A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, Captain America: Civil War, Ant-Man, and Spiderman: Homecoming.
As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta and Winter-Soldier-88 for the brainstorming.
Note 1: I know it's been a while since this story was updated, but it couldn't be helped. Not only is my muse a fickle little scamp, my family has been experiencing a great deal of emotional turmoil that may not get better any time soon. We're into year two of the Year From Hell.
Note 2: This story is being rewritten from chapter 45 forward to more closely conform to the MCU.
Namaste,
Sunny
"I will come back to you, I swear I will;
And you will know me still.
I shall be only a little taller
Than when I went."
― Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems
Winter Soldier
And You Will Know Me Still
Chapter 49
The Parker Residence
Queens, New York
Lying in bed with his eyes closed, Peter employed meditation to calm and clear his mind, preparing it for the tranquility of sleep. The aftermath of whatever it was that caused him to take on the characteristics of a spider had affected more than just his physical nature. His strength, coordination, speed, agility, healing, and senses all across the board had been jacked up. His mind too.
He'd always been a nerd, more at home in the library than the football field, and a straight A student. But now, he was more focused, his ability to concentrate and comprehend the material had increased as well, provided there were no major distractions.
Large crowds, the sights, sounds, and smells, could overwhelm his senses to the point of overload. He'd nearly gone psycho until he learned to control it through a practice called focused attention meditation, up to a point. Only Ned knew of his abilities, and when it all got to be too much, his best friend often provided a lifeline for him to mentally grab onto. All it took was a poke in the ribs with an elbow or Ned calling his name for the world to become bearable again.
A thread from his subconscious forced its way into into his consciousness. He made several attempts to shoo it back into the little box where he kept trivia, but it wouldn't stay. With a long sigh, Peter breathed deeply, held it, and let it out, repeating it over and over until the images became clear. What appeared in his mind's eye was the faces of the two men who'd shown up at Mr. Mendenhall's store after he'd routed the bad guys, bringing with them a feeling of familiarity. He'd seen them before, and more than once.
Peter traced the path of the memory, seeing himself after he'd come back from taking the trash to the chute, standing behind the sofa talking to Aunt May. Their conversation had consisted of everyday subjects, homework, brushing teeth. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing memorable. It was the television. Normally, Aunt May only watched the news, craft programs, and the occasional cloyingly sentimental Lifetime movie, but tonight, she had it on In the News special report with the sound muted. At the time, the program she'd been watching hadn't registered, but now it lit up like the Christmas tree in Times Square, dispelling all thoughts of sleep.
He sat up, drawing his knees in, slapping them with both hands. "Sonofabitch!" Scrambling from the bed, he slid into the chair at the desk and booted up his jerry-rigged computer, muttering under his breath, "Come on-come on-come on!"
The computer finally came online. He pulled the keyboard close, his fingers dancing over the keys faster than the average human could see, and soon, he had confirmation that it hadn't been a figment of his imagination.
"Captain America and the guy they're calling the Falcon! Right here is Queens, and I blew them off!" He made a sound of frustration and smacked himself on the forehead with his palm, then jumped at the sound of his aunt's voice on the other side of the door.
"Get off the computer, Peter. You have exams tomorrow and it's past your bedtime."
May's words had the tone and firmness of an order, at the same time overflowing with affection that kept her from sounding dictatorial. Peter knew she loved him and only wanted what was best for the nephew she'd inherited by virtue of being his only living relative when his parents died.
The deaths of his parents was one of the mysteries he hadn't been able to solve on his own. There were too many unknowns, too many variables, and Aunt May either didn't have the answers, didn't want to burden him with the nightmare-inducing details, or just didn't want to talk about it. Maybe one day soon she'd be in a state of mind to share memories, but now wasn't the time for confrontations. May was right. He needed sleep.
Peter shut down the computer and flopped face down onto the bed with a heartfelt groan. It couldn't be a coincidence that Captain America was back in New York just when the YouTube videos of his crime fighting were racking up millions of hits. "I should stop for a while. Then, once they leave town…" He kicked that idea in the balls. "What if something bad happens? The Avengers can't be everywhere, and that would make it my fault, 'cause I could've stopped it and didn't."
Groaning through the indecision, Peter rolled onto his side and shut out the light, the sounds of Queens at night, filled with life and history and so much more, lulling him to sleep.
Stark Tower
Manhattan
87th Floor Lab
With the boss and his girl out of the way, Friday pretty much had carte blanche to move around as she saw fit. Pacing around the room, she carefully scrutinized the completion of the work-in-progress. It wouldn't be much longer…
"Friday?"
…If the humans still in residence would leave her alone. She huffed to herself as her form winked out on eighty-seven and reformed on the combination penthouse and guest floor. "How may I be of assistance, Colonel?"
The slightly built yet muscular man jumped to his feet. "What the…" He peered at her closely then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What is God's name has Tony been up to?"
She looked down at herself and back to him. Since creating the avatar, she'd kept the same physical features and clothing. "The avatar was my idea."
Rhodes walked around her, hand to his chin in thought. "I just thought, if it had been Tony's idea, I expect… Don't get me wrong. You look… fine."
"I sense a 'but' in your jeremiad." The look on his face begged her to understand without him saying it out loud. After a nanosecond of cogitation, she got it and smiled. "My appearance is somewhat plain according to the standards by which most heterosexual men would judge. I'll make a few changes."
~~O~~
Rhodey crossed his arms and placed his feet shoulder width apart as if preparing for a fight. But fight between himself and the AI was absurd, and also futile. She'd kick his ass seven ways from Sunday. "If you don't mind some input…"
"I do not."
He circled Friday, getting a good look from all sides, coming to a stop in front of her again. "Maybe a little less librarian and a little more bewitching."
Friday's brow creased in thought, the only outward signal that she was scanning her database. Her form blinked out and came back. Without meaning to, Rhodey laughed. Not mocking or as an insult, but with genuine humor because now Friday looked like Elizabeth Montgomery during her Bewitched days, bouffant hair and all.
Grinning, Rhodey dropped into a chair, using his feet to turn side to side. "Not what I meant. Your facial features are fine, if a little plain, barely showing emotion. Same with the hair. Just change it up a little."
The AI rolled her eyes. Her form blurred, and when it cleared, her appearance was closer to what he had in mind. Her height had stayed the same with her shape filling out into provocative curves. The color of her hair brightened. Waves formed, and the length shrank in upon itself up to her shoulders. Piercing green eyes blazed from under lightly arched eyebrows. She also changed out of the boring blazer and slacks into a skintight black body suit.
Rhodey's eyes widened as Friday struck a pose that would've been called sensual on a human. "What about this, Colonel?"
Getting to his feet, he paced over to one of the computer terminals and back. "Agent Romanoff is beyond stunning, but you really don't want to be a carbon copy of someone else. Your outward appearance should reflect your uniqueness. Think of yourself as a bricolage of traits that, when taken as a whole, culminate in a perfection more exquisite than the Venus de Milo, but with arms. In other words, you do you, Friday."
Once again, Friday's form changed starting at her feet and flowing upwards, the pixels moving and changing in what seemed a random pattern. When the pixels completed their reformation, she waited for his endorsement, without needing or wanting his concurrence. Only his opinion.
She kept the basic details of redhead, five-six, slender, and curvy, and taken it up a few levels. The hair cascaded over her shoulders in loose curls, minus the bangs, and included long, luscious eyelashes, and an air of innocence yearning to be bursting free from its constraints. Her eyes had gone from blue to green and back again, and her expression reminded him only marginally of Natasha. He got the feeling that, if she were human, she'd devour him on the spot. And best of all, this new Friday didn't resemble any one celebrity or actress. Rhodey walked around the avatar, nodding and smiling. "That's what I'm talking about."
Friday shifted her weight onto one foot, pushing the opposite hip out while her hands rested lightly on her hips just below a narrow waist. "Now that the matter of my appearance is settled, what did you need, Colonel Rhodes?"
"Could you turn the air up a few degrees? It's a little chilly in here." Rhodey smiled sheepishly.
The AI grinned as the right hand lifted from her hip, going immediately into a snap. "Done."
Oncological Research Center
Pewaukee, Illinois
Secure Lab
Sub-level 7
Inside her head, in that place that no one, not even her husband could touch, Christine screamed. How could this have happened? She thought she knew Sonja. They'd worked together for years, spent holidays at each other's homes, even taken the occasional three-day girls weekend. But this was a side of Sonja she'd never seen before. Oh, she'd known going into their professional relationship that she was ruthless when it came to office politics. It was one of the deciding factors when Christine had been approached to work for the ORC, even before Eli's illness.
She wanted to tell Sonja to go to hell, that she's never be a party to HYDRA's machinations, but couldn't force herself to utter the words. What she did say made her feel dirty inside and out, as if she needed a long hot shower.
Sonja led the subject down the hall to the room housing the cryochambers and returned alone. While she'd been gone, Christine had made herself familiar with the indoctrination chair, as well as the work of Johann Fennhoff, who later went by the name Viktor Ivchenko. The part of her controlled by the device she assumed was related in some way to the scepter that had once been in the possession of SHIELD turned to Sonja, greeting her with a smile. "I took the liberty of delving into the programming of the chair."
"And what have you concluded?"
"It's an amazing device that can be used to educate as well as torture." Even exerting all her will, Christine couldn't halt the flow of words from her mouth. Speaking so casually of using intense pain as punishment, as inducement to do or say something, or for self-gratification was abhorrent and horrific, but she couldn't stop.
Sonja patiently waited for her continue.
"There is a time constraint on your project to turn the subject into HYDRA's newest asset. Correct?"
"You are." A smile rife with schadenfreude flowed over her attractive features, contorting them into a form of ugliness that no amount of plastic surgery could cover up.
The real Christine felt trepidation that edged over into near panic. Outwardly, she returned the smile. "You know what I'm about to suggest." She took off the lab coat and draped it over a chair. Tugged the hem of her top down, and sat in the chair without hesitation. "Light it up, Sonja. We have work to do."
Already on the move, Sonja went first to the computer, pounding the keys, still with that malicious upturn of her lips. She came to the chair, and with quick, practiced movements, had Christine shackled and the helmet lowered onto her head. Taking several steps back, she brought out the remote, pointed it at Christine, and pressed the button.
When she was younger, Christine had suffered from migraines that kept her home from school and confined to her room. Her parents had covered the windows with blackout curtains to protect her from the glare of the sun. Each time it happened, they would also remove everything with which she might use to cause herself harm, the pain was that excruciating.
But now, her body felt as if a combination of liquid fire and lightning had been injected into her veins. Every muscle contracted to the point where she feared her bones would snap. And just when she thought it might actually happen it stopped. And as the pain ebbed, she felt her real self taking refuge from this alteration of her thought processes, leaving behind a Christine that those who knew her would not recognize. She remembered her other self, naturally, but the voice no long prattled inside her head telling her that what they were doing was reprehensible. That, she already knew. She just no longer cared. From what she'd read on multiple personality disorder, it was akin to the merging of two or more personalities bound inside the same mind, vastly differing facets of the primary.
Christine sucked air greedily into her lungs and slowly released the grip she had on the arms of the chair, idly noticing the indentions she surmised had been left by the subject. He must be stronger than they'd theorized while studying him. She didn't know how Sonja got his body to the lab, how he could be alive when he'd been declared dead months ago, nor did she care. All that mattered was preparing him to do HYDRA's work.
The restraints were released and Christine got to her feet, pleasantly surprised to find that what few side effects she'd expected from the chair were mild. No headache to speak of. There was no soreness in her muscles, joints, or organs. Just a sort of euphoria, similar to when that achieved through exercise, sometimes called a runner's high, brought about by the increase of anandamide, endorphins and phenethylamine in the brain.
"How do you feel?" Sonja inquired in a tone that indicated her interest lay in the knowledge that had been force-fed to her brain, and Christine responded as such.
"Our predecessors were quite advanced for the level of technology available in the forties. However, they didn't take their research to the next step."
Sonja's eyes widened, intrigued. "And that is?"
Christine flashed an enigmatic smile as she shrugged into her lab coat and headed for the exit. "It requires uninterrupted thought." Her colleague's footsteps dogged her to the lift. Christine got on, entered the code that would take her up and away. As the door closed, her expression changed, taking on an unpleasantly smug aspect. In the past, Sonja had undervalued her contributions to their research. Soon she'd see the error of her ways. "Let me get back to you."
The door closed on Sonja's gape of confusion. The other woman was feeling off balance. The trick was to keep her that way. Then, when Christine wrested control from someone so undeserving, no one would wonder what happened to their former leader. In the past, everyone, even her own family, had underestimated her intellect.
No longer.
~~O~~
The lift doors closed and Sonja stood there for a moment. Then she returned to her lab. Drawing her chair close to the desk, she brought the computer out of power save mode. She spent the rest of the night going over her research line by line looking for inaccuracies and miscalculations, anything she might have missed in her haste to create a new Winter Soldier.
This would take some time. She went to start a pot of coffee. It was going to be a long night, and would be for many more to come until she figured out what Christine found in the seconds of being immersed in the data that she'd missed in the years of her association with her mentor.
The Cephalus
Crew Quarters
He stood in the middle of the room, turning in a circle. Because it was an internal cabin amidships, there was no portal, which made no difference to the lone occupant. There were two bunks and lockers for each, plus a small desk area to one side. He'd been lucky enough to get a cabin to himself. That situation could change at any time, quite probably at the next port, if it became necessary to take on additional crew.
His duffle bag thumped on the table that boasted a single chair, the rasp of the zipper a counterpoint to the thrumming of the engines. At the edge of his hearing the voices of the crew in the rooms on either side and walking the freighter's narrow passageways reminded him of basic training before he'd been deployed. It was comforting and unsettling at the same time, but he hadn't had a choice. Staying had been a greater danger than leaving.
The men on this ship were as tough as they came. They also knew how to mind their own business. A situation that worked in his favor. He hadn't been questioned or asked for proof of identity when he'd given the assumed name of Grant-Steve's middle name. It was likely his crewmates would further distort his identity by giving him a nickname. He was fine with that, as long as long as they left him alone otherwise.
For certain being on this ship with no means to escape was a coin toss if this was one of the best ideas he'd had in his life or he was all wet. Time would tell.
He finished stowing his gear, shoved his jacket and hat into the bag, placed it in the bottom locker, and closed the door. Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror above the workspace, a frown turning down the corners of his mouth, and hair now down to his shoulders, he blew out aa annoyed breath. The memories of happier times flitted and flirted with his consciousness, taunting him to the point that he wanted to ram his fist through the glass. His left hand clenched, but stayed at his side. It wouldn't do to draw attention to himself by causing trouble within hours of leaving port.
The cell phone Natasha had given him had long since met an ignoble end. No phone meant she and Steve wouldn't be able to track his location. Besides, there'd been only two numbers in the contacts worth committing to memory. Not that he planned on calling either party until he was certain the Winter Soldier programming had been dealt with. He'd settle for having the shit in his head rendered dormant, and for that he had couldn't be near those he cared about. He had to forge a solitary path, become a lone wolf, to borrow an expression. Down with the old man, up with the new. Well, sort of.
His plan was to evade contact with the rest of the crew whenever possible. Then, when they put into port for supplies or to offload cargo, he would use his leave time to assess the area as a temporary home. That was one way to go. Another would be to jump ship at their first port of entry in Europe or Asia. Either would do, though he'd have a better chance of blending in with the residents of Europe. One advantage to his Winter Soldier training was his ability to learn a new language in just a few weeks. With that on his side, he could disappear for the rest of his life, if it should come to that.
He ran a hand through his hair, grunted at his reflection, and lay down on the lower bunk facing the door to wait for his overnight shift to start.
Queens, New York
"If we don't catch him tonight, how about we find somewhere more comfortable to wait going forward?" Sam shifted in his seat, which had been pushed back to accommodate his nearly six feet height. To Steve, he appeared to be holding in a long-suffering sigh. "An all-night diner. At least then we could move around, get a drink, maybe a snack, instead of sitting."
Steve was saved from making a response when his phone vibrated in his back pocket. He dug it out and glanced at the screen. "Hold that thought." He walked far enough from the car that Sam couldn't hear and accepted the call with a smile. "Hi, babe. Where are you?"
"At the base. You?"
Hill's voice never failed to take his breath away. "Queens. Sam and I are staying at the Lantern Inn, Posey Street in Brooklyn. Would you like to join us?"
What little background noise there'd been stopped at the closing of a door. "I'm going to need a little more information than Queens, if I'm expected to fly all the way across the country at the drop of a hat."
He leaned against the side of a dark office building, the windows like the cold dark eyes of a massive creature from hell. Her sensual, throaty, "come get me, sailor" intonation flowed through the phone and into his veins, causing his blood to heat and his body to react as if she'd lightly run her fingers over his bare skin. A distraction was needed before he embarrassed himself yet again. Turning his back on Sam's ever watchful eyes, he breathed deeply, saying on the exhale, "You don't wear hats." She waited him out, and he relented. "We're on a hunting expedition. Promises to be loads of fun."
"What's your prey on this urban quest you've set for yourself?"
"Looking for a guy. Could have a lead on where Buck's hiding out." Steve mentally asked forgiveness for the lie of God and Hill.
Sam stepped out of the car, raising his voice to be heard over the traffic noises. "When you're done havin' phone sex with your girlfriend, we got one."
Steve blushed, hoping the dim lighting would hide. "Listen, Maria, we got a hit. Lantern Inn, room seven. We'll get our own room." Hill hung up after hastily whispered professions of love. The phone slid into his back pocket as he reached the car. "Address?"
The onboard computer lit up with a map of the area, a red line showing the route to their destination. "Friday's already programmed the GPS." Sam buckled his seatbelt. "Let's go before he gets away again."
Steve didn't respond to Sam's biting criticism. "He won't."
His companion made a sound of annoyance. "See, that right there, the cocky, arrogance, that'll get us squat. Less than squat 'cause we'll be back at square one."
Casting a glance at Sam, Steve raised one eyebrow and added in a smirk. "Not cocky or arrogant, if you can do it." The the knowing look in Sam's eyes demanded a response to his earlier off-color comment. "We weren't doing phone sex."
"Ri-ight," was the sarcastic return. Then, Sam pointed at the sky. "Oh, look. A flying pig!" Then, he sobered. "Seriously, Steve. Your head has to be in the game or we'll be on the losing end of this cat and whatever-the-hell-he-is game."
"My head is in the game."
Sam nodded in a way that told Steve he thought otherwise. "Then why did you miss the turn," he pointed over his shoulder, "two blocks back that way?"
Without a word, Steve signaled and pulled into the parking lot of a youth center to turn around. Once he was back on track, the awkward silence got on his nerves. "It's just… I miss my girl, you know?"
"I get where you're coming from. Been there a few times. But like you're always reminding the team, focus on the task at hand. Everything else takes a backseat, especially when lives are in danger."
Sam held his gaze for a moment then looked away, keeping him from seeing more than he wanted to share. In a moment that could only be described as epiphanous, he came to the realization that his friend had been taking more time for himself, beginning a few weeks back. He grinned internally, remembering his friend's reaction to meeting one of the agents still loyal to SHIELD and the government.
Several Weeks Ago
"What next?" Sam inquired after long moments of staring at the D.C. map peppered with colored pushpins showing where SHIELD and other law enforcement agencies had already searched for Bucky, as well as possible sightings.
Steve shrugged and turned away from the map, leaning against the wall with hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the floor. "Bucky knows who he is now, his life. All we can do is hope we get leads that actually go somewhere, and work it out from there."
"You're sure he remembered? You know, after he beat the holy crap out of you and almost killed us both."
The super-soldier chuckled. "Only a few people know some aspects of my past. And most of them are long gone. I never told Natasha, so she couldn't have coached him." Sam looked skeptical, and Steve huffed at him. "Look, Sam, except for being frozen for seventy years, getting shot, stabbed, beaten to a pulp by aliens and my best friend, and nearly drowning in the Potomac when the helicarrier blew up, I haven't been sick a day since I was given the serum."
"Well, that's just peachy…"
Sam's last word trailed off as a women entered the room from the opposite side. She was in her late twenties, possibly early thirties, with golden brown hair, an athletic figure and, if he remembered right, blue-gray eyes. She gave Steve one of her "good to see you, can't talk" smiles that showed nothing of her straight white teeth. However, the smile she flashed at Sam made Steve think of sunshine, spring, and gardens bursting with brightly colored blossoms. She locked her gaze with Sam's as she passed, and his eyes followed long after she was gone.
"Who was that?" came out in a hushed whisper of awe that foretold of love at first sight on the part of both parties.
Glancing over his shoulder, Steve saw a chance to get back at Sam for all the teasing he engaged in regarding Maria. "Lillian. Used to be in accounting. Got rid of the lip ring and blue hair."
"Her number."
Steve snorted on his way to his quarters, using his tone to goad Sam. "In my room. I'll get it for you."
"Thanks, Steve. I owe you… Wait! What?"
Steve tossed a smirk over his shoulder as he closed the door in Sam's face. He made a call to the com center. Seconds later, Sam's phone beeped, and he smiled. "Just call me the matchmaker."
Humming "Matchmaker, Matchmaker" from the musical Fiddler on the Roof, he changed for bed.
Present
Instead of passing over Lillian's number, which he didn't actually have on hand, Steve had called the com room to nosily inquire if the attraction was mutual, and to his relief on his friend's behalf, it was. Very much so. Steve didn't have to recite the number. As one of the com officers, Lillian was tasked with keeping their personal info up-to-date. As suspected, Lillian's number had changed several times since the fall of SHIELD.
That had been the last he or Sam had mentioned Lillian, and he'd never seen them together unless it was a group meeting or at mealtime.
Movement in the corner of his eye drew his gaze to Sam texting as fast as his fingers could move. He hit send, powered down, and leaned forward to shove the phone in his back pocket. Let the teasing commence! Nah. Couldn't do it. "What're we heading into?"
"Same old, same old. Jewelry store this time. No guarantee he's there though."
"On the contrary, Mr. Wilson." Friday's voice came through the car's speakers, and was accompanied by an image of an attractive redhead. "He will arrive on the scene less than a minute before yourselves."
Steve floored it, taking the last corner nearly on two wheels, and this time, Sam didn't complain. Probably because he was busy taking a weapon from under the passenger seat. He checked it over then shoved it in the waistband of his pants. "We're not using excessive force. We want him alive."
Giving the impression of having the patience of a saint, Sam gave him a side-eye. "It's a taser. Non-lethal." The right elbow propped on the edge of the window. "Not sure it'll even work."
"Right," Steve agreed. "We don't have full knowledge of his powers. Just what's on the videos."
"What say we play it cool this time? Stand back, let him take out the baddies, and waylay him on the flipside."
Nodding once, Steve pulled to the curb and parked. This street was lined with parking meters begging for coins. They got out and quietly closed the doors to not draw attention or disturb the vigilante's concentration. He fished coins from his pocket and dropped them in the meter. Enough for ninety minutes. At Sam's unspoken question, he remarked, "Don't want a ticket or have it towed."
Sam slapped him on the shoulder and pointed. A red and blue clad figure was walking down the side of the building. As he reached the broken doors, he went down on all fours to crawl over the transom and across the ceiling until he was directly over the man who stood apart from the others, marking him as the leader.
The strange thing about this robbery, or rather another strange thing was there were no alarms. How did Friday and the vigilante know this was the place? It stood to reason the young man had a sort of intuition, an insight into the criminal mind.
He and Sam traded bemused smiles upon hearing his apparently deep well of sass, waiting for the right moment to announce their presence.
Oncological Research Center
Christine's Office
Raising her hand, Sonja paused a moment to gather her straying thoughts. She'd been over the data that began with Fennhoff's initial research in the forties and culminated here at the institute with her own work, and found nothing amiss. How could Christine have found fault? It was time they spoke again.
As the hour was late, she rapped lightly, in case her colleague was asleep. "Chris?"
She heard the chair creak, and footsteps padding over the thick carpeting. The lock was disengaged and the door eased open. Christine was smiling as if welcoming a cherished family member. "Come in, Sonja."
A hand waved casually, and Sonja settled into the cushioned chair, taking care to keep her features neutral, to not betray how the other woman had unnerved her. Not since graduate school had anyone ever questioned the veracity of her work, not even her mentor. Effusive praise had always been the order of the day, and she'd come to expect it from everyone with whom she worked. Being told she was lacking stung.
Christine resumed her seat behind the desk, hands folded on top. Her expression gave the impression that Sonja was a rebellious and quarrelsome student being brought before the head mistress from whence she'd receive a stern reprimand.
"I was about to call you. There's additional information I need to complete my analysis of the data."
"Of course. Happy to help. What do you need to know?"
The eyes that saw things no one else did, pinned her to the chair. "I need the names, dates, and locations for everyone the subject has sanctioned. Change that to every mission he's been sent on, no matter how inconsequential."
TBC
Bewitched is an American television sitcom fantasy series, originally broadcast for eight seasons on ABC from September 17, 1964 to March 25, 1972. It was created by Sol Saks under executive director Harry Ackerman, and starred Elizabeth Montgomery as Samantha Stephens and Dick York (1964–1969) as Darrin Stephens, her husband. Dick Sargent replaced York for the final three seasons (1969–1972).
Elizabeth Victoria Montgomery (April 15, 1933 – May 18, 1995) was an American film, stage, and television actress whose career spanned five decades. She is best remembered for her leading role as Samantha Stephens on the television series Bewitched.
In the News is a fictional new magazine program similar to 60 Minutes, Dateline, and 20/20.
Fiddler on the Roof is a musical with music by Jerry Bock, lyrics by Sheldon Harnick, and book by Joseph Stein, set in the Pale of Settlement of Imperial Russia in 1905. It's based on Tevye and his Daughters (or Tevye the Dairyman) and other tales by Sholem Aleichem. The story centers on Tevye, the father of five daughters, and his attempts to maintain his Jewish religious and cultural traditions as outside influences encroach upon the family's lives. He must cope both with the strong-willed actions of his three older daughters, who wish to marry for love – each one's choice of a husband moves further away from the customs of their Jewish faith and heritage – and with the edict of the Tsar that evicts the Jews from their village.
"Matchmaker, Matchmaker" - Tevye and Golde's daughters sing about a matchmaker choosing a partner for them. They are satirizing the issue, and mocking Yenta.