence. It was difficult to pine after an old way of life when he struggled daily with something far more basic.
He reached for one of the beers, forgotten in the bickering, and smiled when the frosty condensation licked his fingers. A year ago, such a sensation could've thrown him into a flashback. He was still learning how to incorporate the good parts of the world into his life, but just cutting out a few of the bad things felt good.
Steve's sketchbook sat on the end table beside the other two beers. James couldn't tell if it was an oversight or an invitation. Memories surfaced, distorted by time like water over photographs, but the feelings were clear, even if the images weren't. Steve sketching – Bucky watching, amused, happy, quiet inside.
He had the sketchbook in his hands before he realized he'd reached for it. The pages turned noiselessly, made soft by frequent attention. Faces appeared, vanished, merged into new expressions. James marveled at his friend's talent. He'd seen art, but it took something special to evoke the same sensations he experienced when he put his hands to a piano's keys. The people in Steve's sketches had expressions beyond realism, a sort of truth that echoed in his own passions. He knew a few of the people in the sketches, but he didn't stop until he turned a page and suddenly she was there.
Steve must have drawn the image during the interim between her rescue and the conversation when he gave her the video file. She wore the cuts and bruises the Soldier had given her without shame. Her pain was deeper. She'd lost her faith. The little hell he'd put her through had been nothing compared with the acid former Director Fury had tossed on the roots of her life purpose.
"Bucky?"
He snapped to attention. Steve stood in the doorway, holding a phone as he waited for his friend's order. Judging by his expression, though, take-out just slipped Captain America's mind. Steve glanced between Bucky's eyes and hands, trying to read the image through the folded pages. It didn't take a genius to guess which image had arrested James' attention, though.
"You okay, Buck?" Steve asked slowly.
Bucky dropped the sketchbook back on the table too quickly, folding his hands in his lap. "Fine."
Sam came back into the room and instantly assessed the tension. His eyes hit the three crucial points (Steve, Bucky, the sketchbook), and he took a seat on the ottoman in the middle of the room. Steve sat at the end of the couch nearest Bucky's chair. The comfort in the room had vanished. Awkwardness embraced them. Bucky sat with his friends, unsure of himself, knowing they were unsure of him. Or at least his stability.
Steve cleared his throat and cracked open the second beer. "She's, ah, she's doing well. Got a job and everything." He handed the third beer to Sam.
Bucky frowned. "You're still in contact with her?" When Steve confessed to losing her – letting her slip out the back and wander defenseless through New York City – Bucky had an opportunity to test his fledging control. It held. Steve assured him that Hal was safe and under the dubious supervision of Howard Stark's son. Steve trusted the guy, though, and Bucky told himself that that was enough for him. So he didn't ask questions. Didn't pursue the matter. He'd been under the impression, though, that Hal had left their circle entirely.
"Just about every week." Sam took a long drink of his beer. "Called while we were in Korea, actually." Bucky sat, gobsmacked, while Sam raised his eyebrows under Steve's disapproving look. "What? I'm not gonna lie about it."
"Sam is helping her with some therapy," Steve rushed to explain. "And I thought it would be smart to keep in touch."
"Therapy?" Bucky could feel his face pulling into a frown. "What's wrong?"
"Not my place to share details," Sam said, "but living with other people is hard enough when you can't see inside their heads. We're just helping her find her feet."
Bucky reminded himself that, once upon a time, he'd left Hal for just this reason. He wanted her to have someone like Wilson in her life, someone who could help her adjust to a normal existence. So she had a job? Regular therapy sessions? Good. Great. Excellent.
Too bad he couldn't enjoy it.
He grabbed his beer, put it to his lips, and swallowed the contents in one breath. The empty bottle clapped against the end table, just inches from the sketchbook, ringing like the world's least effective meditation chime.
"Good for her."
.O.O.O.
"You up for drinks tonight?"
Hal pretended to start. Pretended to smile. Her coworker stood beside her, smiling at his own stealth. She'd heard his thoughts all day, his steps the moment he emerged from the creaky stairwell door. It took so much more to surprise her.
"I already made some pretty serious plans with a bottle of cheap wine and Sense 8, actually. If I don't watch it soon Becky will just spoil the whole thing and there won't be a point."
Her coworker, Chris, continued to press. "Far be it from me to mess with a Netflix binge, but you used that excuse last time, and now I have to ask if you and Netflix are going steady."
Giving up on the folder she'd been trying to find, Hal closed the steel draw and brushed the dust off her hands. "Not the same excuse. Last time was Kraken rum and a Hulu Blacklist marathon. Not the same at all."
Chris looked at her seriously. "Does Netflix know you're two-timing?"
Hal shrugged. "We have an open relationship."
"Whatever," Chris laughed. "Seriously, though. Drinks. Becky said she won't go out unless you join us this time. And you know how I feel about Becky."
Nodding, Hal gathered the outdated files she had succeeded in locating and made for the stairs. "Everyone knows how you feel about Becky. Especially Becky. You should call her on her bluff. She's so sweet on you it makes my teeth hurt when she reapplies her damn chapstick."
"Watermelon flavored." Chris nodded sagely. "She knows how much I like to –"
"If you drop the topic right this second I promise to come out for drinks."
All smiles, Chris bounced after her. "No problem." He swung in front of her and slid down the banister. Unfortunately, even though he'd stopped talking about all the reasons he liked Becky's watermelon lip balm, he kept thinking about them, and Hal took her time following down the stairs, counting each step, finding the correlating letter of the alphabet, and considering stars starting with each letter. Two, B, Betelgeuse. Three, C, Castor. Four, D…
Should we park somewhere? Nah. Just watched The Town That Feared Sundown. Not a great way to set the mood. Oh, man, I wanna French again, though…
This was why Hal did not go out for drinks. Besides making awkward segues to avoid topics like family and past jobs, she had to lie about her life and opinions beyond anything but pop culture and the universal hatred of the Eternal Dust at work. Add to that imaginations like Chris's, and she had more than enough reasons to avoid socializing. It was too bad she worked with good people who gave a crap. If the Stark Heritage Archives hadn't been located in such a small town, Hal doubted her coworkers would have noticed or cared about her absence. As it was, their numbers were few, and shits were given.
At least it was Friday.
"You've gotta be kidding me!" Even with the door shut, Becky's voice reverberated through the stairwell. "Seriously?"
Chris popped through to see what had upset his almost-girlfriend, and Hal followed, a few grudging steps behind. Becky stood at the main desk where visiting researchers would come for requests and directions – if the Archives ever had any visiting researchers. Pretty much everything of value had been donated to the New York City Public Library System as the first of several "gifts" from Stark Industries. The Archive's remaining files were old family letters no one (descendants included) cared to worry with, newspaper clippings announcing literally every machine Stark Industries had ever patented, and several metric tons of old National Geographic issues. Well, maybe the stacks of magazines in the lowest level weren't all Nat Geo. But the first few layers definitely were, and no one dared risk an avalanche by plowing any deeper.
The main desk had become the place whence sad emails to the higher-ups were sent (pleading for fresh materials and purpose) and the occasional tourist was redirected. Front desk job was easy. Everyone fought over desk duty. Except Becky. Becky was cursed.
"Trouble?" Hal asked.
"It's Mr. Abrahms. Again." Becky shut down the computer as she talked, slamming the keys with passion. "He wants a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. I told him we weren't that kind of library, but he kept insisting. He left a formal request to get the book transferred in, but we aren't part of any lending networks. No one wants our shit. I tried to tell him, but he said he was going to lodge a complaint."
Chris laughed, stepping up behind Becky to rub her shoulders. Becky defusing was his specialty in the Archive. "With who, Tony Stark? Guy only remembers this place exists when someone in middle management tries to pull strings getting their kid a job. No knows if it's a favor or a cautionary tale for all other parents in Stark Industries."
"Do you know how far it is to Manhattan?" Becky growled. "Trust me, this is a cautionary tale. All we need to complete it is some cannibal redneck with a chainsaw."
"How does he always know when you're working the desk?" Harlan wondered, emerging from the coat room with his lunch bag. "Today I got to work upstairs, but yesterday I manned the desk. Monday Hal has it. It's not like he peeps through the doors. Do you think he has binoculars?"
"Maybe he's memorized the schedule," Hal suggested. "I'll handle the desk Tuesday. If he comes in, we'll know that's it. If he doesn't, my money is on binoculars."
Becky, relieved to have put off the inevitable confrontation for an even later date, rolled her shoulders, dislodging Chris. She stabbed a finger at Hal. "You are coming to drinks with us. Did Chris tell you?"
"Yeah. I got that memo."
"Excellent. Three hours hence, we shall rejoin our forces and descend on Pine Stand Bar. Over and out." Snatching up her purse from behind the desk, she marched out the front door.
Hal followed her example and made tracks. Chris would lock up for the day, leaving everyone else to begin the long drive home. Hal couldn't sense any cops watching the back road she took to her oversized farmhouse. So she threw caution to the wind and pretended the numbers on the speed limit had been printed backwards. 35? Nah. Must be a mistake.
The silence comforted her. No thoughts, no voices, only the giddy crackle of adrenaline as she took the corners just a little too quickly. After a day locked inside a Cold War era bunker trying to masquerade as a library, the fresh air felt wonderful. Hal left her windows down and the radio off, happy to be alone. She was home before she knew it, and her quiet time came to an immediate end.
"Welcome home, Miss Hal. Did your supervisor send you home from work early?"
Jarvis never criticized her directly, but he gave many passive-aggressive hints. Hal couldn't remember her mother. She figured she didn't need to. She had Jarvis instead.
"Anything exciting happen while I was gone?" No point telling him she'd shattered the speed limit. It wasn't like he didn't know. If Hal knew Stark at all, there were at least five remote transmitters hiding in her car. If he wanted to, the man could find out what radio station she preferred.
"Not precisely. However, you have a message from Agent Romanoff. Shall I play it for you?"
"Later. I'm going back out soon."
"Very good, Miss Hal."
She took her time. In the shower, she wasted nearly half an hour just standing under the water, imagining rain and a glassy sea. Her worries sloughed off with the day's grime, pulled away as Hal built a superior world in her own mind. The water built a connection, and for precious moment, she could ignore the border between the realities of mind and body. She breathed the warm mist of her vision, reaching to pull the sun from the horizon. Her hand clapped against shower tiles, and reality cracked in half. The way it was supposed to be. She left the shower feeling worse than when she'd gone in.
Two hours spun by, and Hal made her way back to the front door. She'd considered the role she was to play and costumed herself appropriately. Low heels, obvious make-up, fit-and-flare dress. A single archivist at her finest. Her hand found the knob.
Then she remembered.
"What was Natasha's message?"
"Shall I play it for you now, or would you like me to paraphrase?"
"Play it, please."
Natasha's voice filled the room. "Hey. Great job with the senator last week. We've followed up the leads you gave us, and we might have found something big. But we need to be sure before we pull the trigger. Clint will be by tomorrow to pick you up. Sorry I can't tag along, but I'm hunting down some loose ends. It's an easy mission, though. Street attire. Casual. Just pass and grab. You'll be back in plenty of time for your Monday shift, so you don't need to spin anything for your cover. Take care of yourself. See you soon."
So much for the Netflix binge.
"Thanks, Jarvis. I'm heading out."
"Very good, Miss Hal."
Instead of speeding back into town, Hal deducted five miles from the speed limit and inched along slow enough to earn the wrath of several motorists. After the third car passed (with a honk and a single-finger-salute), she brought the vehicle up to speed. Even now, safe in her dusty cover, her instincts demanded she hide. She shouldn't draw attention. She shouldn't exceed expectations, but neither should she fail to meet them. Chances were, the other drivers were tourists passing through on their way to somewhere nicer, but all it would take was one local getting up in her business to bring her paltry independence to an end.
She and Stark had an understanding. He didn't get worried - she got to live in the big, bad world. A little paranoia, though, and Hal could find herself suddenly uprooted. Not that she had roots. But no one in town knew that, and Hal enjoyed knowing more about herself than anyone else in a twenty mile radius.
It was a rare pleasure.
.O.O.O.
Hal came home four hours later. She wanted to drink the entire bottle of wine she'd been saving, but a hang-over would only compound the ache of a public setting during her upcoming mission.
It felt like she'd earned it, though.
The night out had gone as planned.
"We're worried about you, Hal."
You'd be more worried if you knew what I do on the weekends.
"Really, though, what do you do when you're not at work?"
Read the minds of war criminals and political leaders, looking for Hydra cells. Like a real spy, but with cheats enabled.
"I have family in the city. Do you have family in the city? We should carpool sometime."
I don't know if I have family. I know folks in the city, though. They send unmarked cars when they need me. So carpooling is out.
While her coworkers enjoyed a quiet evening of gossip and appetizers, Hal had trouble swallowing past all the lies she had to vomit on command. The wall she had to build around herself kept her safe, but it also kept her alone. In many ways, her coworkers felt less like friends than strangers Hal passed on the street. She brushed strangers' minds and enjoyed a glimpse of their existence. It was temporary. No expectations. No questions. Hal had learned to accept it as people-watching. With her coworkers, she had conversations; she kept their secrets, but she couldn't answer their questions, couldn't offer her own confidence. They offered her things she couldn't return.
It made her feel so dirty she had to take another shower.
She stumbled into bed after she bathed, too exhausted to drink.
After a day stalking a Hydra agent, she'd probably need it later, anyway.
A/N: So, something is wrong with the website. If you tried to review the last Interlude at the end of Sin Eater, I thank you. However, it didn't come through. Effectively I've been wringing my hands for the past week going "OMG! I DONE GOOFED! ZE READERS NO LIKE! NO LIKE AT ALL! AWWWW SHIIIITTTTT." Since I can't get to the stats section of my profile, however, I am reassuring myself that it is an error with the website (denial - ain't it loverly?).
Look for weekly updates! I will update regardless of review count, however if my muse goes super charged, there may be bonus chapters here and there (and we all know how to super charge the muse, don't we?). The length of the fic will also probably depend on reader interest, because I can go on forever, but I am managing so many projects, I don't want to dedicate a lot of time to a story that has lost its audience. Capiche?
And now... ON WITH THE ADVENTURE!
(Cuckoo may or may not have consumed too much caffeine and apologizes profusely for her excess of caps.)