Present Day
Sam Wilson deftly piloted their 'borrowed' quinjet onto the helipad of the Avengers Tower. The tower was dark, and obviously abandoned. Man, this place was creepy at night.
He turned the pilot's chair about, to face Natasha. "Any word from Steve?"
"He just arrived in Wakanda. They're headed straight to the cryo chamber." She stood, and straightened her business outfit. Wanda got up as well.
They exited the jet, moving quickly to the door of the tower. As she walked, Natasha pulled out a thin tablet to hack past the firewall of Stark's security.
Sam drew Wanda into the shadow of the door, looking expectantly to Natasha.
Uh, oh. Something was terribly wrong. Natasha's face was pale, her eyes locked on the screen.
"Tony sold the tower a month ago." she whispered.
Sam spun around, as the door behind him burst open. He felt himself propelled into Natasha with a red blast of energy, and looked up to see Wanda surrounded by a swarm of UN soldiers. More converged upon Sam and Natasha.
The last thing Sam thought before being injected with—something—was:
Seriously? Now?
Peter Parker alighted soundlessly in the alley by his apartment. It was a school night, so he knew he should turn in about now. Grabbing his backpack from where it was attached to the wall, he hurriedly changed. He was stuffing his Spider-Man suit into the bag, when a sound caught his attention. Running footsteps. Making his way carefully to the end of the alley, he peaked out.
A woman in a bloody hospital gown was being pursued by four gun-carrying men in black combat uniforms.
Peter looked down at the mask still in his hands. If this didn't qualify for the friendly-neighborhood-Spider-man category, he'd eat his head.
By the time his mask and web-shooters were on, the woman was almost to his alley.
"Karen, taser-webs." he hissed. That would be best, right? Those guys didn't look like they would be easily tied up.
Squinting one eye, he expertly fired an electrically charged web, taking down one guy. Sweet. But there was no time for early celebration, so he electrocuted the other three, they collapsing by their comrade. Peter, satisfied, stepped out just in time to catch the lady. Not really catch her, just have her run into him, and stand there a dazed moment, before suddenly shoving him into the alley, where they both fell.
"Hide." she whispered urgently.
Peter now lay on the ground, with her on top of him. This was so awkward. He felt a warm wetness creeping up his side. Wait, was his side blushing? That would be weird—oh, no. She had been bleeding.
Peter gently rolled her off of himself, so she lay on her back, and knelt beside her. She was pale, sweat beading her forehead. The red stain on her gown was growing, spreading, pooling on the alley ground. Oh, no. Oh, no.
"Karen, help!" he yelped. "Um, call Mr. Stark!" There was too much blood. This could not be good. The woman convulsively pressed a hand to her side.
"I'm sorry, Peter. You'll have to leave a message." came Karen's distressed voice.
"Fine." said Peter, worriedly ripping of his gloves. "Uh, Mr. Stark? There's a woman here, she's bleeding..." There was embedded glass in her arm, he noticed. Seriously? "I don't know what to do—oh, no, hey!" Peter exclaimed, as the woman's head lolled back. Tearing off his mask, he patted her face. People should stay awake, right?
The woman's eyes landed on him. "They're coming." she moaned. She began to struggle to her feet. Peter tried to resist her, but somehow she rose anyway.
"You have to go." she said, looking down at him. She was really tall. Peter shook his head.
"No, I can't. If you're talking about those scary guys chasing you, I can handle this." He knelt down, and picked up his mask, about to put it on.
The woman clutched his arm, flinging the mask away from them. A weak smile flickered across her face.
"This is to big." she said softly. "Even for you."
"But I-" he broke off, seeing her face. He looked away. The last person who'd used that expression on him had been Mr. Stark, when- "This is where I'm like, 'You're the adult.' , and I listen.." He nodded to himself, trying to-
The woman suddenly snatched his left arm, and twisted it behind his back, not painfully, only enough to turn them both to facing the street, looking out of the alley. With a squeal of tires, an unmarked black van pulled into view, and men poured out. Bright, blinding light shone in Peter's eyes, and he heard a commanding "Freeze!", before the woman's voice rang out.
"One step closer, and he dies!"
Peter could feel her right hand poised over his head. Was she talking about him? Funny he didn't feel threatened. A heavy weight had rested over his limbs, it paralyzed him, rendered him helpless to move.
The oncoming soldiers froze; and the lead one seemingly reasoning at the woman; but all Peter was aware of was the fact that a warm wetness was oozing through the back of his shirt and jacket, and the hand that had hovered above his head was now weakly resting on it, coating his hair in blood. Oh, no—no, no, no!
The lead man shrugged, evidently finding reasoning useless, and gestured to someone behind him. In the brief moment of confusion, the woman bent her head, and whispered in his ear, barely a breath.
"I'm Taryn. You have to let them take me. But please, find Bucky." Then, she stepped back, and collapsed onto the ground. Peter stared in shock, unable to move under the power of the strange force holding him immobile, as the men converged upon her.
Three weeks after the Battle of New York
Clint Barton slunk out of the psych evalve room of the Helicarrier, casting an apprehensive eye about him.
It had been two weeks. Two hellish weeks of psychoanalysis by S.H.I.E.L.D. shrinks. Not that he could really blame them. He had, after all, practically murdered hundreds of people; not to mention, intended for thousands, what with his foiled plan to crash the Helicarrier. And despite Tasha's insistence that it was all somehow Loki's fault, Clint felt, somehow, strangely (sarcasm intended) personally responsible. How very odd of him, to feel guilty for attempting to end the lives of millions of innocent hardworking people.
Hence his reluctance to return home. Some faraway, untainted part of his mind insisted that Laura would be worrying by now, especially with the news reports, but he couldn't face her. He couldn't face his wife, Coop, baby Lila. Not with blood on his hands. Not with Phil's-
He'd done it. Killed Phil. And while Natasha, out of her own wealth of experience, had somehow forgiven him, he couldn't forgive himself. So while he couldn't go home, every nook and cranny of the Helicarrier only served as a painful reminder that Phil was gone. Every passing glance of a fellow agent seemed a scorching accusation, laying the guilt of the death of their superior squarely at the feet of the murderer. Yet it was even worse than the other agents could ever blame him, for Coulson had been only their superior, but Phil had been Clint's friend.
But the seeming hostility of the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents was not the only reason he skulked around. He was avoiding someone.
Taryn.
Agent Steele. After the horrors of the battle, and the ill-fated after-shawarma occurrence, the events of the carrier had faded so far into the back of his mind, that when he met her in the street, as they'd been looking for Cap, he hadn't really seen with whom he was discoursing, except in a vague, dreamlike state. He had fallen asleep in Stark's car, woken up briefly to stumble into Stark's tower, then collapsed into a bed.
Remembrance, with sleep, came.
It was a nightmare, but of a memory. He had destroyed the first engine of the Helicarrier, the quinjet had landed, and he had exited. The only agent on deck had been Taryn, newly landed. She had turned to him, still shocked from the blast. Recognition dawning in her eyes, his name had formed on her horrified lips.
And he had shot her.
Clint had awakened then, gasping. But the image wouldn't go away. He'd shot her. In cold blood, the arrow slamming into her left shoulder, driving her backwards before exploding. Then he had walked away, presumably to complete his Loki-appointed mission.
Now, as he sneaked around the Helicarrier's halls, he needed to frequently remind himself that, no, Taryn was not dead. Not that he'd seen her since after-shawarma, but he'd done some covert spying of the security cameras, and yes, she was undoubtedly alive. The camera hacking served dual purpose, for he was also able to avoid her route, thus sparing himself the pain of meeting her face-to-face.
He still saw her face, however, in his mind.
Terrified.
She had been scared, and Taryn was never scared. For crying out loud, she wasn't even a person, she was a Spectre, a ghost with no emotions. But now she was scared, and that fear had been because of him.
"Clint."
So when he skirted around a corner, running into Taryn, prompting her to speak, he backpedaled hastily. Stumbling backwards, he landed heavily on the ground, his mind screaming, vividly replaying the events ever in his head. Vaguely, he was aware of Taryn kneeling beside him.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Taryn. I'm sorry." he cried out. He hadn't meant to. He hadn't wanted to. Even as his arm had swiftly drawn back the string, his heart had futilely resisted.
"Shh."
Taryn's hand was on his forehead, her eyes on his face. She was soothing him, trying to comfort him, and she shouldn't, because he had tried to kill her. He had tried to kill everyone.
"Taryn, I killed him. I killed Phil." his words were broken.
Her face paled, her hand trembled, but still she sat by him. His mind was slowly cleared, along with his vision.
"No, you didn't." Her voice was low, sure. "Loki did."
He gave a wavering laugh. "If I could believe that-"
He was cut off by Taryn, who abruptly yanked him upright. He gasped, her strength, as always, amazing him.
"Look at me." her gaze was hard, but tear-filled, when he met it. "That was Loki. Clint Barton would never do that. Any of it."
"But I did." he whispered, pained. He'd shot her.
Taryn's look softened. "But I'm alive." she caught his chin, forcing him to look at her. "Hawkeye never misses. If Clint Barton had wanted me dead, he would have killed me."
A small spark of hope pierced him. Was it possible? His mind flitted to the times he had fought Loki's control. Shooting Fury in his bulletproof vest, not his head. Letting Hill get to cover, instead of murdering her. And even though he'd shot Taryn with an exploding arrow, he'd shot her in the shoulder, not the heart.
"It was Loki..." he murmured. Taryn gently rested his head on her shoulder as he wept.
"Go home." she whispered gently. "Go to Laura."
He wept, face muffled in her shoulder.
