The twenty-sixth of September was a date to mark that year, for a couple of reasons. Arguably, one of the most important was that it was the date of the first coordinated Avengers movement, with both eastern and western hemisphere teams deployed. After running through a myriad of codes and decrypted plans, it was revealed that a cluster of HYDRA cells had remained. Though not thriving, heads were still above water, refusing to drown and die after the loss of Strucker, after the evils of Ultron. As always, there was another ready to take the place of whomever had come before. Two secret bases had been revealed in the transcribes that had been intercepted, one along the coast of Spain and the other in Morocco. According to the translations done by the Maximoffs and Natasha, they were holding cells of a sort, storage for illegal weapons and back-up for any plans made since the raids last fall. A good number of operatives would most likely be on hand to guard it all, in both places, but the teams were willing to take the risk and meet them head-on.
It was tough, attempting to plan out an attack with the other team, but leaving before dawn would allow the transatlantic flight to catch them up to Chapman and his compatriots. Farewells on the landing platform were simple and brief (Maria Hill was able to send them off with a good-luck message from the UN rep, and Holly was able to rouse herself from sleep to see them off, a parting kiss and a "give 'em hell" for Steve dropping easily from her lips, despite the muted worry), and the inner bunks were unfolded, JJ taking the helm while they caught up on sleep for the first half of the flight. The second half was dedicated to preparations, suits and weapons removed and cleaned. Reviewing the overall plan once more, the captain turned to his team, tapping through a digital display as he spoke.
"Alright people, simple drill for this. Contraband and information recovery, through and through. Detain anyone who tries to get in the way, particularly the leaders if they are still onsite. Make sure they are coherent enough for questioning later."
A significant look was shot from him to the cockpit, to the redhead at the console. She had taken over the controls from the AI, determining a human touch would be needed for landing. Half turning, Natasha rolled her eyes, a smirk gracing her lips.
"I still maintain that the guy shoved his own head into that pipe," the Black Widow reiterated, and the captain blew a sharp breath out of his nose.
Sam snorted at that, muttering low under his breath, "After a few heavy kicks to the groin."
He shared a humorous look with the auburn-haired young woman to his left. The female Maximoff said nothing, but the tiniest quirk of her lips told him that she was sharing in his sentiments at the moment. Rhodey, tending to his suit, was visibly shaking with repressed laughter.
"Keep damage to a minimum," the captain interjected, his gaze settling on each member at hand. "We've got the Vision on the horn in case we need him, but I don't anticipate that."
Not unless the enemy knew they were coming, and turned the potential contraband—in this case, illegal artillery—on them when they approached. Only then would the Vision be summoned. For the moment, he was hovering somewhere in the stratosphere, tagging along and watching over all.
Rhodey nodded, pulling himself to his full height and placing his hands on his hips. "Still, better to be alert and prepared."
Steve dipped his chin in agreement, and when his team indicated their understanding of the general plan, he tapped into the channel reserved for the secondary team. They were, no doubt, poised outside of the Spanish facility, and waiting for the captain to touch base with them.
"ETA's five minutes for us," he told the de facto leader, Chapman. The other man hummed eagerly.
"Primed and ready on our end, Captain," he reported, Scouse accent hitting hard into the microphone. "Permission to move out?"
"Granted. Keep me posted."
A grunt came from the other end. "Oo-rah."
Steve sighed, raising his eyes to the roof of the quinjet. "Wrong branch, Chapman."
"Pardon me," was Joe's quick response, affecting a posh accent now. Coughing gruffly, the other man went on in a droll tone, "Some of us did grow up without giving a toss about the American military. Shocking, I know..."
"Save it for later, Union Jack," the captain cut him off, not willing to prolong the conversation. There was too much to do to waste time chatting on the radio line. As if able to see his exasperation, and reading it clearly in his voice, the secondary team leader chuckled.
"Cheers," he signed off, calling out to his team once more before the line went quiet. Clearing his throat, Steve went ahead to his floor locker, removing the last piece of equipment needed: his helmet. Strapping it on, he locked the fasteners into place on the floor just as Natasha announced their descent. Grabbing the bars overhead with one hand, he made his way over to the others. Sam shot him a serious look, adjusting his armor and the straps of his wing pack, goggles sliding into place easily. Red traced over the black Kevlar weave, much better protection than he had two years ago. Rhodey gave him a similar glance, words unspoken but still exchanged in that silent look. Once the jet was grounded, he would step into his suit, War Machine at the ready. Wanda picked at the uniform swathing her frame, the shades of scarlet encompassing her torso, her fingers moving to the black microfiber weave of her leggings, heavy boots on her feet. Of all of them, she appeared the most nervous. Though the kid had been in successive battles in the days of Ultron, she had since been avidly keeping herself off the field. While she had been trained in combat to some extent, the ordeal of those days had shaken her, drove her to first perfect herself before allowing herself to join the fray. Any missions she took were strictly recon or contact missions, without any chance of combat.
Today, that had to change. They needed every hand on deck for the procedure to go even remotely smoothly. And, in his mind, Steve thought she might be ready for some actual action. She was ready to face the evils of the world on her own, without her brother. As the Black Widow guided the quinjet to land, he dictated the split-off. Nat would attempt to find the purported computer terminals, which were supposed to be somewhere underground. However, there was a second group of terminals somewhere else in the base, and it would be his job to find them so a complete data sweep and mining could be done. It wouldn't only be his job.
"Wanda, you're with me," he told the girl as the jet cycled down, touching the ground smoothly. As the hatch lowered, he waited for her to unstrap from her seat, ushering her to follow behind him. With SHIELD standard stealth equipment installed, the jet would be able to hide in plain sight for the time being. Outside, the air was warm, sweat popping up on his brow beneath the helmet and suit. Bidding the others to go ahead to the base, he murmured to the young woman, "Stay on my six, keep an eye out for any insurgents."
Inhaling deeply, she nodded, a flicker of red crossing her eyes momentarily. Preparing herself, he mused inwardly. She had to be preparing herself.
"Yes, Captain," she said aloud, and with that, the two were pattering after their teammates.
The base was not set in any proper city, so at least that worked in their favor for attack. Less collateral damage to be done that way. On first appearance, it just looked like an office building built on the outskirts, but they knew better than to trust that. Rather than risk a full frontal assault, the Avengers would be using a diversion, Rhodey and Sam drawing off enemy fire while the others would use a side entrance revealed in their captured intel. Miniatures sensors, stored in the captain's belt pouches, were linked in to JJ, and when they were placed anywhere on a building's floor, they would be able to scan it and provide a digital blueprint for them to go off of. Passing a few sensors off to Natasha, she dipped her chin once, a blur of red hair and black suit whirling by as she went to work. Wanda watched her go with wide eyes, tripping carefully after Steve as they made their way down the halls.
"Alright, focus, Maximoff," he muttered, distracting her from the headiness of the swirling emotions and souls buzzing near at hand. Finding a deserted stairwell, they listened for a moment as screams and shouts rang out in the courtyard, the distant footfalls of running adversaries heading out to engage the enemy. Warily, the pair trod carefully up a stairwell, a sensor secured under the banister. "You sense anything off as we go, let me know."
"Got it," she returned, hyper-aware of her surroundings now. Green eyes tracked around them, watching out for any incoming enemies, but as they ascended none came. She seemed to be about ready to breathe a sigh of relief when they reached the top landing, and before Steve could warn her against doing so, a crackle came over the comms.
"Rogers, Maximoff. Alarms are tripped," Natasha's smooth voice alerted them. A shuffle and a grunt came through, but she spoke up again soon enough. "The security system is a lot more sensitive than we thought. Got a couple locked down, but more will be coming your way."
"Copy that," the captain responded quickly, swinging his hand back and detaching his shield. Securing it to the electromagnetic fasteners on his gauntlet, he spared a swift glimpse at Wanda. "Brace yourself, kid."
The closest she got to doing such a thing was her tightening her shoulders. Testing the door, it was unsurprising to find it locked. The screech of alarm bells rang in the stairwell, and they were effectively locked out. Rearing back, Steve kicked at the latch of the door, busting it open after two more kicks. Spilling out onto an open floor, devoid of any furniture or equipment whatsoever, they broke into a light jog just as dark-garbed insurgents busted in from the far end. Bolting ahead, the captain made sure he was bodily blocking Maximoff from harm, ready to take the first blows. As he flung his shield, catching it on the rebound and spinning bodily over the first two assailants, hexes shot forward, wrenching into the opponents who dared to get too close to the Scarlet Witch. Auburn hair flowed and stirred even when she stood still, the mystic energies pouring off of her into the attackers. Fingers splayed, she tore into one after another, punches and jabs accompanied by the ring of the bouncing vibranium. Fortunately, the onslaught did not number many, and it was only a short time later that the two had finished with the fight, no worse for the wear.
Tapping into the channel to speak to JJ, Steve inquired as to what he was reading so far as to floor plans. Contraband was hidden throughout the facility, the major stores being on the second floor in the private offices. As predicted, the second bank of computer terminals was somewhere on their floor, supposedly in what once was a conference room. It was situated off the middle of the open space, through a set of glass doors. However, when he looked around to find the entrance to such a room, he could see that none existed. It was sheer wall from end to end. Perhaps the blueprints were incorrect? Before he could say anything to that, he caught Wanda eyeing up the wall, too. As she stretched out her arm, he watched her tread slowly towards the middle of it, her eyes wide and her brow furrowing.
"What are you—"
"Behind this wall, I can sense them. Sense more of them," Wanda breathed in a hushed tone, her hands spread upon the blank wall. The waves of soldiers they'd encountered were not the entire staff onsite; some, it turned out, were hiding, waiting for them to leave before they would make their way out. Tapping lightly, the wall made a hollow sound. Clearly the blueprint was correct and an opening had once been there, plaster hastily constructed over it to cut off outside entry. Sharing a glance with her, the captain hooked his shield onto the back harness. Taking a step closer, he was stopped by a sharp gesture. Shaking her head, she murmured, "Wait, let me..."
Scarlet danced across her green irises, the eerie glow indicative of her drawing on her power. Manifesting the bright red auras in her palms, she spread them along the wall again. Hexes were left behind where she touched, signifying the weak spots on the drywall. After a few seconds, she pulled away, fingers still extended to maintain the points.
"Okay, go ahead," she whispered, tipping her head to him and waiting for him to begin.
At her prompting, Steve drew back his arm, sharp jabs straight from his shoulder cracking through the marked plaster to the other side. Muted shrieks and yells echoed through the holes. They grew louder when he started to kick at the weakened drywall, chunks of it falling away like punctured scraps of paper. On the last kick, he ended up striking one of the agents on the other side, a winded gasp choked out as he pulled back. The last of the wall was smashed away, the adversaries within bursting through to make a last, desperate stand. They swarmed over them, throwing whatever they could at the two Avengers, hoping to take at least one of them out. Some of the pack peeled away, making a break for it down the stairs, while others put up a fight, one of them managing to sneak up behind Wanda and viciously pull on her hair, making her shriek and wrenching her down to the ground. Steve, spotting this, flipped his shield with his foot, kicking it out to bounce off the guy's back. Sending a pulsing hex through herself to her stunted adversary, she knocked him out clean with a harsh punch of her own. Scrambling back to her feet, she followed after the captain into the abandoned conference room. The digital computer banks looked similar to the ones they had back at their own base, though perhaps a few shades cruder in terms of set-up. Gesturing her forward, he tapped in to connect with Nat.
"Alright, we've got access," he told her, eyes scanning the terminal for at least one available USB port. Quickly, Maximoff prodded his arm, pointing out one connected to a nearby router. Fishing the jump-drive out of one of his belt pouches, he slid it in. "Port One, in."
"Port Two, in," Natasha crowed back, a clack of fingers hitting keys reaching his ears. He inclined his head, took a breath.
"Go to work, Widow."
For a brief few seconds, their floor was quiet, the only sounds coming from the chirping terminals and the rapid dissemination of information flying across the digital monitors. All that would be needed would be to call the police, and then...
"Captain," Wanda cried, her posture suddenly going rigid. Her gaze flicked out the broken entrance, fastening on a point that he could not see.
"Wanda?" he queried, and his ears twitched beneath the helmet, picking up the hard tramp of boots, the gruff voices of enraged enemies, as they drew closer. "Oh, great."
Moving his shield back to his wrist, he was preempted from taking a step towards the opening by Wanda, her shielding hexes bubbling around her and making it impossible for him to follow. Jaw dropping, his eyes narrowed, shock decorating his face. The snap of doors opening made her jump, and for an instant, the shield flickered, but she recovered her composure soon enough. Understanding swiftly what she was planning on doing, Steve tried to find a way to push past, but the scorch in his mind was too much for him to bear.
"Keep going, I can do this!" she shouted back, defensive auras springing around her, her cries for whoever it was down at the other end to follow her grating. The crack of gunfire took them both by surprise, and Wanda flashed him a final look before running off, out of sight.
"Wanda!" he called out harshly, his cry nearly lost in the deafening thud of boots hitting floor and the continued bark of rounds in the air. "Damn it. How much you got, Nat?"
The Black Widow hummed for a moment, no doubt taking stock of what she'd already mined. "Not everything, but a good chunk. Falcon and War Machine are holding off the guys down here, but I'm not sure how long that will last."
A couple of insurgents broke off from the passing pack, charging headlong towards him. Using the table at the center of the room as leverage, the captain sprang up, flipping through the air and executing a flying kick. As he vaulted, he caught one guy in the chest and the other in the throat. Landing hard, he pushed himself up, a right hook and chop felling them totally. Tapping into the channel once more, he stormed out of the entrance, trotting off in the direction of screams and wails.
"Back up what you can, and execute VC-1 as soon as possible. I gotta go after Maximoff."
"Roger that," Nat responded succinctly. Signing off, Steve tracked her down to the floor below, a ring of enemies flanking her. Black tact gear and helmets obscured their faces, but he had no doubt that they were sizing her up, weighing the possibility of ease in taking her down. She'd lost the edge of her shielding auras, as her concentration was too broken to resurrect them, and so she'd settled to have her palms out, stark beams of power cutting them down one after another. Spotting another along the far wall sizing her up through the scope of his rifle, Steve felt a chill course down his spine. Sprinting at full speed, he extended his shield arm just in time to block the bullet from hitting her, with him bodily slamming into her and pulling her out of range as it ricocheted away. Jumping to his feet, he gripped her elbow, getting her into a standing position just as someone grabbed at him from behind. Vibranium smashed against skull, and the fellow dropped. As one, Captain America and the Scarlet Witch dealt with the ring of enemies, more punches and hexes flying through the space. It was difficult, as the space on the lower floor was riddled with more desks and dangerous weapon literally crated everywhere, but they were determined to make it work. In a moment, Wanda cried out the word "special," seizing the chance to end the fight once and for all. Readily, Steve complied, releasing his shield and tossing it upward.
The shield hovered midair, and her fingers flicked up at it, shots of auras throw up at it with alacrity. The vibranium repulsed the energy blasts, dashing them off and away. Directly under the shield, they remained safe, with him bent down low and her able to absorb her own hexes without issue. The beings who strayed to close to the outer edges of it were not as fortunate. The manipulated energies pelted them, shot through them, burning and spreading into their souls and forcing them to either drop unconscious or fall in frightened agony. Once the last of them had fallen victim to the auras, she let her hands drop to her sides, the shield coming down in tandem. Deftly, the captain stuck out his arm, summoning the disk to attach to his gauntlet before it could even touch the ground. When he rose to his full height, his stony gaze raked over her, satisfied in that she had not been injured, but that was the extent of it. Trying to catch her breath, Wanda looked up from her position, with her hands braced upon her knees, and she saw the glare he was directing at her. It rankled, it burned, and she quirked up her eyebrows at him.
"Cap..."
"Stay on my six," Steve barked at her, demeanor turning downright frigid in an instant. It was his commanding, no-nonsense voice, the one that demanded he be heard and listened to. Jerking a thumb back to the stairwell, he continued, "Come on."
Wordlessly, Wanda followed, stepping over the fallen gingerly as they passed. Ordering her to wait outside the conference room when they arrived, the captain ducked back in, confirming audibly that the virus codes had been implemented. Retrieving the jump-drive and stowing it away, he motioned for her to stay on his heels, neither exchanging a word as they began to gather up the unconscious attackers and zip-tie them up. It was an elimination of steps for the local authorities once they arrived, one that they happily performed. Sending out the distress signal, the police soon were swarming the place, ushered in by none other than Rhodey. At once, the crackle of radios calling for more cars and vans to haul out the criminals broke over the courtyard, most of them driving up just as Captain America and Wanda marched out the last of their attackers, forcing them to join their unfortunate compatriots on the ground. Though they'd apprehended a fair number of agents, some had managed to get away, with Sam reporting their fast departure in a black van. He'd tracked it until it disappeared down a side street, vanishing from view and never appearing again on the other side. Still, there was a sufficient number detained for questioning, and that was what counted.
One of them, with a wicked black eye blooming, a split lip and a snarl in his voice, had the temerity to look his oppressors in the eye, and when he caught Wanda's, he spat. He literally spit at her, the glob of saliva and blood splattering on her boots.
"Bitch," he sneered, though his fellow hissed at him to shut his mouth. Rumors about the horrors that could be inflicted at the young woman's hand had already circulated, and none of them wanted to find out if they were true.
Wanda visibly stiffened, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she narrowed her gaze at the offender. Looking down at the zip-tied cretin, she sniffed dramatically, pushing her hair over her shoulder. When she finally opened her mouth to speak, her voice was deceptively calm, the tiniest quaver of anger buried as deeply as possible.
"Close. It's 'Witch,' with a W," she corrected the man. Scarlet took over her irises, and the mist returned to one palm. Raising an eyebrow at her closest compatriot, the Falcon, she wondered, "His English needs some work, no?"
Before Sam could even begin to form a response, the navy, white and red uniform of their leader brushed past him. Steve pointedly stepped between her and the aggressor, his blue eyes icy cold. What had been said did not need the dignity of a response. As well as that, she had already toed the line once today; it did not need to be crossed over.
"Don't," the captain snapped in a low undertone, taking her by the arm and firmly guiding her away from the captured insurgents. On the landing of the quinjet, he released her, bidding her to help JJ cycle through takeoff protocols and make contact with the secondary team while the rest of them waited for the local authorities to finish processing the captives. His voice brooked no refusal, and his glare strongly accented the command. A puff of air blew out of her mouth, but she complied, heading inside to do as she was bid. It would be another half hour before the team would reenter the quinjet, their slight injuries ready to be treated and their desire to be away from the place evident. Dutifully, in a monotone, she told them that the other team had reported in with some success, about as much as they had achieved that day. They were headed back to London to prep for debriefing and decrypting of the intelligence they'd gathered. To that, the primary team gave various forms of approval, but the captain merely nodded, gesturing for her to move away from the console and start cleaning herself up. JJ took the controls, rocketing them upward and out of harm's way, for the time being.
Wounds were treated, with none of the team bearing any serious injuries. Sam had sustained bruising around his ribs, and Natasha had a couple of cuts along her jaw as well as a bruise on her temple, but that seemed to be the worst of it. Still, it didn't erase the fact that it could have taken a dire turn from his mind. Taking off his helmet and setting it on an inner shelf, Steve harnessed his shield and glanced around. He found what he was looking for, or rather, who. Wanda had retreated to the right wing of the jet, seemingly going through her emergency floor locker and organizing it. Huffing inwardly, he turned and approached her slowly, watching as her movements stilled for a moment. Peering at him from out the corner of her eye, she went on with her work, folding up the shirt and jeans she would change back into shortly, her palm flattening against them to remove wrinkles. Her shoulders were tight, anticipating the incoming reprimand, not relaxing even as he sat down on the bench opposite her.
"When I tell you to stay close, I mean it," he murmured after a minute. Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on his knees and his hands folded together. He watched as her expression danced between affronted and chagrined, the work of her fingers halting.
"I did not want them to stop us," she said eventually, gaze steady and meeting his fully. "What mattered was getting the information."
Immediately, the captain shook his head, the set of his jaw bordering on mulish.
"What matters is that we work together, and stick together. You only drew off a small handful of guards, and exposed yourself unnecessarily," he pointed out. Inwardly, he wondered how many times he was going to have this same conversation. If it wasn't Wanda, it was Natasha, or Clint, or someone else. The whole purpose of there being a team in the first place was so that they would have others to rely on, depend on in a tough spot. They didn't need to go it alone; that would make them easier targets, easier to maim and kill. And what good would that do them, let alone the rest of the world? "If there had been more, you would have left both yourself and me surrounded without either us being able to back up the other."
His words struck home, as accurate as if Hawkeye had driven them in with his arrows. Her gaze dropped, and she flinched slightly when she heard him shuffle in his seat. In and out, he breathed, regaining his composure.
Gentling his tone enough so that it wasn't as hard as before, he implored, "You want to prove yourself, then do so by working as a part of the team."
Steve did not move from the bench, did not move an inch until she met his eye-line again, nodding understanding. Cutting his gaze to the side, he thought back on her other actions.
"All things considered...you did pretty good today." Impetuous decisions aside, she'd held her own against multiple insurgents for the first time since Ultron's attack on the world. Her time spent in training had done her well. "And I'm sure you'll do even better in the future."
Unsure of how to respond, Wanda dipped her chin, a facsimile of a grin passing over her mouth briefly.
"Thank you, Captain."
"I'm sorry, by the way," Steve said, catching her off-guard. Shrugging a shoulder at her befuddled expression, he mused aloud, "Can't imagine this was how you wanted to spend your birthday."
Wanda blinked at that. She had not thought any of them would remember the day's significance to her. Well, nobody but Pietro, obviously, but that was to be expected.
"It's okay," she replied, a palm cupping the air. "It was important to do this. Too important to overlook."
Tilting his head to the side, Steve flicked his gaze to the right, a corner of his mouth twitching.
"Yeah, but still...for what it's worth..."
A commotion on the other side of the jet pulled her focus away from him, and she rose to her feet. Natasha strode forward, a plastic case in hand. Sam and Rhodey, sans regalia and disarmed, had a couple of gift bags in hand as well, small smiles as she gasped in shock. She had sensed there was more brewing under the surface in regards to her teammates' feelings, but she'd been so focused on coming out alive and enduring the captain's wrath that she'd only paid it half a mind. Well, she had been right. There had been a discussion among the team members about whether they should wait until they'd returned to the base to celebrate, but Nat had been the one to reason that after a mission, they could afford a break in levity. Besides, they could always have a party when they got back, anyway. In accordance to no open flames being allowed on the jet, the miniature cake that Romanoff had would not be sporting a candle.
"If things had gone sideways, this would've been more awkward, but still..." Natasha said, proffering the confection with a genuine smile. "Happy birthday, Wanda."
Humble thanks poured out of the young woman's mouth, her own grin lighting up her face. The day could have been worse, but all things considered, it wasn't so bad.
xXxXxXx
Pietro leaned back in his chair, blowing up a breath. It fanned out the hair on his forehead, the silvered locks distorted. Hours, hours had been spent overhauling information, setting up a clean-up crew from Fury's helicarrier for the secret base in Spain as well as the one in Morocco, and discussing future courses of action with the primary team. Chapman took it in stride, the bigger man seeing it as no more than another day at the office, even after engaging in combat with dozens of armed recruits. That MI6 training had been good for something, at least. Night had rolled in, the streetlamps sputtering to life and black taxis carting the populace of England's capital city to and fro, their own adventures to be had. And with it, thankfully, came the time to break, to get out of the office and have a small, tame adventure of his own.
The secondary Avengers base was actually hidden in the heart of London, a block of housing down the street from the prime minister's dwelling redesigned and re-purposed for their needs. The insides had been blown out and built again, with three floors above ground made ready for use just three weeks ago. Dwellings for the team members, and the select few agents on staff, were on the top floor, with offices and a large computer bank connected to the Oracle and SHIELD's private lines on bottom two. Underground, warily toeing the line so that they didn't accidentally break through to the Tube, they had started construction on the training arenas and garages, and they were near completion. The place had a charming mix of Old World touches and digital age design (Pietro suspected that was because Tony Stark must have a hand in the project, and he wasn't quite sure how to feel about it). Exiting his private office after making a call to his sister—yes, he was fine, and yes, he had shipped her present over to her—he padded down the hall, his normally quickened pace down to a mere fast walk. Hands tucking into pockets, he could hear the sound of a keyboard being manipulated, and the hums and grunts of someone working still. Wandering in the direction of the noises, he came upon the database area, the ringed digital monitor standing with pride of place in the center of the room. Seated at it was a petite young woman, sharp cheekbones and jaw highlighted by the low glow projected by the screen. Her gazed was riveted to the data she was transcribing, fingers flying fast over the board. Idly, she scratched at her short-cropped hair, and then at the bandaged cut along her neck. Coming up beside her, Pietro let out a low whistle, impressed by her speed.
"Still at work, huh?" he queried facetiously, smirking when all she did was give him the side-eye. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned to face her, resting his hip on the edge of the desk. "Well, I'm off. Are you sure you don't want to come along, Jeanne?"
In honor of his birthday, Chapman had made it his personal duty to take him out celebrating; twenty-five was a milestone, though the elder Maximoff twin had never considered it so. As well as that, he was looking for an excuse to foster the bond between teammates through the time-honored tradition of drinking and making mistakes due to said drinking. Jacques had concurred, the agreement between Frenchman and Liverpudlian going some way to ease the ages-old disparity between their countries. Pietro wasn't certain about it all, as the alterations made due to the scepter had affected a lot of things with his body, but he wasn't about to turn down a good time. It was partially out of politeness that he asked Jeanne to join them, and partially out of concern. The eighteen-year-old had really done nothing but train and transcribe since she'd accepted a position with the team. She was very closed off from the outside world, preferring to experience it through screens or texts rather than going out into it. It didn't seem to bother her; according to her file, she'd always been something of a recluse, a product of basically having to raise herself (which Pietro called BS to; he'd lost his parents at a young age, but he still managed to maintain a healthy level of social adeptness...barring the time spent with HYDRA, of course). Well, the training was doing her well, at least; her baton work and gymnastics out in the field that day were beyond expectation, something that had stunned him and pleased Chapman greatly. Still, they were on the same team. He did not want to make her feel unwelcome.
That time, she actually looked away from the screen, tipping her head to the side.
"Thanks, but no thanks," she said, the quiet tone of her voice a touch warmer than it had been previously. Pietro took that as a good sign. Tapping a finger to her temple, she explained, "Like to keep my mind sharp; drinking doesn't let me do that."
"Only if you drink enough to kill yourself," Pietro retorted, not unkindly. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he canted his head. "I don't think you would ever not be sharp."
She narrowed her eyes slightly, but there was a hint of a grin touching her mouth. "What a weird sort of compliment. I'll take it. Still, no. I'll be here when you guys get back. Have fun."
"Alright, Jeanne," he conceded, waggling a few fingers in farewell as he turned to leave. Before he got too far, Jeanne spoke up again, physically turning in her chair to face him.
"You could ask Crystal, too, you know," she pointed out, her matter-of-fact tone returning. Pausing in his tracks, Pietro's wide-eyed gaze skittered away from hers as he considered it. The remaining member of the team might be amenable to the idea, but he wasn't so sure. Crystal was an enigma; after three months of working together, he only knew the most rudimentary things about her. Her file was sealed, only reviewed by the higher-ups, with only the fact that she was an enhanced being herself and having control over the elements revealed to them. She was the one that Fury had autonomously chosen to be a member of the team. Still, the little bits and pieces he was discovering about her were interesting, and he wouldn't be opposed to learning more...like why she'd chosen the black streaks circling in her carrot-colored hair. Or if he could make her laugh with another stupid story from his childhood with his sister; she seemed to like those, no matter how embarrassing they were for him.
To Jeanne, he dipped his chin, clearing his throat. "Chapman, he said she said she would think about it. Looks like it will just be him, me, and Duquesne."
"Again, you could ask her," Jeanne emphasized, her dark eyes lighting up knowingly. "She might take an appeal from the birthday boy."
His hands dug deep into the pockets of his jacket, and he became fascinated with the toe of his sneaker.
"Maybe..."
"Yo, Crystal!" Jeanne shouted then, the sudden nature of it making him jump nearly out of his skin. She never raised her voice to that level, not even when she was giving her all in a training bout. Then, when he realized what she was doing, he shot her an incredulous look. It was gone in an instant, once Crystal poked her head out of her office. She'd not gone upstairs to her apartment yet; her portion of the projects they were responsible for were still being worked on. Off her inquisitive glance, Jeanne smiled broadly (another first, and it jarred Maximoff to see that, too). "Pietro wants to talk to you about something!"
The younger girl wheeled around in her chair, washing her hands of the whole affair in that instant, with her fingers returning to the keyboard and purposefully typing away. Shaking her head and snickering, Crystal turned her jade-colored gaze off of her to the man nearby.
"Yes?" she asked him, coming fully out of her door and leaning against the jamb. Crossing her arms, she waited, giving Pietro a pleasant and polite grin. Clearing his throat once more, he flapped a hand in the air, lifting a shoulder.
"I know Joe already spoke to you, but if you want, you're still welcome to come down to the pub with us," he invited her, trying his hardest to not make it sound like a desperate plea. As she tilted her head, her carroty hair shifted, and his focus darted from her face to it and back again. "Is just a stupid birthday thing, so if you don't want to go, it's alright."
Her eyes scanned over his face for a moment, and her eyebrows rose minutely.
"Actually...I've changed my mind." She tossed a glance over her shoulder to the paperwork still waiting to be finished, and grimaced. "I could do with a break from work."
"And Lockjaw?" he blurted then, regretting it the moment it came out of his mouth. He didn't want to insult her pet, her closest friend, and his tone made it sound just like he was. Her faithful dog companion was nearly always by her side, trotting after her and trying to sneak onto the issued quinjet whenever she was selected for mission work. The oversized bulldog was remarkably agile, and while Pietro did not give the idea any credence, he could not help the feeling that the animal watched him, watch them all. Watched them, and understood what was going on. Those big, round eyes, always seeing, always watching...his shoulders twitched at the thought, an subconsciously attempt to shake off his thoughts. However, Crystal chuckled at that, and he managed a partial grin n relief.
"And Lockjaw. He might be happy to have the run of the apartment for a few more hours," she agreed, threaded a hand through her bright tresses. Taking a glance down at the uniform she was still wearing, she frowned a little to herself. She needed to change; there was no way she was going out in a black and yellow jumpsuit, not even in London. People inevitably made comparisons between her and a katana-wielding bride, and it annoyed her to no end. "Let me go throw on something else. I'll meet you guys downstairs in about fifteen minutes, yeah?"
"Yes, we'll see you there," Pietro returned brightly, waving as she moved off to the elevator bank at the back. Once she'd boarded and was whisked away, he let go of the breath he'd been holding, pleasure coursing through him in an instant. A small clearing of a throat jerked him out of his reverie, and when he turned back to look at the source, he caught the smarmy grin spreading from ear to ear on Jeanne's face. Adopting an air of nonchalance, she was inspecting her nails, her affection almost amusing.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" she inquired politely, her usual deadpan tone brightened slightly. Flicking her eyes up at him, he rolled his in response, and her smile stretched a little further. There was only so much she could put up with, and those two had been somewhat dancing around each other since practically the first day.
"Shut up, Jeanne," he muttered, screwing up his brow as he thought, "You bussy...erm...bus..."
"English idioms still eluding you a bit? 'Busybody,' is the term you're looking for." Jeanne pulled a face at that and she gave a mock shiver. "And a poorer descriptor for myself I have yet to hear."
"That's what you want us all to think," Pietro scoffed.
"And on that note, shoo. Go out, get tanked, whatever," she told him, actually doing the shooing motions with her hands. "Make sure Jacques doesn't get into any duels."
Pulling out his phone and firing off a text to let the other fellows know about the addition to their party, he snorted at her words. "Like he would."
"If it affects his oh-so-touchy French honor and pride, he would. Ponce," she derided him, mockingly affecting Chapman's accent as she did so. It was a good thing swords were no longer seen as practical, otherwise he would definitely be packing his weapon of choice. He would have made a great musketeer, she mused inwardly. Once again, the young man nearby rolled his eyes.
"You have no room to talk. You are French, too, are you not?"
"French-Canadian, technically," she corrected him mildly, pointing a finger at him. "There is a difference. I'm more laid back."
The deadpan look he shot at her really said it all, and she legitimately chuckled. It had to have been his birthday, he thought to himself, just because of all the miracles and firsts happening that day.
"Uh-huh. Well, have a good night, anyway, Jeanne," Pietro murmured, pocketing his phone and waving farewell again. "Don't stay up too late."
"Whatever," she mumbled out the side of her mouth, turning back to the computer. Waiting until he was out of earshot, boarding the elevator to join the others downstairs, she smirked and whispered, "You're welcome, Quicksilver."
xXxXxXx
The dank, green halls of the underground compound rang with boot steps, despite the late hour. The overhead lights were bright, contrasting with the cast and the grit of the remainder of the surroundings, throwing it all into sharp detail. Heavy doors dotted the length of the hallway, a sentry posted outside every few feet. Three men in full tactical gear marched up from the entrance at the far end, all of similar height and build. Guns remained holstered at their hips, stun batons within easy reach on their belts. Knife sheaths stuck out from their boots, and if the weaponry wasn't impressive enough, each one was built solidly, lending credence to the idea that they would just as easily be able to kill with their bare hands. The only difference between them was that the man in the center had armor that bled white at the center of his chest, bands of it crossing and disappearing as the wound up to the shoulders and down to the waist. And unlike the other men, who had simple helmets, he had a mask carved to vaguely resemble a skull. A few of the sentries shot each other glances as he passed, holding their posts but unable to look at him directly.
The mercenary Crossbones had a reputation for a reason, new as he was to the underworld. He was hard, cruel, ruthless...and he hated anyone who had the gall to stare at him. Too many had made that mistake in the past, and he made sure they knew what a horrible choice they had made. In painstaking detail. The only people who looked at him directly were those of equal or greater power than him. Or they were damn fools. Apparently, none of the sentries in the hall fell into those categories, he mused to himself, almost outright laughing at the fear rolling off of them. Oh, well. The little runts weren't worth his time. He had a meeting to attend; he wouldn't waste time making the little suckers piss themselves in fright.
Entering the office at the far end, the mercenary grunted at his accomplices, telling them to wait outside. Nodding their compliance, he shut the door behind him, striding to the center of the room. The office itself was not overlarge, but it was arguably one of the more comfortable spaces in the compound. In comparison to what could have been available, that is. Compared to the offices of leaders that he had seen before, this one was actually rather bland. At first glance, it appeared to be very low-tech, but he knew better. Behind the bookshelves were high-speed routers, digital interfaces below the prints hanging upon the walls. Secrets were hidden below the surface, just as intended. A solid, wooden desk took up a good portion of the space, a serviceable computer and monitor set upon it. Behind it sat another man, just past his fortieth year and of a thin build. Dull brown hair was flopping into his eyes, pushed back by long fingers before they resumed clacking away at the keyboard before him. His bright, intelligent gaze was focused on the screen in front of him, unimpeded by the wire-frame glasses perched on his nose. He continued his work until he noticed the presence of another.
Exhaling softly, he finished typing his sentence before reaching out and powering off the monitor, the work set aside for the present. Leaning back in his worn chair, he motioned for his newest companion to take a seat. Silently, the fellow tipped his chin up, crossing his arms and resting a shoulder against the far wall. For some time, neither man said a word, too much to be said in a small place. Soon enough, Crossbones snorted, shaking his head. Carefully, his fingers curled around his mask, lifting it free and revealing the horrific scars that cut into his face. The man behind the desk watched him do so with disinterest; he was not cowed by the mercenary's appearance. He could, however, feel a small measure of pity. The burns and the cuts of the disaster had knitted together, breaking up what once had been considered a handsome face. But once it was scarred, so too was the man beneath them. Brock Rumlow had been scarred permanently, in more ways than one. He was smart enough, though, not to point that out in any way.
Off the other fellow's dispassionate expression, the mercenary came away from the wall, pointedly dropping his mask on the space of the desk before sitting down. Combing through his cropped dark hair, a rumble bubbled in his chest as he finally took a seat.
"That was too close," he grumbled, his gravelly tone unmistakable. It was true; the crews in Spain and Morocco were inept, too inept to keep the Avengers at bay for very long. The idiots might very well have let them walk away with everything, were it not for the emergency maneuvers forcing them back, forcing the free ones to escape.
"Naturally; that's how it is with everything that involves Captain America and his crew of thugs," retorted the other fellow mildly. Sighing under his breath, he turned away from the files on the desk before him, pinching the bridge of his nose and glancing up. "How much did they get?"
Rumlow's expression hardened.
"Some things. Not everything. But we lost enough that we can't get back, either." Barely biting off a snarl, he closed his eyes, hands gripping the arm rests of his chair in a strangling grip. Precious data, plans, had been mined and stolen, and it did not sit well with him. That they had been stolen by a self-righteous bastard and the misguided idiots who called themselves his teammates was just salt in the wound. "They introduced a virus to destroy even a majority of the back-ups."
The other man tapped his thumb against his chin, mulling over the information for a moment. Taking off his glasses, he cleaned them with a handkerchief drawn from his pocket. A deep frown crawled over his lips as he concentrated on swiping the cloth over each lens.
"Klaue let his greed and hatred get the better of him. Not surprising."
"Does he need to be cut?"
The man with the glasses sat up straighter, a wry smirk on his lips as he placed the spectacles back on his face.
"I think he's suffered from that penalty already." A macabre flash of humor passed between them, little vindictive gleams in their eyes as they mused upon the unfortunate man in question. When they had approached the black market arms dealer, enticing him with a deal to outfit their crews and steal necessary contraband, they had known the fellow had his own scores to settle with the Avengers. They inadvertently caused him to lose his arm, after all, among other things. Even with the robotic prosthetic provided by the bespectacled man's tech team, he harped upon it. His attitude and brashness were bound to get the better of him, and the incident in Morocco punctuated that truth. He'd grown cocky, letting his crew surface too much on the radar and tempting the Avengers. The fact that he'd gotten out before the raid was disconcerting, but not enough to worry them overmuch. Considering this, the compatriot shook his head. "Still...no, not yet. He serves his purpose, and we need him to keep doing so. For now, we need to work quietly. In the shadows. No more overt moves before it is time."
"And when will that be?" the mercenary snapped, causing his fellow to raise an eyebrow. Of course, he grumbled inwardly, he would look like the idiot for asking. But the question merited an answer; after all, he'd been working and building up to get his revenge against the Avengers, specifically Captain America, for over a year now. He wanted to strike soon, and strike hard, but going off his accomplice's expression, it would not be for some time.
"We'll know when it comes, Mr. Rumlow. Patience is a virtue, after all." Bright eyes flicked over him, a snide grin pulling at his mouth. "Though some of us know how to practice it better than others."
Another bout of silence followed, with each man mired in their separate thoughts and plans. Though they had been nominally working together for several months now, they had individual scores and runs to make, to settle. Their common goal united them, but they both knew that one could not hinder the other in their private endeavors. Waiting was going to have to be another thing they shared, and Rumlow was uncertain that he wanted any part of it. It made his teeth grind, thinking about how he'd fallen in with another organization, another set of rules and broken leaders. He had finished with that the moment he'd regained consciousness after the Triskelion fell, or so he swore. After this was done, he would be, he promised himself.
Suddenly, the other man jerked out of his private reverie, looked at him again. "What news of the asset?"
Blinking, the mercenary leaned back in his chair, a hand tipping up to cup the air.
"Gone. Somewhere secret. Word is that he's...beyond reach now, anyway," he amended his statement. His sources, few as they were, had told him that the Winter Soldier's mind had been broken, freed from the chains HYDRA had forced onto him. That long and that far away from his would-be handlers, there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd come back. Forcing him wasn't much of an option, either. "He's been free for a year and a half now; I don't think he'd be redeemable even if we found him again."
Pliable was what he meant, but he was understood either way. The man on the other side of the desk quirked his brows up, but he did not look defeated at the news. Rather, he was simply...curious. He glanced at the blank screen of the monitor, his thumb tapping at his chin once again.
"Perhaps not." His bright gaze met the darkening one of his fellow, a slight glimmer crossing the irises. "We shall see."
"Patience." That time, the mercenary did growl. He hated waiting; he'd done plenty of it when he was a spy, when he was a soldier. He was completely over the idea now that he had the liberty and license to do as he pleased. How much longer was he going to have to wait? The want for the captain's blood, to grind him into dust—and that stupid flying crony of his, too—was strong, growing with each passing day. Still, his compatriot maintained his placid expression.
"As much as that seems to be a dirty word to you, Rumlow, yes. We have to be patient." Sitting forward, he laced his fingers together, hands resting on the desk and firmness on his face. "We will always have another chance."
Willing himself to calm down, to breathe slowly, Rumlow pushed back his seat. There would be a chance. It would come. Or, if his partner did not make it come fast enough, he would make it happen himself. For now, though, they had to withdraw, and he would do so.
"Fine, then."
A/N: Another long one, holy crap...to whoever asked me how I was able to churn out this much consistently...I still have no idea. Thank God for it, that's all I have to say.
So many things happening in this chapter. First of all, hello action sequences...I'm still, um, I guess okay at writing you. Not too sure about it, but I did my best. Also, I looked around and couldn't find an actual birthday for Wanda and Pietro, not as far as the MCU goes, so I just picked one. Hope that's okay with you all! And quick flash of the villains here. Like they say, they have to be patient and wait for their chance to strike, so don't expect them to attack, like, tomorrow. Trust me, this fic is nowhere near over yet; it will take some time.
No Holly this time, save by brief mention, but she'll be coming back very soon. Next chapter might be a little late next week. I have the opportunity to go home and visit with my family for an extended period of time, so I'll be spending as much quality time with them as I can. So if it does turn out that I don't post until after next Tuesday, please be patient!
I don't own anything from the MCU, nor do I own the characters borrowed from the Marvel Comic universe (Union Jack, Crystal, Finesse-whose background I tweaked again, which I don't think really detracts from how she is presented in the comics-and Swordsman). Any other pop culture references (such as the brief one from Kill Bill and from LEGO Marvel Avengers) are ones that I also do not own.
Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!
EDIT: I have a new mature one-shot posted on my AO3 entitled, Paint the Target. It takes place between the end of The Eleventh Hour and the beginning of this story. Check it out if you're of the proper age and maturity; I have the same username there as here-PhantomProducer.