I'd like to pause for a moment and address something I probably should have made clear earlier: Gravity is not and will not be a love triangle. That's not the story I want to write. Rather, I intended—and I hope it's coming across—that Beatrice has distinct but nuanced relationships with both Bucky and Steve, just as they have an incredibly important dynamic with each other separate from Beatrice. Of course Bucky is crucial to Beatrice and an essential part of the story. But with that being said...Steve is also included in the pairing tag for a reason. He's always been there, and I've always known the direction in which I wanted to go with him and Beatrice, just as I've always known the direction in which I wanted to go with Bucky and Beatrice. Their stories are far from over, and I hope that you'll trust these characters and their futures with me.
Beatrice woke to the sound of running water, and sleepily raised her head to see the room bathed in soft, early-morning light. She was lying on Steve's sofa, the dark gray blanket that had been folded over its arm now covering her. She didn't even remember falling asleep; she must have been more exhausted than she'd thought.
Steve had often done this when they'd lived together, Beatrice thought as she sat up and stretched. She'd always been prone to falling asleep in an armchair while reading or listening to the radio, only to wake up the next morning with a blanket over her. She wondered if he had been reminded of it, too.
The window over by the bookshelf was cracked open again to let in fresh air, the curtains fluttering slightly in the breeze, but the noise of the city was muffled from this height. Beatrice felt a peculiar sense of peace she hadn't experienced in ages—at least until she remembered Ultron and Steve's remark that Avengers Tower likely wasn't safe anymore.
It took her another moment to realize that the sound of running water was a shower and that Steve must be getting ready to leave. She took a shaky breath and stood up, casting a surreptitious glance at the bathroom door. Could she hurry back to her own suite before he came out? He'd always liked long baths from what she could recall, but she didn't know how long he'd been in there. Maybe once upon a time she would have knocked on the door and asked, but that had been the old Steve, hers and Bucky's Steve, not Captain America, the man Beatrice wasn't at all certain she recognized anymore. She had never felt entirely comfortable around Steve after he'd turned into a super soldier, and sometimes she thought he had noticed it.
But the decision was made for her by a short, sharp knock at the front door. Beatrice cast another quick glance in the direction of the bathroom before hurrying over to the door and opening it a crack, expecting to see Tony or even Natasha. But she was met with Agent Hill instead, looking as stern and professional as ever. If she was surprised to see Beatrice, she didn't show it.
"Captain Rogers wouldn't happen to be awake yet, would he?" she asked, though Beatrice was certain she was just standing on formalities: anyone who had known Steve for more than half a day could guess that he wasn't the type to sleep in past dawn.
"Yeah, he's just in the—he's just getting ready," Beatrice said, gesturing lamely to the empty suite behind her. She was dimly confused by the agent's sudden brusqueness; she could have sworn Hill had called him Steve during the party. Then again, they were no longer at a party, and were now potentially in a very dangerous situation. "He shouldn't be too much longer."
In that moment she began to wonder if there might just be a deity after all, for just as she finished speaking the door to the bathroom opened and Steve himself appeared, now dressed in a light gray t-shirt, his hair still damp and a towel thrown loosely over his shoulders. Seeing that Beatrice was talking to Hill, he strode over to the two women at once. "Any news?" he asked; he was suddenly Captain again, any trace of Beatrice's best friend that she had seen the previous night instantly disappearing.
Hill didn't even blink. "You're needed upstairs," she told him. "There's something you ought to see."
Steve nodded once, grimly, and turned to Beatrice. "Sounds like that's my cue," he said, with a slightly self-deprecating grin, tossing his towel onto the back of the nearest chair. "Are you coming?"
She looked down at her wrinkled dress and tried in vain to smooth out the creases. "I'll meet you there later," she said, more than a bit reluctantly. "I don't want to keep you waiting."
"We'll be in the archives," said Hill, turning to leave. Steve smiled at Beatrice as he passed and whispered, "I hope the couch was comfortable enough. I didn't want to wake you up." She started, surprised, and hoped Hill hadn't heard him.
But when the brunette turned back to look at Beatrice, she remarked, "You did well in Hell's Kitchen, by the way. Especially for someone who hasn't had any training."
"Really?" Beatrice asked in mild astonishment. "But we didn't catch Rumlow."
A tiny smirk appeared on Hill's face. "Hartley, it's successful if we both make it out alive and in one piece."
It was midmorning by the time Beatrice had showered and changed into more comfortable clothes. For some reason, knowing that she was the only one on the floor made her feel nervous instead of providing her with the solitude she had desired only a week beforehand, and so she didn't even bother curling her hair before tying it back into a long braid and beginning to pack all of her possessions into a leather rucksack, which took less than five minutes. Straightening up, Beatrice surveyed the rooms that had served as her temporary home at Avengers Tower—a small part of her would miss it, she realized, and hoped she would see it again someday.
You don't have to leave. Steve's words echoed in her ears again, but Beatrice quickly shook her head of the thoughts. Staying here wouldn't bring her any closer to finding Bucky—no matter what Tony Stark bragged he could do—not to mention she would be right in the line of fire if Ultron decided to return. Maybe she could move certain objects with her mind, but she was far from being able to take on a homicidal robot.
Beatrice rubbed her temples again as she reflected on what a mess the future was, slinging the rucksack over her shoulder. No matter how familiar New York looked, this would never be home. The thought put a lump in her throat.
Across the room, in the pocket of her cardigan, her cell phone erupted with a shrill ring. Beatrice jumped, but quickly recovered herself and hurried to retrieve it. Steve had showed her how to use it the previous night before she'd fallen asleep, and though Beatrice still wasn't quite used to the idea of being able to contact anyone, anywhere in the world at the touch of a button, it still wasn't the most baffling thing she had encountered in the tower.
Speaking of Steve, she hoped he wasn't trying to contact her to instruct her to stay in her suite like he had during Ultron's attack. Beatrice had been torn between hiding and running out to help them anyway, but luckily Steve had shown up before she'd had to make a decision. She was smart enough to understand that she was in way over her head. Hydra was one thing; potentially magical, dangerous alien entities were entirely another, though the two unfortunately overlapped more than she would have liked.
To her mild relief, however, the caller wasn't Steve at all, though it was an equally familiar name. Beatrice almost addressed the operator before remembering where she was and instead asked, "Sam?"
"Hey, Beatrice." The voice that greeted her was friendly but cautious. "Steve told me what happened last night after I left. Wish I'd been there to help."
Beatrice tightened her grip on the phone and, after glancing around the suite one last time, turned off the lights and slipped quietly into the hallway, feeling less alone now that she was talking to Sam. "It looked like it was something, all right," she said, hoping she sounded better than she felt.
"Yeah," Sam agreed, but he sounded wistful, as if he regretted missing the opportunity to fight. "He said the tower's probably compromised and mentioned that you want to go back to D.C."
"It's the only place I can go," Beatrice admitted as she pressed the button for the elevator. "I don't have many options at the moment."
"Good thing I have a spare bedroom, then," Sam said cheerfully.
Beatrice tried to protest, but he wasn't having any of it. "Come on. I'll show you what rock and roll is. There are some amazing bands you gotta listen to."
She sighed, but smiled despite herself. "Fine. I promise I'll pay you back somehow, Sam."
"No problem—my train leaves at noon today. Meet you at Penn Station? I'll pick up a ticket for you."
After arranging to meet at exactly half-past eleven, Beatrice ended the call feeling slightly more optimistic. That didn't last long, however, as she stepped out of the elevator into the archives, a spacious room the size of a dozen offices lit with low-hanging lamps that gave the illusion of being underground. Beatrice noticed a vintage Captain America poster framed on the wall, and bit back a smirk.
The tables were stacked with what seemed like hundreds of boxes, loose files and stray documents scattered around the room. The Avengers, however, were gathered around a computer, where Bruce sat staring intently at the screen, its bright glow reflecting on his glasses. Natasha was the first to notice her arrival; she stepped forward and handed Beatrice a rectangular tablet. "This happened early this morning."
Beatrice blinked down at it; it took her a moment before she registered what she saw, and then another before the horror kicked in. A man lay slumped, obviously dead, against the rotting wall of a jail cell. Scrawled next to his head in dripping blood was the single word PEACE.
Beatrice glanced up at the others, but her gaze lingered on Steve, the lines of his face tight with worry. "Is this Strucker?" she asked, and he nodded.
"Ultron sent us a message," Tony said, tight-lipped; there was no humor in his eyes now. "Didn't take him very long."
"The letters are fresh, but the blood around his wound is darker, meaning it's had time to dry," Beatrice remarked, almost to herself, as she studied the picture. "To oxidize."
"Then we'd better get moving," Clint announced grimly, turning away from the others to make his way to the door. "I'll get the quinjet ready."
Beatrice moved past Thor and Bruce, who were deep in conversation over one of the files, to stand beside Steve. "Where are you going?" she asked quietly.
"Johannesburg," he told her. "Well, along the coast at any rate."
"South Africa?"
"Yeah," Steve replied, rubbing the back of his neck in what she recognized as agitation. "Banner figured that Ultron killed Strucker because he knew something Ultron didn't want us to see. So we've been going through his files and saw that Hydra's been dealing in the black market for vibranium."
"Vibranium," Beatrice replied flatly, although her heart was suddenly beating very fast. "Like your shield." And Bucky's arm.
Steve nodded, and she knew the same thought had gone through his head. "We narrowed down Strucker's contacts to a man named Ulysses Klaue who was caught smuggling vibranium out of Wakanda a few years ago. Tony thinks Ultron might be looking for an upgrade."
Beatrice took a deep breath. Vibranium was nearly indestructible. If Ultron was made out of the stuff, he would become almost unstoppable. Again she remembered the flash of gleaming metal she had once seen in the Norn Stone. "So you're going to try to intercept him," she realized.
"Hopefully we'll be able to stop this before it starts." But Steve didn't sound convinced, and neither was Beatrice. She could do nothing but try to swallow down her panic and pray that he would come out unscathed. The Avengers had saved the world once, she tried to reason with herself. They could surely do it again, right?
"It is unfortunate that you cannot join us, Miss Hartley."
A deep, rumbling voice sounded from behind her, and Beatrice turned around to see Thor watching her. Although he was now dressed less conspicuously, there was something unmistakably otherworldly about him—straight out of the fairy tales Beatrice's mother had once told her. "I suspect your abilities would be an asset to us."
Beatrice felt Steve looking at her, but she kept her gaze on Thor as she rubbed her hands together awkwardly. "If I'm being honest," she admitted, "I try not to think about them too much."
Raindrops streaked against the windows of the train, racing each other down the glass. Beatrice rested her head against the cool window and watched the cities and towns flash by, interspersed with forests and farmland. Every so often she checked her phone to see if Steve had sent a message. He'd promised to let her know when they arrived in Africa, but Beatrice was unwilling to admit that she already missed him. Steve, who was her only anchor in this brave new world. He, at least, was familiar.
Sam had told her that it was a three-hour train ride to Washington, but to Beatrice it felt as if they had been traveling for an entire day. They'd been served lunch during the stop in Philadelphia, which more or less marked the halfway point, but Beatrice was already feeling hungry again—or perhaps that was because she hadn't had breakfast. At any rate, she was beginning to feel more than a bit claustrophobic in the cramped quarters, and was grateful that Sam had offered her the window seat. He was reading the newspaper now, flipping through the international section. Beatrice noticed him lingering on the mention of an unsolved triple homicide in Geneva. Her hands tightened on the armrests.
"Any new leads?" she asked quietly. Sam shook his head and folded up the paper before sliding it into the pocket of the seat in front of him.
"Nothing," he replied; Beatrice felt mingled relief and disappointment. "Wherever Barnes is, he doesn't want to be found."
She fidgeted uncomfortably and stared down at her knees. "I'm beginning to think that, too," she confessed. "But Steve seems convinced that he'll eventually come back. I want to believe him." The silent but dangled almost audibly in the air between them.
"Steve has a different perspective than most people," Sam said wisely, a grin in his voice. "Once he sets his mind to something, he doesn't give up. It's no surprise he's even more stubborn about Barnes." He raised his eyebrows. "And now he has you."
"What?"
"You're the only thing he has left from his past. Barnes lost his memories, most of his old war buddies are dead, and last I heard Agent Carter wasn't doing so well." Sam sounded authoritative but compassionate, like a teacher gently prodding a lost student in the right direction. "He's definitely happier now that you're here. Kinda worried about you adjusting, though."
Beatrice suddenly felt even guiltier for all of the times she'd snuck out to Central Park. "Did he tell you that?" she asked.
"Not in as many words," Sam said, and flashed a bright grin at her. "Just keep it in mind. Man, never thought I'd be Captain America's psychologist someday."
Beatrice laughed under her breath. "Thank you for doing this, Sam," she said fervently. "For helping him—us."
"Hey, don't thank me," he replied cheerfully. "It does come with some pretty sweet perks."
"Like being invited to one of Tony Stark's parties?"
"I'll admit I can't think of many things cooler than that."
With the mood suddenly lightened, Beatrice felt it appropriate to ask, "Why didn't you stay at the tower? It has plenty of room."
Sam shrugged. "Steve offered, but I stayed with my mom instead. I wasn't gonna come up to the city and not visit her."
Beatrice raised her eyebrows. "Are you from New York, then?"
"Harlem born and raised," Sam announced proudly. "I moved to D.C. after I left the army."
"But you like it there?"
"Sure. I got my own place, it's quieter—used to be safer, too." He was looking past Beatrice, out the window, and she followed his gaze to see, with a start, the skeleton of what must have once been the Triskelion in the distance, the towering ruins of an obviously destroyed building visible through the pouring rain. They were crossing over a railway bridge, and Beatrice guessed the river underneath was the Potomac, where Bucky had pulled Steve out of the water and saved his life. She stared at its dark gray depths as if it would somehow show her the answers she so desperately wanted.
"Hey, you okay?" Sam asked, noticing her silence. She quickly scrambled for something to say.
"Yeah. Just thinking that the last time I was on a train, it didn't go so well," Beatrice said as dryly as she could.
Sam laughed and shook his head. "You sound like Steve sometimes, you know that? Or he sounds like you."
Beatrice grinned. "I'll be sure to tell him that."
Sam lived at the end of a long row of townhouses, not far from Capitol Hill. Beatrice warmed up to it much quicker than she had warmed up to Avengers Tower, not least because it actually felt like a house that had been lived in. The walls were painted bright, cheerful colors—Beatrice wondered what had happened to perfectly good wallpaper—and were decorated with framed pictures from his time in the army. It was new, free of any painful memories the tower or New York held, and she was able to cautiously relax. Sam ordered pizza for dinner and insisted she watch at least one movie. Beatrice knew he was trying to take her mind off the situation, and she was grateful for it.
She went to bed early but couldn't sleep, staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling of the spare bedroom. Sam had asked if she wanted to accompany him to the VA the next day, but she'd politely declined, saying that she wanted to see Henry first. She'd already decided to take Natasha's advice and not tell her brother about losing the letters and nursing medals—to a Hydra agent, no less. She wasn't sure she could stand to see the look on his face if he ever found out.
Her cell phone buzzed from its place on the nightstand, and glad for a distraction, Beatrice rolled over and snatched it up, feeling a surge of relief when she saw that Steve had finally sent her a message:
We're here. Tracked Klaue down to a freighter in a salvage yard.
She was quick to reply, her thumbs clumsily swiping at the letters as she typed: Is Ultron there?
It seemed to take ages for Steve to respond, and Beatrice nearly leapt on the phone when it vibrated again: Don't know yet. Tony seems convinced that he is. How are you doing at Sam's? Isn't it after midnight there?
Pretty good, I guess. He made me watch a movie called Alien and now I can't sleep.
Just don't let him show you The Exorcist.
The dryness in Steve's response was evident; Beatrice could imagine his voice as if he was actually in the room with her. I'll keep that in mind, she told him, equally dryly.
But all traces of humor disappeared at his next message, her heart beginning to pound: Gotta go – they're calling us out.
She agonized over how to respond for a long moment, her fingers hovering over the screen, before finally settling on, Good luck, Steve.
Night, Bea. Don't worry about us.
But how could she not? She stared at the bright phone glowing in the dark room for what felt like ages, but when no response was forthcoming she set it back down with a sigh and burrowed into the pillows. He'll be fine, she repeated to herself firmly, closing her eyes. They'll be fine.
"It's not an easy life to lead."
Henry's tone, though light, was unmistakably tinged with bitterness as he told Beatrice about his time working for S.H.I.E.L.D., from his years in Russia to his retirement at the Triskelion. They must have been walking around the gardens for an hour now, Beatrice figured. She had taken Henry's arm, but her brother didn't seem tired in the least. The sky was gray with threatening rainclouds, the air heavy with humidity, but the downpour hadn't yet begun. There was a peculiar charged electricity in the air that Beatrice had always sensed before an impending storm—or maybe it was just a full moon.
"I'd imagine so," she replied slowly. "I saw the toll that working for the SSR took on Uncle Ivan."
"We had a saying back in Russia when I was a child," Henry continued, almost thoughtfully. "That during hard times, we must always sing through the darkness like the nightingale sings through the night. It was always Anya's favorite bird...but they are not native to the Americas. I would do anything to hear its song one more time."
Beatrice wondered if he had accidentally taken more of his medications than he should have that morning, but his eyes were focused and he seemed lucid enough. He was lost in memories, she realized, and her heart suddenly felt heavy.
As they passed the door to the retirement home, Beatrice glanced inside at the television to see if it had any news about the Avengers, but the top story was about a heist at Pym Technologies Headquarters in San Francisco, giving her only the tiniest modicum of relief. There had been no news from Steve since last night, and all she could tell herself was that no news was good news.
Henry was beginning to slow, so Beatrice gently guided him over to a nearby bench. When they sat down he closed his wrinkled hand over her smooth, unlined one, his green eyes earnest. "Do you still have the Norn Stone?" he asked.
Beatrice nodded thickly past the lump in her throat. That, at least, she still had. "Do—do you want it back?"
Her brother laughed, shaking his head gently. "I have seen enough of life to be able to know people's thoughts without a stone to guide me. Humans are not such complicated creatures. No, what I meant to ask is has it revealed its visions to you?"
A flash of red, white, and blue. Light glinting off metal. Glowing crimson eyes. A city with skyscrapers as tall as the clouds. A ruined golden gauntlet. Steve and Bucky crouching, facing her, Bucky raising his rifle—
"Some of them," Beatrice confessed, hoping Henry hadn't noticed her lapse in concentration. Not for the first time, she wished that Natasha had been the one to inherit it instead of her.
"All will come true in time," Henry said sagely, but instead of his words comforting Beatrice, her sense of foreboding only grew.
She pulled the baseball cap low over her face as she trailed along behind a tour group on their way to the Captain America exhibit. Although she knew that there wouldn't be any photos of her here and even if there were, no one would think to make the connection, she felt silly all the same, as if she was a child playing dress-up.
She'd finally gone to the Smithsonian at Henry's urging, though admittedly her curiosity had been piqued long before then. Especially since she knew Bucky had been here. How much had he seen? How much had he remembered?
Beatrice ducked her head as she entered the exhibit, surrounded by groups of schoolchildren and elderly people who were probably old enough to remember the war themselves. A recording of an old radio broadcast played in the background as she examined a larger-than-life, faintly ridiculous cardboard cutout of Captain America solemnly saluting, his painted eyes staring into the distance, which was accompanied by a quote from the current president, Matthew Ellis. After Beatrice had completely suppressed the urge to laugh, she moved farther into the exhibit, her smile wiped away quickly by the sight of a picture of Steve before he had taken the serum, squinting awkwardly into the sun. Beatrice lingered at the display for longer than most of the guests, reading the scrolling screen that offered a basic summary of his life story before he had been recruited by the SSR. Nobody, she noticed, seemed to take much interest in his pre-army days, most of them giving the section a cursory glance before moving on to his transformation into a super soldier. When she caught sight of one of the security guards staring at her, she grudgingly headed to the next section, where she was met with a television screen on which an interview with Peggy Carter played. Beatrice couldn't miss the flash of emotion in the normally steely agent's dark eyes when she spoke of Steve's sacrifice, and she found that she couldn't watch the entire clip, ducking her head instead and staring at her feet.
She moved slowly through the exhibit, examining the replicas of Steve's various motorcycles and the outfits worn by the Howling Commandos—including Bucky's navy blue peacoat, the one he had been wearing when she had last seen him in 1944. Beatrice barely noticed that her sweaty fingers had torn a hole in her admission ticket until she moved to wipe a hand on her jeans and bits of paper fluttered out of her pocket. She bent to pick them up, turned around—and her eyes landed on him.
Bucky.
No, not Bucky—it was just a picture of him, his steely eyes boring into the camera, the harsh lines of his face even more evident in the black-and-white photo. It must have been taken sometime after Zola's experimentation on him. Beatrice wasn't sure how long she just stood there, staring at him, until the words on his display began to blur and she found she couldn't breathe properly. She blindly rounded the corner, forcing herself to inhale as deeply as she could, and to her great relief found a quiet alcove with a cushioned bench.
Beatrice hadn't realized her knees were shaking until she sat down, and she raised her head, tuning out the distant chatter of the exhibit. It was impossible to look at anything with any measure of detachment, as if she hadn't already lived through it herself.
Her eyes caught on a small gold plaque mounted on the wall just across from her, on the other side of Bucky's display. The print was large enough that she could easily read it, a strange jolt going through her when she saw her own name:
Beatrice Hartley (1920-1944) grew up in Brooklyn, New York alongside Steve Rogers, indeed being one of the few people closest to him before his transformation alongside her fiancé, Bucky Barnes. During the war, she served in the Army Nurse Corps for eighteen months, assigned to the 53rd Field Hospital in the European Theater. She went missing in the Alps in December 1944, presumed to be on a rescue mission for Barnes. Her body was never found.
"You're the second person this month to notice that plaque."
Beatrice whirled around to see a middle-aged woman approaching her, her nametag identifying her as a tour guide. "W—what?" she stammered.
"There was a man here a couple of weeks ago," the guide replied. "He was very scruffy-looking—I thought he was homeless at first. He just stood there and stared for about ten minutes. Wasn't with anyone else from what I could tell."
"Oh," Beatrice said faintly. Her heart was beating very fast. "It is…out of the way."
"I've been giving tours since this exhibit opened, and rumor has it Steve Rogers himself requested that her memorial be placed here," the other woman said, nodding at the plaque. "Those army nurses did a lot of work during the war, but the history books have forgotten them. The soldiers are brave indeed, but what about the nurses who healed them?"
"Maybe she didn't want an elaborate memorial," Beatrice said. "Beatrice Hartley, I mean."
The guide shrugged. "I suppose Captain Rogers did know her best. He must miss her and Sergeant Barnes terribly. Nurse Hartley was indeed as much of a hero as both of them." With that, she patted Beatrice on the shoulder and walked away, leaving the other woman staring open-mouthed after her.
Sam was already home by the time Beatrice found her way back from the Smithsonian after spending the better part of the afternoon trying to figure out the subway—but this time he wasn't alone. There was a woman with him, a striking dark-skinned brunette with a wide smile.
"Beatrice, this is Zoe Hayes. She works at the VA," Sam said when she entered, stepping forward to introduce them. "Zoe, this is Beatrice Hartley, Steve's friend."
"Nice to meet you," Beatrice said as she shook the other woman's hand; her grip was firm and self-assured. "I've heard a lot of good things about the VA."
"And I've heard a lot of good things about you," Zoe commented, stepping back to look her up and down. "Has anyone ever told you that you have sad eyes?"
Beatrice was taken aback. "What?"
"Sweetie, you don't work where I do and not start to notice a pattern after a while. People who have seen war—they have a certain look in their eyes. Even if Sam didn't tell me who you were, I would have known you served at some point. Right, honey?" She grinned up at Sam, who had put an arm around her shoulders.
"Can't get anything past her," he said, with a matching smile. "Hey, we're going out to dinner at a new Italian place downtown. Want to join us?"
Beatrice looked back and forth between the two of them. It would ostensibly be a date. "No, thanks," she replied. "I've been out all day and I want to rest for a bit."
Neither of them could quite hide the looks of relief on their faces. "No problem," Sam said cheerily. "We'll bring you leftovers."
After bidding them goodbye, Beatrice flopped onto one of the kitchen chairs, staring at the clock ticking on the wall. Now that she was alone with nothing to occupy her thoughts, she suddenly regretted not taking them up on their offer.
Her phone rang shrilly on the table in front of her, and she was so startled by the sound that she picked it up without looking at the number. "Hello?"
"Beatrice." Steve sounded unusually exhausted; her name came out like a sigh.
"Steve!" she exclaimed in delight. "I was worried sick about you! Is everyone all right?"
He took a moment to respond, and she instantly knew something was very wrong. "Have you seen the news?"
"No," Beatrice said slowly. "What happened?"
"We found Ultron, but he was ready for us. He got away with Klaue's vibranium."
"How?" she gasped, her mouth going dry.
"He's enlisted help," Steve told her; she had never heard such utter defeat in his voice, mixed with something Beatrice had a harder time identifying. "Strucker was experimenting on human subjects in Sokovia with the scepter before we destroyed the base. From what we know, there are only two survivors from the entire project. Wanda and Pietro Maximoff. The scepter gave them…abilities."
"So they're Enhanced? Like me?" Beatrice's head was spinning at this new information, and she had to press her palm against her forehead as if to slow down her racing thoughts.
"Yeah. They have a vendetta against Tony because a Stark Industries bomb killed their parents, and teaming up with Ultron is the best way to get revenge. They took us all down and Ultron escaped before we even knew what was happening. I've never seen anything like it, Beatrice. Pietro—he can move faster than the speed of sound. It's impossible to see him coming. And Wanda...I can't exactly explain what she does. She gives you visions, I guess. Hallucinations. I don't know what the others saw, but it shook everyone up pretty bad."
"Like the vision I saw in the scepter," Beatrice mused. She remembered how real everything had felt: the timbre of Bucky's voice, the precise gray of his eyes.
"Bruce turned into the Hulk and destroyed half of Johannesburg," Steve continued dully. "Tony managed to intervene, but by the time he could do anything it was too late to avoid any damage."
Beatrice's heart dropped. "Oh my God. Were there any fatalities?"
"I hope not," he said darkly. "Tony's sending in the Stark Relief Foundation. We won't know the extent of the damage for another couple of days."
"What about the rest of the team?" she asked, gripping the phone tightly.
"We're...not good," Steve admitted. "We can't get back to Avengers Tower. Clint says he's taking us to a safe house."
"So you don't know when you'll be back," Beatrice clarified. Her heart was thudding painfully against her chest.
He paused. "No."
"Do you have any idea where Ultron and the twins are now? I can try to take them on—"
"Beatrice, don't—don't get yourself caught in this." He sounded urgent, his voice suddenly taking on an air of desperation. "Stay in D.C. with Sam. We'll figure something out."
She hesitated before speaking again. "What did you see in your vision?"
"Peggy," he finally said after a long silence broken only by the faint crackling of the phone, and her heart dropped into her stomach again.
"I'm sorry, Steve."
"Don't apologize. It's not your fault. I'm sorry for doing this. I promise I'll be back as soon as possible." She could hear muffled talking in the background and an affirmation from Steve before his words became audible again. "Barton says we're almost there."
Beatrice squeezed her eyes tightly shut before opening them again, and with as much levity as she could muster, she told him, "Just hurry home, soldier. That's an order."
"Yes, ma'am." She could hear a tired smile in Steve's reply, and for the first time Beatrice understood what the strange tone was in his voice.
Fear.
As soon as the line was disconnected, Beatrice dropped her head into her hands. "This isn't good," she moaned.
"No, it isn't."
Beatrice's head immediately snapped up to see, of all people, Nick Fury standing at the entrance to the kitchen, with his telltale eyepatch and long, dark coat, shrouding him in darkness. She hadn't even heard him come in. "Director Fury!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. "What are you doing here? Does Sam know?"
"Nobody does," he said, taking a step forward. His one visible eye was fixed, unwavering, on her. "I decided to stop by on my way to Iowa."
"Iowa?"
"Believe me, it wasn't my first choice either." Fury raised his eyebrows. There were no greetings or pleasantries with him; he always jumped straight to the point, dismissing the superficial. "Have you ever been to Romania, Hartley?"
This entire day was fast turning into the realm of the surreal; Beatrice's head was still spinning. "No?" she said faintly, phrasing it like a question. How the hell had he gotten into the house without her noticing? How had he even gotten inside in the first place? Sam was going to kill her.
"Then get packing, because you're about to be."
"I don't understand," Beatrice said, frustrated. Her fingers curled around her phone, as if she was preparing to throw it at him. "I can't leave D.C. Why are you sending me to Romania?"
Fury remained calm and composed as Beatrice grew more agitated; she had the feeling it would take much more than she was capable of to provoke any sort of reaction from him. "Because Rogers is currently busy trying to stop a psychopathic robot, and you're the next best person to find Barnes before Hydra does. Again."
