The last lifeboat returned to the helicarrier unimpeded. The hold was a bustling hive of activity, with agents already started to either arrange transport for the affected or set up quarters for those in need for the remainder of the day. The word passed between the agents was that either the next day or the day after that, they would get everybody back down to Earth, provided the newly-arrived rescue teams would have everything prepared. Rebuilding the city would take much longer, but the efforts would have to start as soon as a survey group cleared the area. Steve, though he very much wanted to take a moment to breathe, to think, could not afford it. His fiancée, and his team, needed to be cared for. However, the one had proclaimed she was capable of watching out for herself, and wasn't terribly injured. He could take the time to see to the others, and himself. She would be there when he returned, she'd promised, pushing him to go after a quick kiss.
His own wounds were minimal, his advanced healing not impeded by the stress of the situation. A few minor abrasions were the worst of it, a couple cuts treated after the grease on his face was removed. His knuckles and arms were sore, but they were on the way to full recovery, so he wasn't overly worried about them. Soon enough, he disentangled himself from the probing and gentle hands of the medics, determined to find members of his team.
Clint stood at the window of a recovery room down the hall, hands propped along the sill as he looked in. Noticing Steve approaching out the corner of his eye, he nodded once, his focus still on the room's occupants. Joining him, the captain noted the bedridden man within, breathing apparatus around his face, the heart monitor peaking on and off to his left. Matted strands of silver hair were pushed off his forehead, bruises blossoming there, stitches and bandages marring his arms. Likely his legs and torso looked the same, though those injuries were masked by blankets and an ugly hospital robe. An IV drip stood nearby, maneuvered slightly as the young man's sister pulled her chair closer to him, fingers tightening around his hand and eyes closing as she rested her head along the bed rail. Neither of the siblings paid any mind to the two men observing on the other side of the glass.
"How's he doing?" Steve asked softly, as though he were worried that his words would penetrate the glass and wake the younger man. Pietro looked like hell, but he was still breathing, still living, and that was something, at least. Barton lifted a shoulder, his arms coming up to cross over his chest.
"He'll survive. The doctors were saying he's pretty damn lucky. Lucky that it was more glass than bullets in him," he intoned, fingers tapping against the exposed skin of his arm. His overcoat had been abandoned awhile ago, and he felt no great urge to find it. It was more important to keep an eye on the kid, in his state. Both kids, really; Wanda was frantic to find her brother once she'd been deposited aboard the carrier, separated from him only when he was taken in for surgery. Her own wounds, which amounted to light bruises and a small cut, were taken care of, with her almost manipulating the doctors to leave her alone. She might have done so if the archer wasn't there, chattering away with her to keep her occupied in the interim. "And some of the lacerations were starting to peter off bleeding on their own when they got him onboard, anyway. His enhancement saved him."
Steve exhaled at the news. He had imagined that the twins would have to possess great levels of fortitude not to be killed when exposed to Loki's scepter, but it was indicated in the files that even then, their levels of pain tolerance had grown since then. It made sense, particularly when it came to Pietro; his body had to adjust, raise him beyond a normal person's strength and metabolism just to move at the incredibly fast rate that he could. The scepter had, in its own way, acted like the serum, penetrating down to the cellular level, knitting together the broken pieces and advancing the recipient beyond typical capabilities.
Flexing one of his hands, feeling the pull on his reddened knuckles, Rogers muttered, "I see."
"He was still conscious right up until they took him in for surgery," Clint chuckled humorlessly under his breath. "Said he was just going to walk it off."
A smirk cropped up on the captain's lips, his own words from earlier twisted into a dark joke.
"Hmm," he merely hummed aloud. "What's the word on the others?"
There wasn't much to tell, as far as Clint knew. Stark and Thor had reported in over the comm-links, both of them on the ground for the time being. Aside from being waterlogged (he'd swan-dived into the nearby lake after cracking the spire, evidently) the god was well. Tony was left banged up and shaken for awhile; he'd not let them know his whereabouts for some time, no doubt trying to get the pieces of his jumbled mind back together. The Vision, as an android, could not register his pain on a human level, but he had insisted he was well. Well enough to dispatch the last of the Ultron sentries, and therefore wiping the automaton from existence entirely. A wave of relief had crashed over them all upon hearing it. The new guys—Rhodey, Sam, and Barnes, the last name utterly shocking him and blowing his mind somewhat—were the ones who emerged the most unscathed, though the latter two muttered about strained arms and who had hauled more dead weight around. Unbeknownst to them, the remarks had caused people around them to cringe. Barton ignored their banter, his mind elsewhere.
"Banner's still out. Taking his time recovering from this one, I think. If Nat wasn't being treated for her own wounds she would be in there with him." That brought a grimace to both their faces. When they had returned to the carrier, they found the ex-agent trying her hardest to keep up with gurney that bore Bruce down the halls, bleeding from her calves and shoulder as she went. Only when the doctors reprimanded her for being a walking health hazard did she stop, turned away to a bed of her own to be treated. "That, and if he wasn't under isolation."
A glance passed between them, loaded and uncomfortable. It was only a few years ago that the Hulk had rampaged through the levels of the carrier, destroying all in his wake. Naturally, the agents and medics who had returned when Fury sounded the call were wary of the doctor's presence, fearful of what would happen now that the specifically designed cage for him was gone. They tended to him as per their oaths, but, uncertain about how he would respond once he was roused, they had to find somewhere to put him where minimal damage would be caused if he was angered. It was unfair to Bruce, but there was very little they could do about it without the rest of the people onboard panicking.
At least Bruce preferred quiet when he transitioned; he would definitely get it there.
Eyeing the split in the side of Barton's uniform, Steve raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"And I already had someone look at my side, Mother," Clint replied, brushing it off with a snicker and a shrug. "Just a cut, nothing major. Plain old stitches and bandages for me this time."
"Okay. Well, I'm taking down a team to help with the relief efforts. You up for it?"
Agents were being sent to and from the helicarrier, supplies and aid dispatched with haste. However, it was not enough that they assisted; it was expected that the Avengers, the ones still able-bodied, would be down to help, too. Few though they were, they would do their duty.
"I think I better sit this one out. Someone's gotta keep an eye on the others, make sure they don't try to sneak away," Barton said, his gaze shooting past him to another bank of rooms beyond. Steve turned to look as well, almost expecting Romanoff to stick her head out the door and insist she did not need a babysitter. Chuckling at the mental image, he canted his head in agreement.
"Fair enough," he replied, glancing once more at the Maximoffs before heading out of the infirmary wing. He had some business to tend to before heading out, the humor of the moment sliding away as he walked.
On the bridge, Fury and Hill were pouring over the digital displays, coordinating with the surface efforts on the ground. A fast-acting team, put together by Pepper Potts, was attempting to get the displaced citizens of Novi Grad into housing, as well as setting up for medical and other emergency needs. Along with that, Ms. Potts had reported that she herself was en route, preparing to participate in the endeavor herself once she'd arrived. Taken aback by his girlfriend's initiative, Stark had been drafted into helping alongside them, once his suit was put away and his wounds were patched up. Steve broke their concentration, stopping in to update Fury about the injured members of his team before departing. As he stepped closer to the table, he could feel his body tightening, his repressed frustration bubbling up and invading his mind as he spoke.
When news of the injured Avengers was relayed, as well as the estimated amount of Sokovians seeking medical attention, Nick Fury simply dipped his chin, gaze latched onto the read-out before him. "Thanks, Cap. Your team's topside, ready when you are."
The dismissal, due to the nonchalance in the director's voice, came out like a brush-off. Already irritated, the captain struggled to keep his emotions in check. On the surface, he tried to remain calm as he waited for Fury to look up at him, to take his attention away from the screens. Once he did, Steve gave him a clipped nod, arms crossed over his chest and his stance stiff.
"Good."
Nick looked closely at him, eyebrow raising as he noticed the tension radiating off the captain. "Anything else, Rogers?"
The jaw tightened briefly, a flash of ice across the irises, but his tone was even when he answered, "No."
It was not the best time, he surmised, to be pursuing that avenue of inquiry. It had the potential to break the strict hold on his temper, and it would be best not to tempt it in the interest of getting things done. Pivoting, Steve hadn't gotten more than three feet away when Fury spoke again. The lightness of the director's tone irked him, made him grind his teeth silently as the words washed over him.
"Agent Szymik checked in with me. She told me about Miss Martin's efforts," Nick confided. His posture was relaxed, contrasting greatly with Rogers' as he turned to face him again, and his expression was placid. Shrugging his shoulders, he flapped a hand superfluously in the air. "Conduct leaves something to be desired, but she held her own well enough."
"Stop," Steve said, the rebuke deceptively mild. He did not like the way Holly was being spoken of, like she was just another tendril of a far-reaching organization, with nothing but her name and select qualities to be discussed or offered. The tight rein on his temper was holding, but not by much. "She's not one of your recruits; I don't require a mission report."
"Of course not," Fury concurred, watching the flush of red spread up the captain's neck. Outwardly, he was still composed, but inside, he was examining the other fellow with curiosity. "But for not being a recruit, she did alright. Better than expected."
That earned Nick an out-and-out glare, Steve's fists clenching at his sides as he strode up to the table again.
"I know the hook, okay? I know what you're trying to do," he remarked, not having any of it. "I know what Holly is capable of, and what she can do. And I know what you can do, and have done."
The other man's head tilted to the left, face creasing beneath the eye patch. "Do we have a problem, Captain?"
"Yes. You've used me, and you've used my family, Nick," the captain spat, pushed too far by the goading. "I'm definitely not okay with that."
Hill shot a glance at the director, the unspoken exchange flying at lightning speed between them.
The director leaned forward, about to rest his hands on the glass of the table. "We had reasons—"
Fists connected with the tabletop, knuckles thumping hard and rattling the tablets and other accouterments settled on it. A twinge of pain shot up his arms, but he ignored it. It was enough to jar, but not break the table; the captain was deliberately holding back on his strength, determined that even this show of rage would not get the best of him. Maria's eyes widened slightly when she realized it, but she held her tongue.
"Not good enough ones," Steve murmured, the edge in his voice sharper than before. "They will never be good enough ones, not to me."
The other man sat up straight, palms set down before him. "It wasn't our intention to use her at all."
Steve raised an eyebrow, lips twisting in a mockery of humor. "It was just that you were short-handed, right?"
He'd already hear the excuse, from Holly herself, and it did not sit well with him.
"Steve—" Maria tried to interject, only to be cut off by the sharp chopping motion of his hand. Beneath the bright blue of his eyes, a darkness threatened to surface, one that could only be seen if one was looking for it. And Nick Fury had seen the flicker in the blond man's irises, noting it.
"No, I don't want to hear it. Not this time. And never again."
Nick flicked his gaze from the captain to the hall beyond, as though the woman in question would appear there, object to this turn of events. "I can't make any promises. She is her own person; she'll make her own choices."
"Exactly. Her own choices. Hers," Steve emphasized pointedly. What had bothered him most about the situation was not just the fact that Holly had put her life on the line, but that she had allowed herself to do so through manipulation. Yes, she did have free will, and could make her own decisions, but he knew these people, knew that they could play on people's emotions and personalities to make them operate in the way that they wished. It wasn't a question of strength or weakness, but how those traits could be used. And he understood, better than most, how well the ex-director of SHIELD could utilize people around him. A finger jabbed in Fury's direction, driving it further. "Not yours by extension. Understood?"
A long, tense moment passed between the men as they stared one another down. Shield and spear had struck one another, and all that remained was the result of the impact. Slowly, carefully, Fury inclined his head, silently acceding. Rogers' glare did not waver, but he did remove his fists from the table, drawing himself up to his full height before turning on his heel. The hard patter of his boots down the hall echoed back to them as he left, soon enough lost in the din of agents scrabbling back to their stations and pretending they had not seen or heard anything. Taking a few steadying breaths, Maria reached out, trailing a fingertip along the tablet in front of her, skewed sideways now.
"We might have overstepped on this one, sir," she murmured, the look on her face pensive. In her bright gaze, concern lingered, but when Fury glanced up at her, his showed nothing. Well, apart from the slight layer of annoyance, that is.
"Better be careful with your future requests, then, Hill," Nick returned, rising from his seat and a harsh look shot over his shoulder at her. He'd only given the approval, begrudgingly, to the inclusion of the young woman in the rescue efforts. It was his second-in-command who put the idea forth in the first place, and he had trusted her judgment in regards to the suggestion. It wasn't enough to shake his faith in Hill, but it was enough to make him want to pause and consider what to do with Holly Martin in the future.
That darkness in Steve Rogers was there, a boundary that should not be crossed, simmering deep below the surface. He was fairly certain he did not want to bring it up from the depths again, no matter how briefly it had appeared.
xXxXxXx
The infirmary onboard the helicarrier was pretty large, but even with its expanded bay and deep stock, it was nearly bursting due to the onslaught after the battle. Not just from the Avengers and agents who needed to be patched up, but for the citizens of Sokovia that had been tossed and torn, as well. A good number had come through with nary a bump on the head, but many others were not so lucky. The goal of the medics was to treat everyone that they could, with the ones who desperately needed it first attention before moving down the line. Those who had assisted in the rescue of the civilians were dealt with as soon as possible, to allow them back into their duties as swiftly as possible. Mostly, they were left to the emergency technicians who had traveled on the lifeboats, deeming them suitable enough to do the job and get them back to work without much delay. Thus, it took some time before Holly was ever even looked at, but she kept herself busy enough so that she could ignore it. That, and she wouldn't allow Steve to press the issue (which he was very much prepared to do). Rather, she told him she would wait her turn, and made him promise to look after himself as much as her. He acquiesced, but the look he'd given her told her he knew exactly what she was doing as she nudged him back to his duties.
Eventually, though, she was given leave from organizational duties for the refugees in the holding bay, and had found her way up to the medical wing. The cloth brace strapped to her knee did not limit her mobility too much, a precautionary measure due to the bruising around it and from her history of injuring it only a few months previously. Her mind was elsewhere while the doctor spoke, instructions to take it easy and not push herself floating over her as she finally allowed to leave. Turning right, she entered one of the separate compartments towards the end of the hall. It was smaller than a typical hospital room, but it at least provided privacy for the occupant. The single visitor's chair was taken, blue hair swishing as the person turned to look at her. Holly managed a weak grin, noting the bandage on Kay's jaw and neck. They'd both gotten out of the fray with minimal injuries, in comparison. Nodding a greeting, she sat down on the only seat available: the end of the bed. The patient occupying it wasn't very tall, so she was able to sit without hindrance.
Dasha was lying still, swathed in an ill-fitting hospital robe, her face and arms scrubbed clean of dirt and dust. The child was covered from the waist down with clean sheets, rumpled a little from attempted movement. Her hair was gathered out of her face, a borrowed band tying it back and revealing the tiny cuts along her cheeks and jaw. Those were treated, not requiring bandages of any sort. The cast that covered her leg from the knee down stood out starkly from the rest of the gray interior of the room, propped up on a pillow outside the sheets as she slept.
Smoothing out a wrinkle close at hand on the sheet, Holly asked quietly, "How's she doing?"
"Better than before," Kay replied, keeping her voice low as well. Both women had hustled the little girl up for treatment, the medics tending to her wounds as swiftly as they could. She was not the only patient on the carrier, but they were determined to get her looked at. Situating her as best as they could in the medical bay, they switched off watching over her as they waited, both of them having duties to perform elsewhere as well. Kay had gotten back from a meeting with Fury just before it was time to for the doctors to help Dasha, and Holly had to get back to doing health checks and set-up for the refugees who would be staying aboard until the next day. "Got her fitted for the cast pretty quickly, and then she conked out. They gave her some of the good stuff, to help."
The women shared a grin, though neither of them felt much levity in the expression.
"You have any luck finding any family?" Holly asked after a second or two, a tenor of frustration under it. She had questioned as many people as she could in the hold, a tablet in hand bearing Dasha's picture as she made rounds with the other agents. Since she could not treat wounds, and others were setting up makeshift camps on the lifeboats, she was tasked with handing out blankets and food, as well as inquiring after separated families; they were trying to connect them if they were onboard or send messages out if they were not. Granted, she had to forward the messages through a translator, but it still was something she and several other agents could do. Some had to bear bad news, showing families lost loved ones who were waiting to be claimed, but so far nobody recognized the little girl that was her charge. She felt sick at heart, dreading the possibility that there was no one to claim Dasha, and that she might have to tell the poor kid that she was alone now.
"Her aunt's on the way," her erstwhile partner murmured, the relief in the room palpable as she spoke. Evidently, she was able to make inquiries of her own, and had better luck. Dipping her chin at the sleeping girl, she continued, "She was supposed to come home from a night shift when everything went down, and got trapped on the ground. A neighbor was watching the kid, but, well...they didn't get out in time."
Holly frowned. "No mom or dad?"
Kay shook her head, black eyes holding a hint of sadness. "Not for years. She'll be on one of the return jets tonight."
"So we've got awhile."
"Seems like it."
Sighing, Holly leaned an arm on the plastic foot-board of the bed. "Well, now's as good a time as any for that explanation you promised me."
Discomfort crawled over Kay's face, her fingers flicking in the air as if to brush the thought away.
"Oh, it's...it's not a big deal," she said, tucking the wayward strands of her bright hair out of her face. Holly's eyes narrowed as she watched her, not about to be deterred.
"I beg to differ. You lifted stuff that was triple your body weight, probably more, without trying or straining yourself," she retorted, her point heavy and hanging between them. With Kay's slight build, it was out of the realm of possibility for her to do so. Nor should she have been able to break the robotic sentries' bodies with her bare hands. Not even with an adrenaline boost could she have done so. "It's not exactly something you can ignore."
Black eyes met brown, and glared halfheartedly. "You could try."
"So could you," was the snapped response. Kay's jaw clenched, her teeth grinding a little, and Holly wondered if perhaps she may have pushed her too far. About to apologize, to smooth over the feathers she'd undoubtedly ruffled, she was preempted by the agent's hesitant speech.
It had happened so suddenly, she hardly knew where to begin. After the fall of SHIELD, Kay had moved on, deciding that after four years of secrecy, she was ready to try something new. A new city, a new name, a new job even. What had brought her down, brought her back into the fold, was an accident. An occurrence of chance after months of routine and placidity.
One little pill, fish oil supplements she took religiously on top of her normal workout routine, and it all went to hell. They had been recalled, but she was unaware of it at the time, as well as not knowing why they had been taken off the market. When she emerged from the ashes, from a cocoon that had entrapped her, she had an inkling. And when an old teammate had come calling, invading her home and whisking her away, she got the full truth. She had become more, more than human, but still herself underneath it all. Kay had learned of the transformation, of others like her in the world that had been altered and warped. They had developed abilities beyond the natural, and she had been seized by the shadow SHIELD when they realized she was among those who had purchased the supplements. By that point, it was too late; they'd expected her to be dead, and said as much to her face. As it was, they had to find out what she'd developed, and to keep her safe in the interim. Through careful tests and discovery, she had strength and power she'd never had before, changed from her very bones outward.
It was terrifying, to say the least, when she realized it. The only thing scarier to admit to, was discovering how hard the others like her would try to claim her as well.
It came down to a deal: one organization or the other. And when she couldn't decide, she leapt at the opportunity to escape, taking a chance on Nick Fury's call to action rather than to be sucked into a darker world she didn't understand.
Digesting the information, Kay had to give Holly credit for not bolting, or calling her insane. There was something to be said about being continuously exposed to the above average, she thought. It at least enabled the other woman to hear about the possibility of developed senses, strength, maybe even fire manipulation without much skepticism. There was still a nervous air around her, but she reckoned it had more to do with the fact that Holly was uncertain about how to react than anything else.
"Does...does anybody else know?" she eventually asked. Kay opened her mouth, but the other woman cut her off swiftly. "Besides the obvious answer of your superiors."
Again, the agent had to give credit where it was due.
"It's on record, but only insofar that I'm stronger than I look. The directors were willing to keep it at that," she said, rolling her shoulders back. For a moment, she closed her eyes, lost in her memories of fighting, pushing away the special unit offer in place of taking a place elsewhere. Her inhumanity was easy enough to hide, and she would rather take a chance back in the world she knew over the one she didn't. Snorting, she muttered aloud, "The blue hair, though, that's the downside."
An incredulous stare was fixed upon her then. "You mean—"
Kay snickered, combing back the loose strands again. "Yep. Side effect of the whole changing thing, and it's permanent. Although, according to some sources, it could have been a lot worse."
She didn't elaborate on how much worse it could get, and Holly couldn't make herself ask about it. Her own imagination had taken the statement and ran with it, images of people wielding powers like she'd seen in science fiction movies. Except this was real life, and it was happening, anyway.
"It's...so strange," she breathed, and Kay snorted again.
"Tell me about it. Do yourself a favor and avoid fish oil pills. Not worth the hype, and you could end up like this. Or worse," Kay joked, tapping her hair for effect. The humor slid away as she ruminated on her own words. Yes, it could have been much worse, and she did not wish it on anyone.
"Noted," Holly said, letting a smirk pass over her lips. An ache was growing in her head, and she rubbed her temple, feeling the slightest pull on her stitches as she did so. Thinking back on what Kay had said, something stuck out to her, made her brow furrow. "Directors?"
The agent inclined her head, tipping her hand out and leaning back in her chair.
"Nominally, I work for one, but the other likes to keep tabs on people. People like me," she told her companion. Raising an eyebrow, she continued, "You stick around long enough, you might meet him, too, someday."
A curious look ghosted over Holly's face, and in her eyes, remembrance dawned. "Actually...I think I already have."
xXxXxXx
There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Steve would try to talk with him. Bucky knew that much, when they took a quinjet down to the surface to help in the relief efforts. He could see the questions in the captain's eyes, hovering behind the irises, waiting to be asked. Where he had been, why he had appeared here, of all places, what he thought he was doing...it was as easy to read as if the pages of a novel were spread before him. However, he also knew that he would never approach him with such questions when others were around. The operatives in the jet, on the ground, had eyes and ears all over, and would ferret any secrets kept by the Winter Soldier in a heartbeat if they could. Understanding that fact, Bucky took advantage of the silence, of the enforced barrier, finding refuge in it. It was simpler to concentrate on the mission.
There weren't any difficult questions to be asked, and there weren't answers he didn't know he could give. Or even if he had any. Once he was given tasks, he took them in silence, working as was needed to help displaced citizens to the R.E.S.C.U.E headquarters, his poor understanding of the Slavic tongue supplemented by the Russian. Granted, speaking that language made the civilians he did encounter distrust him, particularly the older ones, but when he was merely provided directions to safety or to food supplies, they did not complain. Instead, they would just nod him away, or stare at his metal arm until the space between them became too awkward to endure. Not for him, but for them; he matched their spite with steel, and so they would turn away first.
With so many homes and apartments destroyed, the relief workers were also tending to getting temporary housing units up, collapsible structures that could withstand the elements better in comparison to the average camping tent. There were to be set up as far from the crater where the city center once was, to cut down on possible contamination. Mutely, he moved himself from one to the other, Sam sticking close to his side as he went to work. He knew he was there to keep an eye on him, to make sure he didn't slip, but he didn't need the reminder. He just had to work, and be done. No talking, no staring. No questions.
Still, the inevitable could only be put off for so long. As he and Sam moved onto the next unit, a pack was passed to him, a gauntleted hand holding onto the straps. Looking up, he met the bright gaze of his erstwhile best friend, blond hair sticking out in every direction and a blank look on his face. Tipping his head down, he took the building pack, opening it and pulling out the necessary parts. Passing one or the other to his two companions, he noticed that they were separated from the other team members, from the agents. The sick feeling of being ambushed coursed through him, a shiver barely suppressed as he glanced from the Falcon to the captain. They weren't his enemies, not anymore, he reminded himself. They did not get him alone to attack him. They wouldn't do that. Steve wouldn't do that.
Finally, after a stretch of a minute's silence, Bucky broke it. "Captain."
It was an easy enough greeting, neutral and safe. However, he felt it was the complete opposite of those sentiments beneath the surface. Steve's head jerked up, eyes wide at the acknowledgment, as though he had expected (probably rightly so) that he would have to speak first. Months had passed in which he'd heard nothing from him, in which he willingly kept silent and stayed away. His jaw dropped a little, like it had during the fight earlier, but he was only stricken mute for a moment.
"Bucky," he replied carefully, testing the mode of address. It was what he'd called him, always had, from the moment he'd recognized him on that road over a year ago. And though he answered to it, a part of Bucky felt that perhaps the name was wrong. That no matter what he did, he would never be Bucky again. He nodded, but did not return the hesitant grin that Steve had given him. Breathing sharply out his nose, Barnes chose to slink back into the silence, the swish of material under his fingers and the click of poles interlocking cutting through the air. Steve, however, had paused in his work, staring at him in a way that was different than the civilians' looks. Wilson affected nonchalance, but it was obvious to tell that he was paying attention to every move they were making.
The captain's throat cleared, once, twice, and when Bucky looked up at him, the wall that had been erected between them was falling brick by brick.
"I...how did you get here?" he wondered, a hand carding through his hair and tousling it more. "Why...?"
Good questions, Bucky had to concede that much. Stiffly, he shrugged, his metal hand tensing around a peg before pushing it into the ground.
"I caught a ride," he responded, glossing over the latter question intentionally. A snort shot out of Wilson before he could stop it, the corner of his mouth turning up at the sound. For his part, Steve smirked, rolling his eyes.
"Smart aleck."
Turning his attention back to the peg, Bucky pushed hard to secure it into the dirt. "Well, that's a sight nicer than 'jerk,' so I'll take it."
Another chuckle followed, but it was soon replaced by seriousness once again. The twitch of his lips had turned down again as he searched for another piece of the kit, and when he handed it off to Rogers, he was met with stony severity.
"Still waiting on an answer. A real one," the blond man indicated, taking the piece and consulting the assembly form spread beside him. Bucky bit the inside of his cheek. Nothing less than honesty would do, and yet he did not know what the honest answer would be. He knew a dozen languages, and none of them seemed to be able to supply him with the right words. He looked to Sam, who merely shrugged and gestured for him to get on with it.
He let out a short breath, the scramble in his mind continuing as he simply let the words fall from his mouth. "To be honest, she made a good case."
Steve glanced at him, his brow furrowing. "She?"
"Your girl," Bucky clarified, though he did not think there was any doubt about whom he was talking. Raking a hand backward through his shorn locks, he continued, "She...sporadic speech aside, she reminded me of a few things."
"Yeah?"
Bucky's breathing slowed, his heart thumping as he stood at the edge once more. He'd exposed himself, defended himself, more in the last two days than he had in the course of the last year. It was time to do so again, no matter how much it was like pulling teeth. The Winter Soldier, though largely pushed down, shoved back, tried to silence him. But Bucky Barnes no longer wished to be silent.
"What I have been doing...it wasn't enough. For a year, I've been trying to figure the whole mess out, what my life even is now that what came before is gone. I had an idea, maybe not the best, but it was something I could do. But that…that's not the solution, not really. I had to do more," he confessed, gaze darting from Rogers to Wilson and back, the latter not even bothering to pretend at working anymore. "I want to do more. This might be my one shot."
A beat or two passed, the thud of his heart in his ears as the captain, his friend, considered his words. Eventually, the other man dipped his chin, light dancing in his eyes as he maintained his stoic expression.
"Better use it wisely, then."
The levity was meant to temper the gravity, but Bucky still took it to heart. His shoulders tightened, even as he half-grinned. "I think I've made a good start."
"So do I," Steve concurred. Off the lack of response given, he went on, "Really, Buck. I've...I've been hoping that you would..."
Barnes understood too well what the captain was unable to say. A part of him had been hoping for it, too. A return, a place in the world to call his own. But no such thing came without strings attached to it, and he did not trust the world to give him what he wanted. He would have to try, and keep trying, to hold his own against this strange place, this earth that was not as he remembered it.
"I know. But it was something I had to do on my own terms."
In his friend's eyes, a wealth of emotion sat, a well of knowledge he'd never seen before rose. There was no judgment, no fear. There was just Steve, and his hand extended out, ready to help him back onto his feet whenever he needed it.
Said hand clapped him on the shoulder, comforting even in its brevity. "I understand."
A throat cleared across the way, and Bucky turned to see Wilson nodding as well.
"We both do, bro," he told him, something akin to friendliness in his face. Accepting his fellow sergeant's words, he grabbed another peg, moving off to the far corner of the tent to anchor it in place. That time, the silence that followed didn't press on him, did suffocate him. Instead, it just was.
xXxXxXx
Hours slid by, and before Steve knew it, the sun was setting. The people of Sokovia had places to stay, for the most part, shelter from the night and darkness. The tent city that he'd helped build with his team was it by hundreds of glowing lamps, pathways brightened between them and leading back to the hastily erected headquarters. Within, families were queuing up for amenities, and food, handed out by Pepper's crack team. The woman herself was all over the place, Fury likely chattering in one ear through a comm, Tony in the other, all while she helped assemble domiciles or instructed her supplier in England to ship items out immediately. However, as dusk settled around them, she was starting to slow down, along with the other relief workers. The final call for the return jet had sounded, and he could not ignore it. Despite his assurances to Holly, he had put off taking care of himself, instead sending his team back before him, determined to keep building and helping the civilians in need.
Now, though, with a growling stomach and a tiredness burning behind his eyes, he was willing to call it a day.
Only a handful of agents, along with Thor, rode back up with him, with everybody either too tired or too deep in thought to say a word. Once they landed on the outer deck, the occupants of the jet scattered, most of the operatives breaking off back to their rooms or to the mess hall. Cheered by the prospect of vittles, Thor had made his decision easily, but Steve was torn. In the end, he managed to get down the cafeteria, but merely nicked a couple sandwiches and called it good. It had been a long, hard day for them all, and it was time to let it end. Relying on his memory of the last time he was housed on the helicarrier, he jumped on the tram that went back to the quarters, munching on a sandwich idly. Through the plexiglass windows, he peered down into the hold as he passed, seeing the various drapings lashed over the tops of the lifeboats to simulate roof coverings and cots stretching from one side to the other. At least the Sokovians there would be safe for another night. The other sandwich was gone before he even made it to the door of his quarters, his body sagging in relief when he punched in the code (it hadn't been changed for three years; that might be something to look into later). Back to the almost-too-small bed, the bare walls...
The pretty brunette perched in the middle of it all, her wet hair dripping onto her clean t-shirt as she scrolled through her phone. That was a sight he was pleased to see; Holly had beaten him back to the quarters, unsurprisingly, and cleaned up. A knee brace was around one leg, but she didn't seem too perturbed about it. And she was wearing one of his shirts, in actual fact, the hem falling low as her legs stretched over the sheets. Her issued uniform had been abandoned, bundled atop her boots and shunted into a far corner. Upon hearing the swish of the door opening, she sat up, dropping her phone down. A tentative smile pulled at her lips, one that he reflected back at her, and her eyes flicked behind him briefly. When the door shut and locked into place, only then did she rise, giving him only a moment to unhook his shield from his harness and drop it to the ground before bounding into his arms. Holding her tightly against him, he nearly raised her off her feet, drawing her up for a deep, long kiss. The persistent ache in his heart had finally lessened, no more than a memory in that moment. She responded eagerly, lips parting beneath his with a sigh. When they eventually broke apart, her smile had widened significantly, hands splayed over the chest of his uniform, his fingers rubbing lightly along her back.
"It feels like it's been ages since we've been together," Holly whispered as her eyes closed, palms gliding up to his shoulders as he rested his forehead against hers. He nodded slightly, savoring the feeling of having her in his arms.
"It's been a long…four days," he trailed off, the fact dawning on him in that moment. It had seemed like the longest stretch of time, but in reality, it wasn't. "It's only been four days, holy cow."
"I know. So crazy, right?" she giggled sardonically, pressing her mouth to his cheek.
"Right," Steve replied, drawing back to look at her. "On both ends, so I hear."
Her eyebrows inclined, the smirk on her face dimming. "How much did you hear?"
"Enough to know that when debriefing comes in the morning, you have to be there, too."
A puff of breath came out then, and she canted her head. "Yep, you heard right, then."
"Care to let me know ahead of time?" he asked politely, half grin blooming on his face. "Hill hinted that it has to do with future endeavors and plans, but she wouldn't elaborate."
That was true; it was circulating the comms that the second-in-command had been working on a major project, backed by Potts and even supplemented by his own fiancée (her own words about being involved coming back to him), but the details were still under wraps for the time being. The needs of the displaced civilians and refugees had to come first, but it was on the schedule for discussion at the team meeting in the morning. Tony had tried to wheedle it out of his girl, but he had no such luck. Steve figured he may as well try his own. Holly shook her head, lifting a shoulder.
"I would, but I don't have all the information. I just have the stuff I've been working on, and it's just a small part of the whole. Sorry to say that you'll have to be patient, Steve." Off the flash of disappointment in his gaze, the droop of his head, she inhaled sharply. Her palms moved down his arms, unlacing them from around her back so she could hold his hands in hers. Meeting his eyes fully, she murmured, "I swear, I'm not deflecting or something."
The worry and nervousness she'd been holding back shot across her irises, her expression no longer impassive. Immediately, Steve let her hands go, cupping her face and gliding his thumbs along her jaw line in an effort to reassure her.
"I know, I know," he said, his tone gentle. The residual flare of anger spiked and dropped swiftly, replaced with the calm he had adopted earlier. "That's done."
For a few seconds, she scrutinized him, tracing every feature before her with her eyes. "You sure? Because you seemed really 'not okay' with it earlier."
He smiled ruefully. She had a point, an undeniable one, which he would not avoid.
"Yes. And you're right, I wasn't," he said, the dark dread crawling up his stomach, his throat. Swallowing hard against it, against the memory, he forced himself to go on. "Seeing you in the thick of it, close to the fight…it tore me up. Because sometimes, all it takes is one good shot, and…I, I didn't…"
His blue gaze had become unfocused, lost in the dream that had haunted him for days now. The sound of gunshots, the fall, her dying in his arms and not being able to do anything about it. Holly, watching the expression of horror and helplessness drift over his face, tipped his chin down, light touches skittering across his skin and her low commands for him to look at her eventually breaking through. Blinking, he was brought back to the present, to the pads of her fingers and her upturned face. Closing his eyes, he attempted to get his breathing under control, speaking again when he felt he had command over his faculties.
"But, like you said, it happened, and if it's your choice in the future…I'll find a way to accept it." With a sad smile, he shrugged his shoulders. He could make his stance known to Fury all he wanted, but at the end of the day, it was Holly's decision of what she wanted to do with her life. And if she wanted to throw herself into the fight, without being swayed to do so, then there was little he could do to stop her. Whether he liked it or not. "It's no less than what I've been asking you to do for me."
Openly gaping at him now, Holly let her jaw go slack for a moment or two. Of course, she loved him, but she wondered if perhaps he had taken leave of his senses. She would have joked about it, were it not for the dark intent in his face. He was being serious, absolutely serious. Recovering her tongue, she matched that intensity, her true aims striking hard.
"I know. I do. And I don't want it; I'm not cut out for it, not long-term. This isn't a job that I'm dying to be a part of, and definitely not one I'd die for. I'm not that crazy," she said, earning a choking laugh from him. She smiled wryly; she knew herself all too well, and so did Steve. An agent, she would never make. "I guess one of us has to be the boring and normal one."
"Which neither of us are," he countered, completely brushing aside the self-deprecating roll of her eyes. "Good thing; it'll keep our lives interesting, at least."
"I suppose," Holly intoned. After biting her lip for a moment, she looked at him, eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. "What about the other thing? You know, that whole fight we were in the middle of when this crap started? Is that okay, too, or are we going to have to go into Round 3?"
Groaning under his breath, Steve brought a hand up, passing it over his face as she went on.
"Although, I think James coming around negates it. At least it gets me out of hot water."
"I'm not sore about it anymore, and I wouldn't be even if he hadn't come." He had thought they had laid the matter to rest before his traveling to Sokovia, but evidently, they hadn't. Or perhaps he had not fully conveyed his feelings on the matter. Truth was, after the messy affair with the visions and self-doubts, the delay of telling him about Bucky no longer incited frustration. Of course, Steve wouldn't deny that his arrival at the battle had eased something deep inside, but Bucky showing up did not erase the fact that he had let it go in those hours before. Whatever was hurt between them was mended. The skepticism in her gaze pulled him up short, made him reach out and lace her fingers with his. "Really. It's done."
Another period of quiet, their breathing punctuating the space and surrounding them. Finally, she dipped her chin in acceptance, wrapping her arms around him and laying her cheek against the star on his chest.
"Okay…" she said, enveloped by the heat of his body and treasuring it. Snorting, she mumbled, "When it comes to honesty and timeliness, it seems like I can only be good at one or the other."
"Let's opt for honesty in the future, then," he recommended, hands resting at her waist. "We're both fairly decent with that. Timing has always been hit or miss, in my experience."
"Fair enough," she giggled. A second or two later, Holly pulled back once more, jerking her chin up. "So…mind if I tell you something honestly?"
Shaking his head, Steve watched her warily as she bit her lip, her hooded eyes shooting a look at him. "Not at all."
"I honestly feel like you should get cleaned up, and take this uniform off," Holly told him, rising onto the balls of her feet and slipping her arms around his neck. She pressed all along his front, the brush of her hips pulling a moan out of him. "Right now."
"Is that all?" he asked, the husky tenor of his voice sending a shiver down her spine. Her lips hovered above his, teasing him as she smiled.
"Not remotely."
His grip tightened, sliding down and pulling her closer, his mouth barely brushing over hers in a ghost of a kiss. Exhausted though they both were, it seemed they were on their way to finding a second wind.
"Then it would be my pleasure, ma'am." His forehead creased as a rogue thought managed to break through the heat and the fire in his blood. "But, what about—"
A finger was placed against his lips, hushing him. Striding away from him, Holly reached into the bag still perched on the bench at the end of the bed. Unzipping the inner pocket, she retrieved something, light glinting off the square wrapper in her hand. Undamaged, not expired, and quelling the question he was about to pose. The question that was answered that way, and not by a tense, embarrassing trip to the nurses' station in the infirmary to pilfer from their supplies.
"Lookie what I found in my duffel," she bade him unnecessarily. When she was going through her bag to see what in the hell she actually stuffed into it, she'd discovered it, neatly tucked away and safe. Most likely it was put inside when she last traveled to visit him at the Tower, but it had made it all the way out there with them. Her dark eyes widened as she considered it, and she tossed her hair playfully. "It's just the one, though. Better make it count, soldier."
Steve's lusty smile became a hint predatory as he reached up for the fasteners at his neck, ready to do exactly as she told him.
xXxXxXx
Though filled to the rafters, or thereabouts, the din of the people aboard the helicarrier had lessened to a calm buzz, lights blocked and shuttered for the sake of the refugees sleeping and resting in the hold. While it was not a true silence, it was enough to make him feel as though he were moving alone, unhindered.
Bruce had woken from his fugue state several hours ago, too numb and cold to do more than eat and let the other doctors in the infirmary examine him. Cuts were treated, and while he had no broken bones to speak of, he could feel their ache when he attempted to move. It had taken him a long time to sit up without aid, but soon enough he was on his feet, pondering what had happened.
As the Hulk, the fits of rage tended to block out coherent thoughts, and most feelings burned away as he smashed and destroyed everything in his path. Images, though, stuck around in his memory. The city, the flames...the sentries, the clash of metal against skin, man against machine. Rock and brick crumbling under him, pipes and playgrounds ripped apart in his rampage. Natasha's eyes screwed up in pain and shock as she fell under fire. Ultron's red gaze and hobble as he tried to escape the quinjet, and him. The crash...smoke choking him...
He had been carried out, rescued from the wreckage and borne away, one of the new arrivals bearing him to a lifeboat and to the EMTs stationed there. Or so he had been told; he had few visitors in his secluded room, but Nick Fury had been among the first, telling him all that had passed since he was thrown out of his Hulk state. That was good enough for him. He did not want company, did not seek it. Instructions were left at the door to leave him in peace, extending to his teammates, telling all those who sought him out that he was resting, recovering.
It was half the truth, and half a lie. He was recovering. Had recovered, in point of fact. But the rest of the time had been dedicated to thinking, considering. The pain and sorrow of the last few days weighed down on his shoulders, the man dealing with the aftermath of the monster as always. Bruce was tired, so tired, and he wanted nothing more than to rest. However, it eluded him, his brain going into overdrive once he regained control and not quieting. All his options were before him, few though they were, and he had a choice to make.
Clipped footsteps down the halls, up the metal stairwells, gave him away as he walked, a new set of clothes swathed around him, the sleeves of a jacket tied around his waist and a pack slung across his back. Without his asking, it had been placed just inside his door, left while he was stuck in his trance-like thought process. A note attached to the top told him there was money, a fake ID and passport, and other provisions inside, and that he was wished good luck, whatever he decided. The scrawl was looping, unfamiliar, though he had an idea of who had given it to him. His mind was made up before he even saw the bag, but upon finding it, he felt the desire to go rising faster.
On the deck, Bruce would be able to find one of the pilots, persuade them to take him down and drop him wherever they liked. He could find his own way; he had done so before.
"Heading out?" a feminine voice crowed behind him, making his heart rate climb dangerously. Jumping in his own skin, he turned around quickly, trying to calm his breathing. Natasha stood there, her suit exchanged for a sweater and loose pants, a hand pressed along the wall and taking the weight off her injured legs. Even limping, she was silent, stealthy to the last. It wasn't the sight of her wounded body that brought a lump to his throat, though.
It was the heartbreak in her eyes.
Coughing once, he felt himself shrink under that look, his own heart pattering in his chest. "Well..."
Her lips twisted in a facsimile of a smile, bitter and cold as snow. "If I had known, I would've gotten my things ready."
Bruce did not shirk or retreat from her gaze, meeting her pain with his own. "Natasha."
"No, no. I see how it is. I just...I thought..." The ripples of sorrow threatened to break free, but she waved them off, brushing them out of the space between them with her palm. "It doesn't matter what I thought. Safe travels."
Slowly, agonizingly, she turned away, taking a few hobbling steps back the way they'd come. After everything, the confessions, the hurt, the fights and the banter, the moments in which she exposed herself...it was coming to nothing. He was running, and she would be left behind. It was all for nothing.
"Nat." His voice stopped her in her tracks, made her spine stiffen as he spoke. "You have to understand. It's not that I don't care. You know I do. But—"
"But what?" she snapped, letting her layers fall away, letting him see exactly how much she was hurting. The onslaught of her pain made him physically jerk back, but she refused to temper it. She would let him see, make him know. A bead of water began to pool in one of her eyes, but she ignored it, focusing on the man in front of her. "If you care, and I...I care, then why—"
"Because it's not enough. It's not enough to justify running off into the sunset together, chasing a pipe dream." Bruce's tone was gentle, but his words were brutal, ripping her to shreds as he spoke. He was making her bleed, without leaving a mark. And, deep down, she knew he was doing the same to himself. "That's just a fantasy, an excuse to ignore who we both really are."
Whirling around, pushing down the throbbing in her legs, she snarled, "And what are we?"
The sorrow in his dark eyes cut through her, cracking the frustration and annoyance, cleaving them from her body with expert precision.
"We're broken, Natasha. And when it comes down to it, our pieces won't fit together. I need to do that for myself, and you do, too. Away from one another. I need to leave to fix this mess I've been avoiding for over four years. To not endanger you in the process. And you deserve better than to be party to that."
A feeling of deflation went through her then, the emptiness inside her growing with every breath. "Shouldn't that be my choice?"
"If you want to chase me down after tonight, that is your choice. But I'm not encouraging you to follow me. In fact, it...it would be better if you didn't," Bruce murmured, closing the gap between them. Looking down at her, he recalled the taste of her lips when she'd kissed him, the surge of good before falling into chaos. Once, twice, he shook his head. "You deserve better, Natasha. Someone more in line with you than...me. I'm sorry."
Words were lost to both of them by then, and he struggled to find the will to move away. It had to be done, he told himself, to protect her. To protect them both. No matter how much he wanted to fight against it. Natasha Romanoff, for the first time in a long while, conceded a stand-off, dropping her gaze and letting the man across from her continue to stare. To gaze on the newest set of broken pieces he had dealt to her. Tentatively, he reached out, fingers moving to tuck the strands of her fiery hair behind her ear. In an instant, she shuffled back, out of his reach, a layer of ice sliding over her eyes and through her body.
"Don't. Don't do that," she demanded, refusing his comfort and touch. Sighing softly, Bruce did as she requested, dropping his hand and tucking it into his pocket. Another beat of silence passed before he adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. Dipping his chin, he let his gaze wander over her one last time, uncertain if he would ever see her again.
"Good-bye, Agent Romanoff."
Her head turned sharply to the left, her arms crossing over her chest and leaning her into the wall.
"Doctor Banner." It was a dismissal, her tone pushing back against the pain of his departure. She did not watch him go; the light tread of his footsteps made her want to scream, to cry out and call him back, but she bit her lips harshly to stop herself. She would not surrender her dignity for his farewell.
It felt like hours had passed as she stared at the far wall, seeing nothing but the blur of gray through a haze of unshed tears. Swallowing thickly, she dashed them away, clearing her throat and breathing out her nose in an attempt to soothe her frayed nerves. Turning to go back to her room, she noticed that the door to the quarters four feet away from her had opened, and someone was watching her as she stepped closer.
"What?" Natasha snarled, glaring at the gawker. Dark hair ruffled from tossing and turning, sharp blue eyes, sharp jaw stiff as she glowered at him. The Winter Soldier, peering around his door at her as if she had appeared out of nowhere and inserted herself someplace she didn't belong. She expected to find blankness on his face, or irritation for having the quiet broken.
But it wasn't the Winter Soldier who met her gaze. No, it was James Barnes, pink tinging his cheekbones as he endured her scrutiny. Two scars, one at her waist and the other on her shoulder, seemed to twinge faintly as he continued to stare back, and she nearly brought up her hands to cover them. It was hard, remembering to make the distinction between the cold-blooded killer and the recovering man before her, but with the bend of his posture, the fall of his hair across his brow and the uncomfortable glint in his gaze, it was easier to tell.
"Nothing," he said quietly, hands tucked into the pockets of his borrowed sweatpants. He shrugged his shoulders, the florescent light of the hall spilling across the metal arm and shining as he took a step back. "I'm sorry."
And he did look genuinely remorseful, the spring of untapped emotion at the back of his eyes. He must have heard the entire exchange—not on purpose, of course—and while he was still unsure about the workings of the world around him, he was at least able to express sympathy. But at that moment, Natasha wanted none of it. For the first time in a long while, she wanted the coolness of detachment, no messy feelings getting in the way and making her life skew out of control. Making her human again, and not merely the Black Widow. So, in response to his words, she said the first thing that came to mind.
"Piss off, shithead," she rattled in her mother tongue, raising a finely-shaped eyebrow as she began to walk away again. Thinking she had compelled him to silence, she was surprised to hear his hard snort, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, she watched him roll his eyes.
"Bitch Queen," he snapped right back in Russian. Leaning against the door frame, he pivoted to watch her go, eyes tracking her with concern. In English, he continued, "I didn't mean any harm."
An acerbic grin came to her lips, the winter of her eyes not thawed in the slightest. "This time."
That time, he let her reach the end of the hall without comment, keeping an ear out for her in case he heard her stumble and fall. She was strong, though, strong enough to withstand her injuries for that long. When her tread could not longer be detected, Bucky blew out a slow breath, combing back hair and shaking his head again.
"Whatever," he grumbled under his breath, the redhead's fiery gaze staying with him long after he went back into his room, sitting in his mind as the night wore on. "Dames."
A/N: Got a lot of reunions and discussions in this chapter. And departures.
When I said I had plans for Bruce, I meant that I planned for him to actually tell Natasha that their thing was over before flying off into the unknown without her. She was owed a real good-bye, and not the crap that Bruce put her through in the movie. And so Brutasha ends...I'm strangely comfortable with it.
Good to see a lot of you were on the same page as me regarding the comics atrocity that's going on at the moment. I can guarantee you right now: my version of Steve does not and never will have ties to HYDRA as an operative. Screw that noise. Although, I'm glad that a bunch of you enjoyed the last chapter, at least. :)
Holy crap, this chapter is so freaking long. I can't promise the ones after it will be this length, but I hope you were able to stick with it. Next chapter, a lot of plans get tossed around, and decisions have to be made...also, I know a bunch of you are waiting on the wedding to happen, and it will...but not yet! I hope this will suffice in the meantime!
I own nothing from the MCU/Marvel and Pepper Potts' R.E.S.C.U.E., Agents of SHIELD, or any other pop culture references that may or may not be mentioned.
I'm just going to take a moment and thank all of you for sticking with me thus far. This story really wouldn't have gotten as far as it has without you; I appreciate every single favorite, follow, and review, truly. Thank you guys so much for your continued support and reading. You all rock. :)
Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!
EDIT, 6/9/15: In case any of you are still curious about that one time about the "interesting language" that Holly hinted about coming out of Steve's mouth...well, Ive written about it. In all its explicit glory. It can be found at my AO3 account, under the title, On the Double. Check it out, if you're of age and interested. I have the same username as here-PhantomProducer.
