A/n: OKAY PALS, HERE WE FINALLY ARE. First: if you have not read part 1 and 2, NOW is the time where SPOILERS ABOUND. If you're cool with that, by all means, keep reading. But this is your official warning that this chapter will contain fairly major spoilers for parts 1 and 2. Second: this is the final chapter, but there will also be en epilogue, wrapping up a few loose ends. This chapter is a bit lengthy, but hopefully many of your questions will be answered. Between this and the epilogue, this is the ending I have promised since I started this whole epic and I hope you enjoy, and I hope the journey was worth it. \o/ Third: If you haven't already listened to Ragna's mix for this fic, do it noooow. ;D(find it on AO3)
"What I didn't know at the time was that tomorrow would prove less important than yesterday." – Claire, Outlander
[ NEW YORK, 2013 ]
When the dust had settled, the S.H.I.E.L.D. teams had moved in. They found the Avengers, bruised, banged up, shell-shocked but otherwise unharmed, scattered around a giant crater in the ground.
In the middle of a crater, surrounded by debris that had once formed a house, was a crunched metal cube the size of a large bedroom. The top of the cube had been ripped off like the lid of a tin can. Hulk held the roof in his fist as he grunted and grumbled.
Inside the metal cube, the agents discovered an array of broken and melted machine parts, as well as the body of one Hector Lazarus.
The Avengers had stopped the bomb.
[ TONY ]
First, there were trips to S.H.I.E.L.D. medical, and a bunch of debriefings with Fury about what the hell had happened—collectively with Lazarus and with the bomb, individually with each team member's insane bop through time. Eventually, they were cleared to go to the Tower.
Well, "cleared" was the polite way of putting it.
Tony wasn't exactly feeling up to sharing every detail of his adventure yet, and neither was anyone else, so after they'd laid out the basics—time travel, weeks away, nearly dying a few times—he naturally resorted to complaining loudly about every further briefing. Natasha looked wobbly with exhaustion, Bruce kept tuning out of the conversation, Steve kept asking if they could please just come back later. Fury's frown got frownier with each interruption and complaint.
Then Thor pretty much threatened damage to Fury's shiny new conference rooms if they didn't get to home for some rest immediately—in-depth details could wait. Clint promised they'd be back in a couple days for thorough dissection.
"Fine, go home," Fury growled, when his apparent tolerance for their exhausted lack of cooperation had reached absolute peak (or valley). "Briefing, day after tomorrow, first thing." He fixed them each with a classic, steely Or Else glare.
"Aye, aye," Tony saluted, and Clint more or less hurried them all from the building before Fury changed his mind.
A lump of emotion lodged in Tony's throat when he stepped back into the Tower. Home . He couldn't even properly process the idea just yet, even though he was standing inside, walking across the floor, shedding his suit…his suit. He was afraid that at any moment he'd wake up on a smelly cot, staring up at the stars, and his medieval misadventures wouldn't be over.
He couldn't decide what to do first: call Pepper (for the nth time—he forgot she was at a conference thing in Tokyo, which meant his two-in-the-afternoon was her three-in-the-morning, but he also didn't care because he just needed to hear her voice), get a cheeseburger (because, after her voice, that was the first thing he needed when he got out of the cave), or to actually stop and hug each of his team members (even if Natasha tried to punch him).
Tony turned to Bruce, who was looking around the Tower the same way Tony was—like he hadn't seen it in far too long, like he thought he'd never see it again. For the rest of the world, they went on a mission this morning and came home in the afternoon. For Tony, it'd been a month or more; he didn't really know how long it was for the rest of them yet.
Bruce exhaled and glanced at Tony. "We're back," he mumbled, and the emotion warring in his eyes was overwhelming.
Tony swallowed. He wanted to ask what happened—wanted to tell them what had happened to him, really—but he needed time to process as much as they did. So he settled for hugging it out with Bruce, while Clint and Natasha embraced, and Thor clapped Steve's back.
"I'm sorry it took so long," Bruce said into Tony's shoulder.
"It doesn't matter," Tony promised. Because it really didn't—not now that all six of them were back where they belonged, in place and time. Home.
Clint nearly shoved Tony out of the way so he could hug Bruce, and he couldn't hear what the archer was saying, only that Bruce's eyes got shiny. Then Thor's chest filled Tony's vision and Tony's bones crushed together, his feet lifted off the ground, and the breath was nearly squeezed out of him.
"Okay, yes, okay, that's enough hugging," Tony sputtered, staggering away from Thor, who laughed and proceeded to crush Bruce in an alleged hug next.
"You okay?" Natasha nudged Tony's elbow, and she didn't mean the round of demi-god embraces. She studied him in her Natasha-way.
"Kinda—not really." Tony shrugged. "You?"
Natasha tilted her head to the side. "Eh. Kinda, not really."
Clint cleared his throat loudly. "I know everybody probably needs a minute, but, we cool to just order in and hangout tonight?"
"God yes," said Steve.
"Square deal," Tony agreed.
"And nobody has to talk if they don't want to," Clint added quickly. "Unless they...want to."
Bruce tucked his hands against his elbows. "Thanks."
"Welp, I need to fix something. Literally something." Tony clapped his hands and made a beeline for the elevator.
He could feel some mushy stuff coming from a mile away, as much as he was grateful to be with them, as much as he needed them, and his heart hurt with relief that they were all okay, he—yeah. He needed a minute. The rest of the team broke off behind him to their own corners of the Tower.
For the first time in months—or hours, depending on how you measured—Tony's world spun onto the correct axis when he walked into the lab. JARVIS greeted him and offered to pull up the projects Tony had last been working on, DUM-E chirped and rolled out of his corner. Something like peace washed through him—he was home. He was okay, and alive, and he was home.
Well, "okay" was relative.
Tony caught his reflection in one of the monitors. He scrubbed his hand over his face—his beard was normal, his hair short. Bruce had reset them all to the day the bomb went off, and he knew that, logically—Fury had explained repeatedly to them that it was the same day as when they left for the mission.
It wasn't like the cave, where he came home with a reactor in his chest, a dislocated shoulder, and months of grime soaked into his skin. No, this time, Tony wasn't shaggy-haired and malnourished, beaten and bruised. He flexed his hands—clean, unblemished. No sign of the beating he took from Black Peadair, no marks from Myhll and the stocks, no evidence that anything had happened at all.
It was so strange in it's normalcy—him, the lab, the Tower. He'd lived for weeks that technically didn't exist, now. He was normal and unchanged on the outside, but inside…
He grabbed a wrench off the desk and spun on his heel, thrusting and parrying the tool—just to prove Dommal's lessons had been real, that his body somehow remembered, that it really had happened to him and wasn't all some elaborate hallucination. He turned and swung the wrench, imagining it was a sword. It wasn't exactly muscle memory, but it was close enough.
"Still got it," he mumbled, giving the wrench a flip.
"Practicing your fencing, sir?" JARVIS chimed in.
"Not since sixth grade, J, you know that." He sighed. He did, however, kinda want to try his luck against Thor. Maybe even continue his journey to being an epic sword warrior-knight thing.
Since he couldn't call Pepper, he called Rhodey.
"Hey man, what's up?" said Rhodey when he answered the video call.
Tony's eyes stung, but he blinked quickly, hoping Rhodey couldn't see the shine over the feed. He cleared his throat before he replied, "Nothing. Nothing much. Just got home from a crazy mission."
"Everything turn out all right?"
Tony touched his hand to his chest, where the Scotsman's sword had been aiming. He pictured poor Dommal, leaning against that tree, pale and unmoving.
"Tony?" Rhodey's forehead crinkled with concern.
"Yeah."
Rhodey hesitated. "You okay? You sound a bit..."
Tony's lips quirked into a half-smile. "You're not going to believe me." But he told Rhodey, as best he could, what happened.
When he finished the highlights reel, Rhodey leaned back in his chair. "Well, shit, Tony. Holy... shit ."
"Yeah."
"So…" Rhodey shook his head and couldn't seem to decide how to react. Tony wouldn't know either, if roles had been reversed. "Okay, so, other than all the near-dying and the fact that it was the Dark Ages, how was it?"
This was why Rhodey was his best friend. Rather than have to share the gritty details when they were still fresh and raw, strange and stinging, he teased and let Tony play along.
"They touched my food. They handed me things."
"Oh, Tony," Rhodey groaned—half sympathetic, half mocking.
"No, I'm serious. Hygiene was not a priority. Have you slept on a hay cot beside a guy who hasn't showered in, you know, ever? Because now I have."
"But what about battle? Did you have to like, really get in there? Game of Thrones–style? Were you the laughing stock of a bunch of mighty swordsmen?" Rhodey raised his eyebrows like he was seriously asking, but his mouth twitched with suppressed laughter.
"Rhodes, did you hear me? Hygiene."
Rhodey couldn't contain his laughter anymore.
Tony stared without blinking and repeated, "Hygiene, Rhodey. I swear to God—and by the way, I was actually great with a sword."
"I bet you were."
"I won a duel. I told you, I won the duel. I am officially a duelling master."
"You said you didn't even use a sword in the last round!"
They went on the same vein for a good twenty minutes before winding down and Tony promised to call again soon.
"You better—you gotta tell me more about this Dommal kid," said Rhodey. "Sounds like a good dude."
Tony swallowed. "Yeah."
"Hey, Tony—I'm really glad you're okay."
Okay was still pretty relative, but Tony said, "Me too."
[ NATASHA ]
"Is it weird to...miss someone who may not ever exist?" Natasha traced her finger over the bedspread.
"They existed to you," said Clint.
They'd retreated to his room and curled up on his bed, facing each other, knees touching. Clint went first, with a Cliff's Notes version of his adventure, and Natasha went next. Somehow, New Australia was as real as the fabric under her fingertips and yet as abstract and intangible as a dream.
"If we manage to change the path that brought that...world into being, though, then they might never be born, or have a life, or anything." Natasha frowned. The idea that the world—any world—would never see someone like Garrett or Ophie, Edie or Veer, made her gut twist.
"Maybe. Or maybe they will, just not how you know them," Clint reasoned. "Maybe they get to grow up in a world that isn't half-dead and basically Divergent."
What would Garrett be doing, Natasha wondered, if he'd never have to lead a rebellion? Never lose his sister? Never watch the world become divided by abilities and perceived worth? She couldn't help wishing there was a way she could find out, short of time-travelling again. Or living another, like, two hundred years.
She couldn't stop picturing her last moments in New Australia—bleeding out on the floor, hearing the Coals raging ever closer, and Garrett, shot and bleeding too…
Clint closed his fingers around hers. He didn't need to say a word, and Natasha knew what he was telling her anyways. It's okay, you're home now. We have a chance to change it.
Natasha let out a heavy sigh. "Time travel."
Clint snorted. "It was a freaking trip, that's for sure. In more ways than one."
"How long were you in 1946 before you got punched?" Natasha teased, and Clint groaned into his pillow. "That has to be a record."
"If a list exists for Top Idiot Things To Do While Time-Travelling, I definitely am at the top of it." Clint let out another groan, facing Natasha again with a pained expression. "It is literally a miracle I did not destroy the entire history of S.H.I.E.L.D. or Tony Stark or everything."
Natasha nudged his knee with hers. "It wasn't that bad…"
"I helped solve a case I'd already read in the future—that's like, Time Travel 101 of Do Not Do, right?"
Natasha blinked and sat up. "Hold on—hold on—"
Clint moaned, sitting up as well. "I know. See, I said it was bad."
"No, Clint —the case you solved. Oh my God." Natasha snatched her phone from the nightstand, hastily logging into a secure S.H.I.E.L.D. server so she could search through archive files. "The report on the case…"
"What?" Clint wiggled closer so he could peer at her screen.
"You said you remembered the case because it had to do with the Hydra and Tesseract research, right?" She thumbed through folders of data and folders.
"Yeah…"
"I read those too, when Fury brought Selvig in."
1969, 1952, 1943, c'mon, where is it… Someday, Fitz promised to make the archives organized and searchable by keywords and tags. But there was inevitably, understandably always something more important to work on than a seventy-year catalogue of digitized S.S.R. and S.H.I.E.L.D. files.
"The one about the guns…because Fury had wanted to look into weapons research, right…" She bit her lip. "There was the whole thing about some of the former Commandos working with the S.S.R and an informant…"
"That is...more or less what happened," Clint chuckled. "If you count Peggy pretty much taking charge of the situation and calling in Dugan and Gabe and me. Hey, do you think this basically makes me an honorary Commando?"
Ah-hah! Natasha flicked open the file and skimmed through the pages of the report. Her pulse raced.
"Clint... Look at the part about the CI." She shoved her phone at him and his jaw slowly fell open.
He read aloud, "'A confidential informant was brought into the S.S.R. and was questioned about the ongoing investigation. The informant, known as C.B., provided vital information which led Agent Carter to the warehouse on the night in question.' "
He stared at Natasha. "I'm...C.B. Holy shit. But I never—I don't remember reading it with a name in there."
Natasha shook her head. "I remembered that there was an informant in the case, but couldn't remember if there was a name or not. I wanted to see if the report had changed."
"I'm C.B.," Clint repeated. "I changed history after all."
"That's the thing, Clint...I don't think you did."
He set her phone down between them. "What do you mean? It's right there—my initials are in a field report from nineteen-freaking-forty-six. The dates aren't what I remember reading when I wrote it out for Peggy."
"But that report always had an informant in it," said Natasha.
Clint's forehead crinkled as he tried to untangle it. Natasha could barely figure it out herself, too. Somehow, she'd read these files, read this incident from the past, and somehow Clint had always been a part of it, even though the bomb had just happened. They'd reversed the bomb, yet Clint's impact on the past remained.
"So...what happened...happened," Natasha tried. That was the explanation on Lost , right? It'd been a while since she'd binged it with Clint. "The past was your present even though it already happened in history, but...hadn't happened for you?"
"It was a Time Turner thing," Clint mumbled. "I Prisoner of Azkaban-ed myself."
Natasha chuckled.
He flopped back onto his pillow. "Aw, time travel."
[ TONY ]
"J, what time is it in Tokyo, now?"
"It is nearly four-thirty a.m. in the morning, sir."
Tony shrugged. "Close enough. Dial Ms. Potts?" It rang longer than usual before Pepper finally picked up, her greeting an incoherent groan into her cell phone.
"Pep?"
"Tony?" her voice slurred. "What's going on? It's…it's four in the morning here."
"Sorry, I just…" He exhaled, struggling to rein in emotions. He'd gone so long without her, and after everything… He remembered standing out in the grass, after his first real taste of battle, and the consuming ache that had gnawed on his bones. Pepper, Pepper, Pepper.
"Did you blow up the lab again?" she asked, still half-asleep, worry bleeding into her voice.
He smiled and didn't get a chance to answer before Pepper was huffing out an irritated sigh.
"God, Tony, I told you the last time that you and Bruce were messing around with those chemicals that you needed to be more careful. Did you call the fire department? Am I going to get another angry letter from the insurance guys? If you two would act like the geniuses you are instead of throwing around…"
As Pepper ranted, Tony simply listened happily until she slowed to a stop.
"Sorry," he said. His cheeks tingled from smiling so hard. Pepper.
"Did you hurt yourself? Is Bruce okay?"
"No," he answered. "No, I'm fine—we're fine. I love you."
Pepper fell silent, and her words were sharp as a stab when she said, "Wait—Tony, I swear to God, if you're about to fly a missile into space again or something even more insane and dangerous—"
"No, no, I'm in the Tower—I'm home. Pep, it's fine. I'm fine."
Tony kept grinning. She could probably hear it in his voice and it would worry her all the more, but he couldn't help it. Her voice filled him up and chased away the icy homesickness that had taken root in his chest for weeks on end. This was real—he was really home. Home.
"Are you sure?" she pressed.
"I just got home from a mission. I promise, everything's fine. I—it was a rough one. Bruce got us home, though." He took a breath but his voice still wobbled when he added, "I missed you."
Pepper sighed—the warm, affectionate one that meant this is not really the time but I appreciate it anyway. "I miss you, too," she said gently.
"I'll see you—when you're done with the conference."
"Okay. Good night, Tony. I love you, too." Her voice edged back towards sleep now that the perceived crisis had passed.
"Good night. Oh, wait—Pep?"
"Mm?"
"Do you have any distant, distant Scottish relatives?"
She sighed again. "I don't think so—I don't know, why?"
"No reason. G'night, Pep."
"Bye, Tony."
[ CLINT ]
Clint wasn't sure what time it was, only that he'd probably eaten his weight in pizza, Chinese takeout, shawarma, and snacks, and he couldn't sleep. Though whether that was the heartburn, the experiences of his team still swirling in his brain or the fact that he'd been a part of S.H.I.E.L.D. history without knowing it, he couldn't be sure.
He hadn't been surprised that nobody could choose one place to get food from, nor that in the end they ordered a little bit of everything, nor that they'd eaten a million snacks while waiting for their orders to arrive. The indigestion was real, however, and Clint wandered up to the roof for some fresh air.
He was also not at all surprised to find he wasn't alone when he got there. Insomniac Tower became a nickname for a reason, after all.
Steve nodded in greeting. "Couldn't sleep?"
Clint shrugged. "Not usually."
He settled onto the bench beside Steve, who passed him a beer from the half-empty six-pack at his feet. When Tony had realized the frequency at which the resident insomniacs—so, all six of them, to varying degrees—frequented the roof at night, he'd gone ahead and installed a long bench and a metal gazebo to shelter it from the rain. And because he was Tony, it also had a Plexiglas enclosure that could be turned on to block out the wind, though tonight the air was still, filled only with the soft white noise of the city below.
"I get why you fell for her," said Clint quietly. "She's absolute dynamite."
Steve smiled. "Yeah, she was incredible."
"I'm sorry it was me instead of you."
He'd already apologized for it twice to Steve throughout dinner, as they all swapped stories in chaotic, overlapping bits and pieces. Cap looked a little like he'd been punched in the gut every time Clint mentioned his trip to the 40s, and Clint couldn't help feeling guilty, however irrationally.
"Nothing you could've done," said Steve. "It's not like any of us had a choice." He idly sipped his beer. It did nothing for him, but he liked the taste.
"Still. Should've been you." Clint sighed.
"I don't know that I would've been able to come back from that if it were me," Steve admitted. "I probably would've found a way to stay and that…much as I think I'd want it, I don't think it'd be right."
A plane droned in the night sky above them. Clint thought back to late nights with Steve, up talking until dawn, and the sadness and regret that laced Steve's last memories before the ice. Somehow, that was missing from him now.
"What changed?" Clint wondered, and sipped his beer.
Steve fiddled with the label on his bottle. "I had the chance to stop Lazarus. I saw him—a younger version of him, in the past, before he did any of his horrible crimes. At least the ones we know of. I could've gotten out of the car, stopped him, changed his mind, something…but I didn't."
"Why not?"
"Because it meant leaving a kid to the mercies of a crime lord. Grabbing Lazarus meant...maybe a chance to turn things around, or maybe a chance to make it so much worse. Helping that kid was something I could do—could absolutely do, and that was the right thing." Steve exhaled. "I'd do it again, if it came to it."
Clint smiled fondly. He didn't know what he'd do given the same chance—probably ran Lazarus over, damn the consequences, and who knows where they'd all be now. Maybe it was a good thing after all that Cap had been given that dilemma and not him.
"Fair enough," said Clint. "But that's a completely different situation then getting a second chance with the love of your life."
"But it also wouldn't have been the right thing." Steve crumpled the beer label into a little paper ball and flicked it into the gravel at their feet. "Because...I belong here, now. Staying behind in that time...it's not right, anymore. It wouldn't be the right choice to make. I'm not saying I believe in destiny, but...I think I do belong here, now."
And dammit, Clint wasn't one to get mushy, but it was pretty hard not to when Captain America had a tear in his eye too. He cleared his throat and looked away for a good minute so they could both compose themselves.
"Well, shit," Clint murmured.
Steve let out another long sigh. "I can't believe it took a mad scientist throwing me into the 70s to make me figure out I have moved forward, but...here we are."
Clint held up his bottle. "Here we are."
Steve clinked his bottle against Clint's and they both took a long drink.
"So," said Clint. "Did I mention Peggy punched me when we first met?"
Steve choked on his beer. "You conveniently left that out—what did you do?"
And as Clint recounted his first meeting with Peggy in greater detail, the ensuing punch by Dugan, Clint's arrest, and his first interrogation with Phillips, Steve laughed hard and long, clutching a hand to his chest and nearly falling off the bench. It was good to hear him laugh.
[ THOR ]
The day of the S.H.I.E.L.D. debriefing, the glorious smell of baking drew Thor to the kitchen early. He was not surprised to find Bruce there, with three different kinds of bread in various stages of completion.
"Morning," Thor greeted, already eyeing the fresh loaf on the counter by the oven.
"Morning." Bruce chuckled as he kneaded a batch of dough. "Go ahead."
Thor grinned, cutting into the warm sourdough with relish.
"I have missed this, Banner," he said, settling onto one of the stools. He had to restrain himself from polishing off the entire thing—something Darcy had once informed him was actually rather impolite to do.
"Me too," Bruce replied.
Thor had meant Bruce's baking, but the wistfulness in his friend's reply made him smile warmly all the same. Thor had missed everything—being in the Tower, being near his teammates and family. He had missed learning to bake from Bruce and learning how not to cook from Tony. Bruce, it was plain, had missed it, too.
"I know, um, I was in a future that hopefully will never exist, but, uh…" Bruce shrugged, dusting his hands with more flour. "Jane misses you, man. Or...I guess, missed you, past tense. She was devastated when you never came back."
"I love her too," Thor murmured fondly. As soon as he was done with his duties to Fury today, he was going straight to her side. It had been far too long.
"And, um, Heimdall? Cool dude." Bruce cracked a little side smile. "Intimidating as hell, but very cool."
Thor let out a boom of laughter. "You had quite a time. Anything else I should know?"
Bruce hesitated, pressing his bread dough slowly and thoughtfully. Thor waited patiently while Bruce tried to find the words he wanted.
"Um...your mom," said Bruce. "She...she still has hope for, um, Loki."
His expression was conflicted then and Thor could guess the worry in him. Thor wasn't the only one who dwelled frequently on his failures at the Helicarrier, it seemed.
"I don't know." Bruce sighed, placing the dough in a bowl and placing it by the heat of the oven. "I just thought you ought to, um, know that."
"Thank you."
Thor supposed he still had hope for his brother, too. But now it was a cautious hope—a small ember tempered by experience. He was no longer blindly desperate for the brother he grew up with to return—that Loki was truly dead. He couldn't predict what the future held, only that Loki would pay for his crimes against Midgard, and Thor would hold his heart at arm's length unless Loki could earn it back.
Thor got up to help Bruce take care of the dishes piled up in the sink—Tony insisted on a top-of-the-line dishwasher, and yet Bruce insisted that washing them by hand was therapeutic. As if drawn to the kitchen by the unnecessary noise of clinking dishes, Tony strode in, rolling his eyes.
"I swear, why do I even bother," he grumbled, heading straight for the coffee and snatching up a slice of bread on the way. He moaned loudly with each bite.
"Do, uh, we need to leave you alone with that?" Bruce chuckled.
Tony swallowed his mouthful. "Please keep baking bread forever."
"There is another in the oven," Thor told him, drying his hands on a tea towel.
"Thank God. You guys don't even know—the stuff they called bread back there…" Tony shuddered. "I mean, yes, technically, I supposed the ingredients qualified, but this…dear God, Bruce."
Thor laughed, smacking Tony affectionately on the back. "It is a wonder you survived, Tony."
"You're telling me." Tony snorted. "Hey, I wanted to ask you, as the resident otherworldly warrior, can you teach me sword-fighting?"
" Sword-fighting ?" Bruce paused in his scrubbing to raise his eyebrows at Tony. "I think your medieval adventures went to your head."
"What?" Tony glanced between them. "I learned some moves, and I wanna do more of 'em. Tell me you don't want to be a badass with a sword, and I'll call you a dirty liar, Banner."
"I'd be honored, Stark." Thor clapped Tony's back again. "If you can keep up."
Tony responded by shoving another entire slice of bread in his mouth—the last piece, Thor noted, much too late—and stalking out of the kitchen, coffee pot in hand.
"There's another one in the oven," Bruce reminded him, laughing at the expression on Thor's face.
[ BRUCE ]
At S.H.I.E.L.D., Fury wanted every detail they could muster up. For the Avengers who crashed into the past, he wanted to make sure they hadn't torn a hole in history, and for those who went to the future, he was intent on doing what they could to find ways to avoid such future dystopias (including his own untimely death).
Bruce filled out report after report on his experiences, while his teammates did the same. By mid-afternoon, Bruce was finally pulled into the main conference room to take his turn going over his journey with Fury and a couple other high-level agents. Towards the end of the recap, Fury called Natasha in, too.
"Well, conclusions? Suggestions?" Fury folded his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair.
"Um," Bruce glanced at Natasha.
She shrugged but answered, "From what I saw, somehow, our disappearance directly unbalanced the world as we know it."
She frowned a little, and Bruce knew the feeling. Even though he'd experienced it firsthand—a world overflowing with supervillains and chaos—it seemed impossible that it was because of them, this team, specifically. This ragtag group, inexplicably, was that directly tied into the fabric of the universe that their removal set the future on a collision course to horror. They hadn't even existed a couple years ago.
"One of the books I read basically said the disappearance of the Avengers created a void that was never filled. So now that we're back...theoretically, our mere existence from here on should avoid a lot of the terrible things that happened."
Bruce huffed. "Yeah, no pressure…"
Fury nodded thoughtfully. "Well, then, we start small. Keep doing what we're doing—save lives, saving the planet. Fighting the good fight."
"We do need to take steps to protect S.H.I.E.L.D.," Bruce offered, remembering the Fury-of-the-future who spoke of lost bases and resources.
"And everyone else," Natasha added. "The future I saw captured, tortured, and killed anybody with powers. Enhanced, mutants, whatever you want to call them—they were as good as outlawed. Regular people weren't much better off, unless you were born with the right set of talents and genes."
Fury's eyebrows drew together thoughtfully. "We have a lot of work to do."
They tossed around a few more ideas and strategies as the other two agents took notes, and eventually Fury dismissed them to start researching.
"Anything else?" asked Fury.
"Um, I've been thinking…" Bruce traced his fingers over his knuckles. "After all we went through—after hearing what the rest of the team did, I don't think...I'm not sure if it was as random as it seemed."
Fury leaned forward, planting his forearms on the table. "How so, Doctor?"
"We seemed to be on, uh, specific tracks of time," said Bruce. He was still trying to untangle the possibilities in his mind. "Which seemed to be random, if you look at just one. But... when you put them all together, then you see a lot of coincidence."
Natasha nodded. "Like Steve running into Lazarus."
"Or Clint showing up to work with Peggy on a case he'd already read about, or me getting involved with S.H.I.E.L.D. in the future. The timing of it is so specific."
"Are you saying somebody wanted each of you to be in a specific place and time?" Fury raised his eyebrow.
"Not exactly." Bruce frowned. "We may never know exactly what Lazarus was intending or even how he did it, but just...looking over his findings and leftover parts in the future, and his files here and now, it's...um, the more it seems like maybe he didn't do this alone, and that everything that happened, happened. Somewhere."
"Something else meddled in this mess? Or are you saying you believe in destiny?" His tone made it clear he greatly disliked both options.
"The others went through time to make history happen the way it already happened." Bruce shrugged. "And we—Nat and I—were dropped into futures without us in them."
"Like they wanted them to break the past by doing something different," Natasha put in. "And make those futures come to pass. But we didn't—we made the right history happen, instead. But if not Lazarus, then who?"
"I don't know."
Could it really be fate? Maybe he was trying to make something rational out of the chaos. Bruce tucked his arms against his chest. We'll probably never really know.
Fury let out a deep sigh through his teeth. "This is a problem for another day." He stood with an irritated grunt and gestured for them to leave the room.
As Bruce exited, he distinctly heard Fury grumble, "I'm getting too old for this shit."
He and Natasha hadn't gone far down the hall when a young agent caught up to them. "Dr. Banner? I have that information you asked for."
"Oh, thanks." He took the file from her and Natasha raised her eyebrow in question. "I was curious…"
He opened it to find only a handful of papers. Some school records, screenshots of Facebook pages, and a couple photos of a young, smiling girl with blonde hair and a laughing family. Warmth bloomed in his chest.
"Who's that?" Natasha said, peering at the photos. Her tone was airy but he could tell, she knew exactly who it was before he even answered.
"That's her—that's, uh, Etta. She's safe."
Natasha's lips twitched and Bruce shut the folder, passing it back to the agent, who nodded and headed away.
"Don't you dare say it," Bruce warned. "I wanted to know that she's okay. I'm never going to see her again—I just wanted to know."
"That's probably a good thing. You're old enough to be her grandfather," she teased.
Bruce rolled his eyes, but smiled. "I just wanted to make sure she was safe."
Natasha's eyes sparkled like she very, very much wanted to make several more inappropriate jokes, but for now, she merely patted his arm and walked with him back to the Quinjet to wait for the others.
[ STEVE ]
Finished with his debrief, Steve strolled out of the conference room and down the hall, but stopped when he heard Maria Hill exclaim, "Holy fucking shit!"
Steve poked his head in the door to her office. "Everything okay in here?"
Maria had her face buried in her hands but glanced up to gesture him inside. "Rogers, shut the door and c'mere."
He did so and settled into the chair facing her desk. "What's wrong?"
Maria shook her head, staring at him, like she couldn't begin to find the words she wanted. He couldn't quite decipher the look in her eyes.
"Hill?" he prompted.
"There was this agent… His family bounced around for a bunch of years when he was a kid, but for a while, they were in Illinois, before they went back to Wisconsin. He went through a real rough patch back then, during which he lost a good friend."
Steve straightened in his chair and his pulse quickened. His report was planted under Hill's elbow.
"He told me that he went off the rails when that happened—ditched his family, went to Chicago on his own for a while, skipped school, everything. Said he was sure he would've ended up dead or in jail if he hadn't run into some guy who helped him big time. That guy—he helped him out of a really bad situation and put his life back on track—said he was his guardian angel."
"Maria…" Steve began, taking a breath to corral his racing thoughts. "Are you...are you telling me that you knew the kid I met? You knew Michael?"
"So did you, Steve. And his name wasn't Michael." Maria levelled her gaze at him. "It was Phil Coulson."
Steve blinked. "No, no, no…No way."
"I promise you—he told me the story himself, years ago. And I just read it right here, right now in your report. It was Phil."
"Holy...shit."
It was impossible, but he pictured the kid's face and it fit. That was why he'd looked so familiar, but Steve couldn't ever place him. He didn't know Phil as well as Clint or Nat did, and Phil had only just come back from T.A.H.I.T.I. a couple weeks before the whole incident. They'd had several debriefs with him, but not a lot of time outside of work yet.
Steve gaped and smacked his hand on her desk. "Shit, Maria, shit—the cards! The cards—"
"What?"
Steve pressed his hands to his forehead, his mind reeling, trying to untangle his thoughts. How did this happen—how could it have happened—
"Steve, what?"
"I gave him the cards," he managed. "Maria, the vintage set that he had in his coat when he—when Loki—I bought them from a—from a pawn shop in 1977. I picked them out because I remembered some of the ones Phil—current Phil—had in his collection, so I knew they were good. I..."
It was Maria's turn to gape and stare.
"He—Michael—Phil," Steve sputtered, "He was a big Captain America fan and when I saw the cards, I wanted to do something nice for him, so I..." He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his hand over his face. "Holy fucking shit, Maria. How…?"
Maria flopped back in her chair. "I need a drink."
[ CLINT ]
By the end of the week when just about every aspect of everyone's adventure had been exhausted by Fury, S.H.I.E.L.D., and each other, Tony—of course—tried to make the whole thing into a drinking game.
And honestly if Tony didn't, Clint would've, because how else were the Avengers going to deal with a bunch of wild-ass jumps through time if not for copious jokes, teasing, and alcohol? So Thor broke out his fancy Asgardian brew for him and Steve, Tony made himself a fancy cocktail, Clint poured solo shots, and Bruce and Nat sipped beer. They gathered around the kitchen island, laden with snacks while they waited for tonight's cornucopia of takeout to arrive.
"I had it the worst," Tony announced, holding his glass up high. "I definitely had it the worst—Dark Ages win by a mile. Everybody drink!"
"Now, hold on," said Steve, raising his finger. "I got hit by a car."
"You also got to see the original Star Wars in the theater, opening weekend," Clint countered. "Man, how come I didn't get thrown to 1977? That would've been rad as hell, seeing the OG back when nobody had any clue how one movie would basically steer science fiction culture for the next century."
"I was sucked out before Vader showed up, though." Steve pretended to pout and Natasha rolled her eyes.
"I have to agree." Bruce nodded. "Maybe if he'd stayed for the whole movie, but the first, what, seven minutes hardly counts." He passed the bowl of chips across the counter so Thor could grab a mighty mouthful.
"Okay, but, I got shot in the chest and thought I'd lost my arm?" Clint tried. "Does that beat getting hit by a car?"
"I also got shot," Natasha added. "Twice. And the whole future dystopia thing."
"I got shot, too!" Steve raised his hand, oddly proud, then snatched the chip bowl from Thor.
"I did lose my arm." Thor leaned back in his chair, looking smug. "And fought myself—had to deal with a Void entity."
"Still attached," Tony put in, poking Thor's meaty bicep. "Doesn't count."
Clint held up his finger. "Ah, but then by that logic, nobody's injuries count, since we were all reset physically. No bullet wounds, lost arms, broken ribs, and whatever the hell else." He poured a handful of Skittles into his hand and methodically picked out all the green ones, handing them across the island to Bruce, whose hand was already outstretched.
"I lost the Hulk," offered Bruce.
"Good thing or bad thing?" Steve wondered, passing the chips to Tony. Natasha snatched a couple from Steve's pile while he was distracted.
Bruce shrugged, but smiled and said, "Jury's out." He tossed back his handful of green Skittles.
"I nearly died," Tony pressed, feigning exasperation.
"Me too," said Clint, swallowing his candy. "Also, probably everybody."
"C'mon, I totally win."
"Drink," Clint, Natasha, and Thor chanted. All six of them took a hearty sip of their drinks, though, including Tony, who grumbled but did it anyway.
"I mean, if it counts for everybody , then it's not really going with the rules." He rolled his eyes dramatically. He gathered a handful of Doritos.
"You were the farthest out if we number the years," Steve said, clapping Tony on the shoulder. "We'll all take a shot for that. Happy?"
"It'll do." Tony sniffed, though he couldn't quite suppress his grin as the rest of the Avengers each downed whiskey shots.
Natasha found Clint's hand under the table and held it tight. He looked from her to Steve, who wanted a retelling of the Void monster from Thor, while Tony started regaling them with the tale of his duel—for the fourth time that night. Bruce beamed at them, and Clint couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the guy so relaxed—like he'd finally let himself fit into the group, once and for all.
Clint knew the feeling. Like the warmth of being with the family you chose instead of the one you were born with had filled up your chest until you were almost floating off the ground from it.
This group of knuckleheads, of insomniacs, superheroes, and piping, hot messes. These people, these fellow Avengers.
His family, his home.
THE END.
A/n: Was that the point of all this? A statement? A promise. (But also there's an epilogue, so stayed tuned.)