Steve Rogers had not felt true panic since the day—well. Since Bucky, that first time. And since Bucky, that second time.
And—
That third time, when Bucky turned to ash in his arms. It's just an echo of memory now, a different universe, a different ending. Steve remembers it all the same, just as Tony and Nat do.
But what he felt at Tony's words was something deeper, wilder, more terrifying. The kid.
The kid.
"What the hell is going on?" Steve's hands closed over Tony's shoulders as soon as Tony entered the room. "What do you mean he's gone? Where?"
"I don't know." Tony's voice buckled, cracked. "I've hacked all the cameras in the state of New York, public and private, and satellite feeds, and everything else, and we'll have results soon, we'll have to but he's gone"—
"Tony." Steve steeled himself because he had to. Because if Tony was going to fall apart, Steve couldn't. If Steve fell apart, they'd all fall apart, and it was a luxury Steve couldn't afford.
It was a luxury he could never afford. Even Nat, always calm, always collected, was three shades paler than she had been a moment ago.
"Tony, breathe." Steve said it like an order—and when he gave orders, men listened.
Tony breathed.
"Tell me what happened." Steve made his voice soft, even, firm. Calm, he told his rapidly beating heart. Now.
But it was Peter.
"He snuck out," Tony said, and annoyance and pride mingled with his panic for a moment. "While we were in your goddamn debriefing. Because you convinced him it would be a good idea to go after the fucking Punisher."
Steve didn't bother to point out that he had, in fact, told Peter in no uncertain terms not to go after the fucking Punisher. That Peter was doing this because he thought it was right, or to piss Tony off, or some combination of the two.
"He can't be far," Steve said. "That was half an hour ago."
"He took the suit," Tony said.
"The suit? Your suit?" Steve stared at him. "How?"
"He managed to override my security protocols," Tony was a shade paler, whether from the knowledge that Peter had outsmarted him or that Peter was currently using his most prized possession, Steve wasn't sure.
Steve swore loudly, a string of curses that would have delighted Clint if he had been present. "He's grounded for the rest of his life," he said. "Come on. We're going back to the city."
Nat nodded. "I'll comm Clint and Wanda. And I can fly the bird."
"He's got a head start, and the new suit is fast," Tony said. "He's probably already there."
"Breathe," Steve ordered again. "We'll bring him back."
"Do we even know where we're going?" Tony asked. "Does Peter? I'll keep us hooked up to the sat feeds, but"—
"I know where Frank Castle stays," Nat said coolly, and then she was gone.
Steve sighed.
Of course she did.
He had made the executive decision not to keep tabs on Frank Castle's living situation, in an attempt to respect the man's clear desire to remain alone.
But this was Nat, and Nat kept people in two categories: family, and threats.
She kept both of them close.
/
They didn't make it to the quinjet that was waiting for them on the landing pad, because just as they were exiting the building, they saw both of them:
Frank Castle, striding down the long driveway towards them, one hand hooked around the back of Peter's neck as he hauled him forward—and Peter, for his part, looked like a deeply indignant puppy.
Tony, in one of his other suits, raised a hand, blasters ready. "Let him go."
Steve raised a hand. "Easy," he told Tony softly. "I don't think that's necessary."
"I think you lost something," Frank snarled, lifting Peter off the ground with one hand.
Peter kicked helplessly and shouted something obscene at Frank, who responded by shaking him.
"If I were you," Frank grunted, dropping Peter and then shoving him forward towards them. "I'd keep a better eye on my damn nosy kid."
"Is that a threat?" Tony pushed Peter behind them, ignoring Peter's immediate protest.
"No, asshole," Frank said. "Should it be?"
Steve stepped forward. "Thank you for bringing the kid back," he said quietly. He held out his hand.
Frank hesitated, and then he shook Steve's hand, his grip firm. When he stepped back, his eyes were as dark as the night around them. "I had kids once," he said. "Two of them."
Steve felt the words hit like a blow, and he stilled, waiting for Frank to say more.
"I lived a dangerous life," Frank said. "They got caught up in it, and I lost them. Don't make my mistake."
Steve nodded once, shortly, fighting back the words he wanted to say, the ones where he told Frank that what had happened to his family wasn't his fault, that he couldn't have known—
But Frank was already walking away.
"Do you want a ride?" Nat's voice cut the space between them like a knife.
Frank glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow cocked. "You know where we're going?"
"Yes," she said, and smirked.
The man's eyes clouded. "Do they?"
"No," Nat answered. "I make it a point to know more than anyone else in the room with me." She glanced at Tony, her lips quirking. "They don't make it hard for me."
Frank snorted, and then turned to her. "Then yea," he said. "I'd appreciate the lift."
"Tony," Steve said. "Take the kid inside. Clint, Wanda, I'll see you in there."
When they were gone—Peter still protesting—Steve stepped forward. "I'm not going to intrude on your flight," he told Frank. "And I'm not going to ask Nat where you're going. But Peter—can you tell me what he wanted?" He fell into step beside Frank, his stride matching the other man's.
Behind them, Nat moved soundlessly over the concrete towards the quinjet.
Mirth bled into Frank's expression. "Honestly, Captain?" he said. "I wasn't really listening."
Steve stared at him, waiting for him to continue.
"The Mercy cartel," he said. "You've heard of them?"
Natasha lets out a breath, a hiss of air.
"Yes," Steve said. "You shot half of them."
"Shot some more of 'em tonight," Frank said, swinging up into the Quinjet. "But their kingpin, I don't know who he is or where he is. He's a ghost, and he's gunning for me. But tonight, it was your kid hanging off my ceiling"—
"He was on your ceiling?" Steve cut in, and then pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt his Peter-induced headache beginning to build. "Goddamn it."
Nat snorted, and then she swung up into the Quinjet too. There was something in her face—a shift, the smallest of shifts as she moved past Frank towards the pilot's chair.
Something a little like hope, as if she'd just learned something about Frank Castle she hadn't known before.
"I'm sorry about the kid," Steve said. "I'll make sure"—
"You better," Frank cut him off. "Because those men gunning for me? They're not gonna care if a kid in a colorful suit gets in the way."
An odd, cold weight settled in Steve's stomach, the shadow of a premonition tugging at the edge of his consciousness. "How did you get him off the ceiling?" he asked, and he saw the smirk tugging at Nat's mouth.
"Dragged him off by the scruff of his neck," Frank answered, settling into his chair and leaning back, body drooping with exhaustion. "He made a lot of noise. But to answer your question, Captain, I wasn't listening and I have no idea what he wanted."
Steve nodded slowly. "I'll talk to the kid," he said. "I'm sorry he bothered you tonight."
"Don't be sorry, Captain," Frank's eyes locked on his. "Be sure. Sure your kid knows you mean business about this. Because tonight I almost blew his damn head off. With the next asshole he sneaks up on—he's not gonna be so lucky."
