"Let me get this straight," Beatrice said, crossing her arms and staring directly at Tony, who was standing amidst the broken tables and shattered glass of the party deck with an unreadable look on his face. "You and Doctor Banner tried to use the scepter to create some sort of robot that would take the place of the Avengers, but it somehow turned evil instead and took the scepter with it? And you don't know where it went?"
"Well, when you put it like that…" Tony kicked aside a cracked vase, water seeping in long lines across the floor, and mirrored her crossed arms, his jaw tight and his dark eyes boring into hers. "Look, Ultron was meant to be a peacekeeping program. He could do the things we couldn't. We wouldn't need to rebuild a warehouse in Hell's Kitchen because some rogue Hydra agent blew it up. We wouldn't need to worry about the tower being compromised in the first place."
Beatrice thought back to their conversation earlier in the day, and the volition in Tony's voice as he'd told her that he would do whatever it took to keep the world safe. She had been unsettled by his fervency even then. "Clearly something went wrong in the process, then," she said, glancing at the wreckage surrounding them.
There was a snort from the couches, where Clint was perched atop one's overturned legs. "No shit," he scoffed. "You seriously thought screwing around with that scepter would be a smart thing, Stark? After what it did—" But he violently cut himself off, shaking his head in evident frustration. Out of the corner of her eye, Beatrice saw Natasha's hand move to his knee.
"We can play this blame game all night, boys, but in the end it's just a waste of time," she announced, a sigh heavy in her words. "JARVIS is gone again and Ultron has the scepter. That should be our only focus."
"She's right," Bruce pointed out, though his feeble attempt at diverting attention from Tony was more than transparent. "But we have no idea where he went or what he's planning to do with the scepter. We have no idea what he's planning to do, period."
"Would that I could, I would speak to Loki and ask him for more information on the scepter's properties," Thor said, his red cape swishing around him as he strode into the center of the gathered group. Everyone's eyes were instantly drawn to him, including Beatrice's; it was difficult to look away from such a commanding, awe-inspiring figure. "But as it is, I can contact Erik Selvig and see if he knows anything more."
"But who knows how long that'll take?" Hill asked, pausing from the painstaking work of removing the shards of glass that were embedded in her bare feet. "We already know Ultron can do a lot of damage without it."
"He said he wanted us extinct." Steve, who had been unusually quiet during the discussion, finally spoke up from his place standing next to Beatrice. "He'll give us a sign. Until then, our main priority should be finding him, scepter or not."
"Agreed," said Tony with a firm nod of his head. "I'll look for a backup interface to run scans of the area and get Dum-E to clean this place up in the meantime."
This seemed to signal the end of the conversation; he turned away and swept a pile of glass off a nearby table with his bare hands. Beatrice almost felt sorry for him. None of the team moved to help him, not even Bruce, who fiddled with his glasses and ran a hand through his curly hair. The defeat in the two men was palpable, though Beatrice suspected Tony shouldered most of the blame. Ultron had been his idea, after all.
She heard Hill give a sharp intake of breath, and Beatrice immediately moved to help her, but Rhodes and Doctor Cho were already there. She faltered, fighting against her nurse's instincts, her hands going into her pockets and clenching into fists there. Thor had disappeared—Beatrice hadn't even seen him leave—and Natasha and Clint were speaking in low voices away from the rest of the group. Beatrice glanced up at Steve, wanting to ask him what they should do, but before she could speak, he strode away toward the door. She cast around to see if anyone had noticed, but they all appeared to be too occupied in their own activities to notice either of them. So she quickly darted after Steve, out of the lounge and into the quieter hallway.
He turned to look at her as she approached; a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth but his eyes stayed serious. "Sorry, Beatrice," he said as he pressed the button for the elevator. "I didn't mean to leave like that. I was just…preoccupied."
He dragged his hand over his face as the doors slid open and they stepped inside; Beatrice found herself in the elevator with him for the second time that evening. "It's fine," she said quietly. "I'd be preoccupied too if I were you."
There was a peculiar gnawing sensation in her chest, an emptiness where there shouldn't have been. She swallowed and turned her face to the silver doors, blinking rapidly at her own reflection. Pressure gathered on the backs of her eyes, and her nails dug into the palms of her hands as she forced herself not to cry.
"Hey," Steve said softly, and she inadvertently glanced up at him. He had noticed her fighting back tears; of course he had. "It'll be okay. You're not in danger."
"It's not me I'm worried about," Beatrice mumbled. How could she possibly explain to him without sounding horribly selfish that she didn't want to lose him, too? She was barely holding on by a thread as it was; how could she be expected to be cast adrift and still float?
With a ding, the elevator announced that they had arrived at his floor, but Steve didn't make any move to get out. "You know, I was thinking of making hot chocolate," he said with a lopsided grin. "Unfortunately I don't have vodka to add to it, but do you want some?"
Steve's suite was ostensibly the largest one on the entire floor, but was nearly as void of personal touches as Beatrice's was, with the furniture looking barely used and the place spotless, unlike his messy apartment in Flatbush. A bookshelf stood in place of a television, and the portrait of Joseph Rogers that had once hung in the tenement was now above the mantle, though the fireplace, too, looked untouched. She didn't even see his sketchbook; the absence of such a simple object somehow bothered her more than she could explain.
Steve went into the kitchen to prepare the drinks while Beatrice sat on one end of the couch and let her hair down, pulling out the pins and quickly running her fingers through it to get rid of any knots. When she looked up again, Steve had returned and was watching her with a slightly wistful expression.
"That reminds me of my mother's dress you wore the first Christmas we met," he remarked as he stirred the drinks. "It suits you."
Beatrice smiled, embarrassed by the compliment. She suddenly wasn't sure where to look, and settled for a spot just above his head. "You don't look so bad yourself," she replied, gesturing lamely in his direction.
Steve looked almost as self-conscious as her as he came over to place a steaming mug in her hands before taking a seat on the other end of the couch. "You'll have to thank Natasha for that. She suggested I wear something more modern tonight."
Beatrice shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she remembered what Natasha had said during the party. "You know," she began, trying to keep her tone light, "She told me that you were a good kisser."
Steve, who had been in the middle of taking a sip of his drink, suddenly started to choke, reaching up to wipe his mouth. "What?" he spluttered.
Beatrice tried her hardest not to sound accusatory. "I'd imagine it's difficult to impress her."
"We were on a mission," Steve protested. "It wasn't my idea. Natasha has a…unique sense of humor, that's all."
"It's not me you'll need to answer to if Henry finds out," Beatrice said, half-jokingly, because she had no idea how her brother would react to such a thing. He clearly held a great deal of respect for Steve, but hadn't he also said he thought Clint was good for Natasha? And why was she still thinking about this? It was a throwaway comment—it was none of her business who Steve kissed.
"Beatrice, I swear it wasn't like that," Steve argued, with surprising volition. "Believe me, Tony would have said something if it was."
Beatrice was beginning to regret bringing the matter up at all. Taking a drink of the scalding hot chocolate while she scrambled for something else to say, her eyes landed on the coffee table in front of the couch, its dark wood gleaming slightly in the light. It was worlds apart from the scuffed, three-legged table in Steve's old apartment that had had books propping it up. "Do you still play chess?" she asked, nodding at the table.
He looked slightly confused by her abrupt change of topic, but thankfully recovered quickly. "Not really. I've been too busy lately, but even if I had the time I wouldn't have anyone to play against."
Beatrice thought of the late nights spent watching Steve and Bucky play, sitting cross-legged on a couch far less comfortable than this one, keeping a tally of points and laughing at Bucky's increasingly creative insults as Steve continued to win. When she spoke again the longing in her voice was unadulterated. "I wish we could go back, Steve."
She wasn't just talking about chess anymore, but of the entire life they had given up, as humble as it had been. She missed bicycling down to the factory and reading while Steve sketched and visiting Ivan and laughing with Angie and Bucky's arms around her at the smoky dance hall. She sometimes imagined she could still taste the Coke they had shared on her tongue, and refused to drink it again lest it spoil the memory.
"Yeah," Steve said ruefully; she guessed he was thinking along the same lines as her. He offered her a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Me too. But the world needs us. Maybe now more than ever."
Beatrice looked at him skeptically. "I'm not talking about Captain America," she said quietly. "I'm talking about Steve Rogers."
He gave a short, humorless laugh, and there was a definite tone of bitterness in his voice as he replied, "Is there even a difference anymore?"
She was momentarily taken aback by the resentment in his words, but she didn't have time to react before he stood up and went over to the sink to wash out his mug. Beatrice watched him wordlessly, caught between not knowing if she should speak or stay silent. Knowing Steve as she did, he was sure to be regretting his outburst already. He was still so determined not to show any signs of weakness, not to falter from the path he had chosen. She wished she knew the other Avengers well enough to know if they were the same way, or if it was a trait unique to Steve.
"You know," she finally said after he rounded the corner to join her again, "I'm no expert on heroes, but I'd wager even they should have a break every now and then."
Steve paused; she saw his gaze flicker to where his shield proudly rested against the wall. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders forward. Beatrice recognized it immediately: it was a posture he had often adopted before the serum when he wanted to make himself appear smaller than he already was, but the gesture wasn't quite as effective now. "The problem is, we can't exactly afford to take breaks," he said ruefully. "Especially not after tonight."
It was the first time he had directly addressed the Ultron situation since they'd been in the elevator. Beatrice tensed, watching him closely. The dim light leaking inside from the half-open blinds cast his face in shadow. "Are you angry at Tony?" she asked.
Steve sighed; all the fight seemed to go out of him as he moved to close the curtains. "No," he admitted reluctantly. "We should have seen it coming, paid more attention to his fixation on the scepter. It's just like him to think he can solve everything with technology. I'm more upset that he kept his plans for Ultron from us. If I can't trust the team, who can I trust? S.H.I.E.L.D. already let me down once."
"You can trust me," Beatrice said gently.
Steve looked over at her and she saw him smile as he walked back over to the couch. "I do," he told her. "But something tells me you would let me know if you were planning to build a genocidal robot."
"In Stark's defense, I don't think he intended for it to be genocidal," Beatrice pointed out, and Steve laughed quietly, the tension momentarily broken. But it wasn't long before something else tugged at Beatrice's mind, something she knew was illogical but wouldn't leave her alone.
"Steve, I—I was wondering," she began haltingly, "Something went wrong with the scepter. If it's—if it's related to the Tesseract, and the Tesseract is inside me, does that mean I'm going to turn into a monster, too?"
He immediately came over to sit on the couch beside her. His blue eyes were very bright as he said firmly, "We don't know the exact nature of the connection between the Tesseract and the scepter. Ultron is a machine—he was never human. Besides, you could never be a monster, Beatrice."
She nodded stiffly, believing his words in spite of herself. Steve had a way of speaking that made it impossible to doubt him. "So you're going to find Ultron, then?" she asked, daring to meet his eyes again. He was close enough that she had the sudden urge to rest her head on his shoulder and take some comfort that she wasn't alone.
He hesitated before answering, but Beatrice knew what he was going to say anyway. "That's the plan. Depending on what Tony and Bruce find, we'll probably leave early tomorrow morning."
She swirled the remaining liquid in her mug and bit her lip. "What's going to happen to me?"
"That's up to you," Steve said. "For what it's worth, I don't think the tower is safe anymore."
Beatrice privately agreed with him, but even so, part of her didn't want to leave Avengers Tower just as she was beginning to feel comfortable in it. Still, there were things she knew she had to do that didn't involve staring out the window and waiting for Steve to return—the first time she'd tried that hadn't ended so well. "I'd like to go to Washington again," she confessed. "To see Henry."
Steve looked relieved, as if he had been about to suggest exactly that. "That'll work out," he remarked, nodding. "You can stay at Sam's place. I'm sure he won't mind."
"I don't want to bother him," Beatrice said quickly, embarrassed at the thought of asking Sam for even more help. "I can stay at a hotel instead."
Steve raised his eyebrows, correctly guessing her reservations. "Whatever you choose to do, I'll need the two of you to be in regular contact."
"Why?"
A dry grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he replied, "You're in charge of finding Bucky while I'm gone."
