That Radium Glow
Chapter 12
If the Black Widow was a starlet, Asgard was a harlot, perfumed with the cloying reek of the Union Stock Yards and daubed in gaudy red neon, her brazen chase-lit marquee sprawled indecently along 51st street. My Ford prowled past crowds of men in upturned collars and shabby hats pulled low swarmed outside on the tobacco-stained pavement, avoiding each others' eyes. A few women in second-hand silks and costume jewelry mingled among them, showing too much leg and too much rouge. Rogers swallowed a little nervously and I grinned.
"Hey, this was your idea," I reminded him.
Rogers didn't rise to the bait. He rubbed his hands on his trousers and reached inside his coat to check his pistol again. "So why's he called the Hammer?" he asked instead.
I pulled into a parking space and killed the engine. Hopefully my Fed plates would be a deterrent rather than an invitation. I squeezed my elbow to my side, allowing the comforting outline of the gun under my arm to dig into my ribs. "Weapon of choice," I said casually.
Rogers' eyes went wide. "I thought you said he treated people well!"
"Yeah, for a gangster," I replied. I opened my door and climbed out, wincing as the blood-ammonia-putrefaction scent of the stockyards seared my nostrils. My stomach churned, but my dinner stayed down. Rogers followed after a beat, his nose wrinkling with disgust at the smell. "Don't mean he don't bust some heads from time to time, Cap. 'Sides, a lot of those guys were Nazis, during the war."
"He served?" Rogers asked skeptically, as though this might change his opinion of the gangster.
"Proudly," I said, with only a touch of irony. From what I knew of Olavsson's service record, he hadn't exactly been the type of solider Captain America would have wanted to pal around with. "Thor Olavsson's as American as you or me." I shot him a half-grin, unable to resist making the obvious joke. "Well, me, anyway," I added.
Rogers rolled his eyes and I chuckled. "Let's just get this over with," he grumbled.
Natasha Romanoff was waiting for us outside, wielding the exaggerated shoulders of her dress like pauldrons and her crimson lipstick like war-paint under the blinking lights of the marquee. One hand drew up to rest casually on her hip when she spotted me, her red lips slightly pursed with mock disdain that couldn't quite mask the relief in her eyes. My insides writhed a little with embarrassment; the last time Natasha had seen me I'd literally been tied down for my own safety and hers.
"Ms. Romanoff," I greeted her formally.
"Agent Barton," she replied. She offered Rogers a small but genuine smile before turning her gaze coolly back to me. "Good to see you again."
The slight emphasis she put on the word you heartened me. Natasha might blame me for my own stupidity in taking one of those damn pills, but not for whatever had followed.
"Aw, you know how it is," I drawled, stuffing my hands bashfully in my pockets and shrugging a little. "I've been pretty…tied up with work."
I could practically hear Rogers rolling his eyes again, but Natasha's red lips turned up into a smirk. I'd been forgiven, mostly. I grinned.
"Let's go," Natasha said, back to business. "We don't want to keep him waiting."
She took my arm and led us through the crowd to a pair of double doors. They were thick glass; clad in tarnished brass and cheaply frosted so the blank places made the shape of a leafless tree. A couple of European heavyweight types in zoot suits were stationed to either side to ward off curious cops and other riff-raff. They glowered at me and Rogers, though they respectfully touched their hats to Natasha.
"We're here to see the Hammer," she told them smoothly.
One of the suits held the door open for us, while the other plowed a path for us through the crowd inside. The air was thick with alcohol and close with so many bodies: shouting at the card tables, shoving up to the bar for another drink, writhing on the dance floor to the music of a shabby-looking band struggling to be heard above the din. I glanced back at Rogers, but he didn't seem to regret his decision, at least too much.
Finally, we reached a broad oak door carved with an ornate tree motif, clearly some relic from the old country. A different pair of hoods was stationed outside: one fat, with an enormous red beard nearly as wide as his great belly, and the other thin and blond, with a foppish slip of mustache that curled up at the ends. They were evidently favorites, as they were better dressed than Olavsson's other boys, though I still saw the outline of a set of brass knuckles in the fat one's pocket.
The thin one gestured to Rogers to open his jacket. Rogers scowled, and I knew he was thinking about retaliating by showing his badge. Natasha grabbed the hood's arm.
"They're with me, Newley," Natasha said sweetly. She half-smiled and flicked her eyelids enticingly at the blond hood. "There'll be no trouble."
I rubbed my noise to hide my snort of laughter. It was the oldest trick in the book, but it worked. The blond hood backed off. He nodded to his companion, who rapped the door with his knuckles.
"Enter!" a loud voice boomed from within.
The fat hood opened the door and waved us through. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I could sense both him and Newley behind us, but there wasn't much we could do about it. My attention turned to the tall blond number waiting for us inside, standing in front of an ornate executive desk and not looking too happy about the Federal intrusion.
Thor Olavsson was built like a Sherman tank, six foot three and none of it soft. Muscles bulged and rippled under his pale gray suit as he folded his arms across his chest, straining the seams of his jacket. Surprisingly intelligent blue eyes flicked with interest to Rogers before returning to me. His brow furrowed into a thunderous frown beneath a keen widow's peak, and I was suddenly very aware of both my kneecaps and the infamous hammer sitting in a place of honor on the desk behind him. I swallowed, thankful for the comforting weight of the gun under my arm. I owed Natasha a hell of a lot more than a bottle of Vat 69 for managing to get us in without a frisking. I glanced questioningly at her and she nodded.
"Thanks for meeting us, Mr. Olavsson," I said evenly, making myself meet his eyes. I inclined my head slightly and offered him a hand.
I should have seen it coming. I should have seen him shift his weight to the balls of his feet, and the tensing of his muscles as he uncrossed his arms. The punch came quick as lightning, beefy knuckles slamming into my gut and driving the breath from my lungs. Christ, he hit like a Sherman tank, too.
My vision went white. I gasped for breath. I rolled onto my side and craned my neck to look upward through a blur of involuntary tears. I blinked and coughed and blinked again. Guess there were still some hard feelings over that stint in prison.
Raised voices finally reached my ears. "Drop your weapons!" Rogers ordered. I could have cracked a brazil nut on his tone. "Put them down. I mean it!"
He stood over me protectively, his gun pointed at Olavsson's expansive chest. The fearsome hammer was clutched in Thor's hand, and Newley, the red-head, and another favorite goon boiled up from the back of the room to crowd protectively around their boss. None of them seemed particularly inclined to obey. Natasha tensed, and I knew she was debating the merits of going for her own weapon. Rogers reached up with his thumb and slowly, deliberately cocked his gun. The patriotic jaw clenched with resolve.
I had to do something or this was going to become a bloodbath. "'S-s…all right, Rogers," I wheezed from the floor. "Get rid of the gun. I deserved that."
Rogers hesitated, looking warily between me and Olavsson as if he couldn't decide who the bigger idiot was. After a moment's reflection, he sighed and holstered his pistol. Thor relaxed a little, allowing the hammer to hang at his side, and the goons instantly lowered their own weapons. Natasha reached down to haul me to my feet. I picked up my hat and jammed it back on my head.
"I am surprised you dare to show your face here, Clinton Barton," Olavsson growled at me. He had a peculiar way of speaking, as if he'd learned his English out of an old book, in another country, in another time. He probably had. "I accepted this meeting out of respect for the Black Widow. I am beginning to regret my decision."
"Ain't my fault what happened," I retorted with a glower, folding my arms stubbornly across my chest and trying to scrape together what remained of my dignity. It was a struggle not to crumple into my aching gut, but I still had a modicum of pride. "Don't break the law, don't go to jail. Now can we get to business?"
Olavsson's face darkened, and for a moment I thought he was going to hit me again. I tensed and defensively drew up my fists but Natasha stepped in front of me.
"Thor, listen to me. He didn't have to come like this," she said evenly, holding Olavsson's gaze without fear. "They could have come with all the force of the law. He could have arrested you and taken you downtown for questioning."
"He still can," I interjected sourly.
Natasha shot me a look of distilled murder and I shut up. "Instead he came alone," she finished, "and with respect."
Thor frowned again, but there were wheels of thought turning behind his eyes. "As the lady wishes," he rumbled, waving a hand dismissively to his goons. They retreated to a respectful, though close, distance. "To business, then, Barton. You have questions for me?"
"That depends," I drawled. I straightened my jacket casually. "You want to prevent a nuclear war?"
It was a pretty good line. I was glad I'd thought of it. Natasha's eyes went wide, and Olavsson's face went very serious. "I am listening," he intoned.
I slowly reached into my pocket, keeping a weather eye on the goons, and withdrew a photograph of Bruce Banner. I handed it to him. "Do you know this man? Dr. Bruce Banner."
He studied the image carefully and showed it to his lieutenants. They shook their heads. There was no spark of recognition in his eyes or theirs. "I do not."
My heart sank. "Never heard of him, ever?"
"No, I have not," he replied. He threw a question in his own language to his lieutenants over his shoulder, and received a chorus of denial. "Nor have my men."
Rogers cut in. "We have reason to believe someone maybe have kidnapped him, or might be trying to kidnap him," he said coolly. "Have you heard of anyone offering money for him, or other scientists?"
Thor's nose wrinkled with distaste. "My family does not stoop so low as to kidnap for ransom or otherwise," he said slowly, as if weighing his words. Not a bad idea when speaking with two federal agents. "But to my knowledge, we have heard nothing of this."
My heart sank a little lower and the fast-forming bruise on my stomach throbbed. At least it took my mind off the rest of my aching body. Natasha was silent, which meant I'd get an earful later. So much for our potential lead. I sighed. It had been a long shot, anyway.
"Thanks for your time, Mr. Olavsson," I said formally. I didn't offer him a hand this time. He nodded stiffly. We were far from friendly, but at least I wouldn't have to watch my back for his goons down any dark alleys.
I caught Rogers' attention and jerked my head slightly towards the door while Natasha made her own goodbyes. He looked discouraged under his black eye. We turned to leave.
"One moment," Olavsson said slowly. His eyes were distant, as if he was struggling to remember something. Rogers and I paused. "I've heard nothing of scientists. But there was something else, a strange request from a man who wished to employ our services a few months ago."
"What kind of services?" Rogers asked.
"Theft," Thor replied. He didn't look particularly offended by the suggestion that someone would come to him for such services. "I told him we were no longer in that business. It seemed an odd thing to wish to steal, in any case."
I raised an eyebrow. "What was it?"
"Records," Olavsson told us. I got the impression he was confused by the idea; why steal something with such little intrinsic value? "Files, for the most part. Medical files."
Rogers and I looked at each other. "What?" I exclaimed.
"From where?" Rogers said over me.
Olavsson shrugged, and the seams on his jacket creaked audibly. "I do not know." He glanced over a massive shoulder to one of his lieutenants for confirmation. "The negotiation did not progress to that point, I fear."
Rogers' eyes narrowed in thought. I wished he'd share with the class, but he didn't. "Do you remember his name, Mr. Olavsson?" he asked.
"I do," Olavsson replied with a nod. "He called himself Loki."
The strange name hung in the air between us for a pair of heartbeats, hovering ominously like a thunderhead over a ball game. Nobody said anything. I shifted a little impatiently on the balls of my feet. Was I missing something? I glanced at Natasha, who shrugged elegantly. Thor Olavsson's eyes crinkled questioningly at the corners; looking to us for answers we didn't have.
"What kind of a name is Loki?" I demanded, to break the uneasy silence.
Rogers was stiff at my elbow, his body rigid with shock. I glanced at him in surprise. He looked sick, his skin gone very pale in the dim light of Olavsson's office. Flashes of emotion twisted through his impartial lawman's mask, skin tensing worriedly around his eyes, his lip curling a little in revulsion mingled with anger. He recognized the name and not in a good way.
Maybe this trip hadn't been such a bust after all.
Olavsson cocked his head slightly at Rogers. "Do you know this Loki?" he rumbled, his voice very serious.
Rogers quickly pulled himself together and swallowed. The brim of his hat twisted anxiously in his hands. "It's not a name," he said slowly. "It's an alias. Loki was-is—a Nazi spy."
I blinked, stunned. Natasha's fingers dug sharply into my forearm. Olavsson's face darkened, and belatedly, I remembered that he'd fought in Europe. "Here, upon our shores?" he demanded, his voice rising towards an outraged roar. He looked between me and Rogers, his dislike of me forgotten in the face of a common enemy. "Whatever you require," he told us. "If it is in my power to grant you in the service of catching this…spy," he spat, as if the word was poisonous as well as distasteful, "You shall have it. I give you my word, Agent Barton."
"I appreciate it, Mr. Olavsson," I told him, inwardly elated that my gamble on his patriotic streak had paid off. "Contact us immediately, if you or your boys hear anything more. Especially about Bruce Banner."
Thor Olavsson inclined his head slightly. "It shall be done," he intoned grimly.
Rogers cut through the crush inside Asgard without the assistance of one of Olavsson's goons. He strode ahead of me and Natasha, his long legs quickly carrying him back to my car. I watched him sag a little against the door while he waited for me to catch up. He was just going to have to wait a minute while I had a smoke before we drove back; else I was going to fall asleep at the wheel.
"Wonder what the hurry is," I mused, offering Natasha a cigarette. She shook her head and I lit my own, inhaling smoke gratefully. It didn't completely cancel out the reek of the stockyards, but it helped a little.
"He knows something," Natasha murmured. Her eyes lingered on Rogers for a moment before returning to me. "Something more, I mean."
"Yeah," I replied with a shrug. I took a long drag on the cigarette. "Don't know what, but no good ever came of somethin' Nazi."
Natasha's lips drew into a hard scarlet line. "Never."
She turned to disappear into the night, her high heels clicking rhythmically after her. I took a final drag of my cigarette and threw the butt to the ground. Sparkling motes erupted from the lit tip like a miniature fireworks display. Who knew; maybe the ants appreciated it. I rubbed it out with my shoe and glanced over at Rogers. Nazis in Chicago. A chill went down my spine.
Rogers was silent and preoccupied as we drove. I yawned several times, drumming my thumbs on the steering wheel to try to stay awake. Now that the rush of dealing with Olavsson and getting punched for my trouble had worn off, fatigue was setting in with a vengeance.
"All right, spill," I directed at Rogers, in my best no nonsense lawman tone.
He didn't reply, just kept staring blankly out the window and running the brim of his hat between his fingers. Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I crashed one red light and nearly crashed another. I swore and slammed the breaks. The Ford shuddered in protest and skidded to a halt with the agonized squeal of tires and the smell of burning rubber. Rogers' forehead smacked his window and he hit the back of his seat with an audible thump.
"Barton, what the hell?" he snapped at me, rubbing his head.
"Got your attention yet?" I asked sweetly. I grinned like I'd meant to do the whole thing on purpose. An enormous yawn betrayed me, though, before I could finish my sentence.
Rogers couldn't help smirking a little, despite his irritation. "Nice try."
"So who's this Loki guy?" I said. The light turned and I hit the gas, keeping one eye on the road, and one eye on Rogers. "Some kind of Nazi?"
The traces of humor slipped from his face, leaving him uncertain and looking younger than his years. "It's a little more complicated than that," he said at last, slowly, as though searching for the right words. "Last I heard of him, he was working with Hydra."
I frowned. The name sounded familiar. "You said they were the Nazi science division?"
Rogers shrugged a little. "More or less. They had their own…uh, version, of the party line. Racial purity and all that," he added with obvious disgust. I raised an eyebrow at him and he continued. "If anything they were more extreme. That was where the nasty stuff came in, the human experimentation, the gas bombers, you name it." He sighed and looked at his hands. "I'm pretty sure it was Loki's intel that led to the capture of Bucky's unit."
I yawned, though it was no fault of Rogers. I rubbed a hand across my eyes blearily. "So he was, is, a spy."
"A double agent," Rogers said miserably. "He was working for us at the time."
My eyebrow rose higher. "Huh?" I asked eloquently.
"He had a reputation for being able to talk his way into anywhere and impersonate anyone. They said he had a silver tongue. Nobody really knows what he looks like; he had to have been photographed at some point, but we didn't even have a consistent description to work with." Rogers fell silent for a moment. "Honestly, I thought he was dead. Everyone, us, them, the Russians, was looking for him at the end of the war, but he'd just…disappeared."
"I see," I said aloud. It was a pretty damning assessment, especially coming from Captain America. The little hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I had that same feeling I'd had in the morgue, like I'd had a glimpse of something huge, faceless, and terrible.
"The scariest thing about him though, Barton, is that he never picked a side," Rogers added. "He never believed in anything anyone fought for. He was only ever in it for his own gain. The things he did…well, a lot of people died because of him. I think he just enjoyed sowing chaos."
"And now you think he's here in Chicago, after nuclear secrets," I observed. A former Nazi spy stealing nuclear secrets not for any one country, but to sell to the highest bidder. "Christ."
"Maybe," Rogers said with a shrug. "It's a heck of a coincidence if not." He sighed again and rolled his shoulders to release some tension. "Can you drop me at the Federal Building before you head home?"
"Head home?" I demanded, indignant even as another mighty yawn threatened to split my jaw. Rogers smiled faintly.
"You're all in, Barton," he told me, and I knew he was right. That didn't mean I liked getting benched. "Go home and get some sleep. I want to make a few calls. I'll let you know if I find anything."
I signaled and made the turn towards downtown. "It's the middle of the night, Rogers," I groused, though the idea of a little shuteye wasn't exactly unwelcome. "Little late to be expecting answers."
Rogers smiled thinly. "Like I said, there are a few perks to being Captain America."
I let out a snort of laughter, despite the seriousness of the situation. "Fine, suit yourself."
My apartment wasn't exactly in shambles, but one or two odd pieces of furniture were definitely missing, and there were a few new scratches on the floor. Guess that was going on my rent. Someone had thrown a sheet over the chintz chair in the living room, and I breathed a sigh of relief. There was still a whiskey bottle on the table and I thought briefly about having a drink, but my stomach churned ominously and I decided against it. I crossed the room to the telephone and after a moment of thought, took it off the hook.
Someone had left a blanket on the sofa, presumably where he or she had spent the night. I felt a prickle of embarrassment under my fatigue. I took the blanket to my bedroom and kicked off my shoes, not bothering to shed more than my holster and jacket before I fell into the unmade bed.
There was something to be said for exhaustion, because I slept like a rock. No dreams of shrieking mortars or morphine-tinged pain woke me shaking in cold sweat. The banging on my door, however, was not quite so lenient.
I groaned and buried my head ostrich-fashion into my pillow. I didn't want to get up; it was still pitch dark. But the banging continued. Growling with irritation, I threw the blanket to one side and hung my legs over the side of the bed. I blinked blearily. My alarm clock had been relocated to my shelves. The radium dial showed it was just after four in the morning. I'd only been asleep for a few hours.
I dragged myself to my feet, scowling and grumbling murderously under my breath. It would be Rogers, frustrated he couldn't get through on the telephone line. I was going to give him a piece of my mind after another few hours' sleep and a few dozen cups of coffee. I opened the door, my toes curling against the chilly floor, and a cutting remark ready on my tongue.
It wasn't Rogers. Dr. Bruce Banner peered up at me warily from under the low-pulled brim of his hat. But I wasn't interested in his face. I was far more interested in the small automatic clutched in his right hand.
"I'm, uh, sorry, Agent Barton," he said quietly. "But I think this is when I'm supposed to tell you to put your hands up."
A/N: Fandral went by Trevor Newley at one point on Earth. Please review! :)
