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 52

A brief moment of confusion crossed the subject's features when, in a calculated move, Christine turned her back and walked to the middle of the room. As expected, the subject followed while maintaining the same distance. Where he couldn't see, she accessed the translation app on her phone, programming it translate English into Russian. "What sort of message, soldat?"

"Keep to your place."

Christine felt the warmth from his body as he came closer. She spun around, taking a step back and kept moving to get away from his relentless advance as he stalked her around the room. Then, the heel of her sneaker snagged on the edge of the carpet and she landed hard on the kitchen tile, hitting the back of her head. Stars flickered in her vision and then were gone, along with her consciousness.

~~O~~

The subject crouched next to the target, watching her curiously. He touched her neck below the ear, feeling the steady beat of her heart. His mission was to relay a message, not to kill. The message had been given and received and the target was alive, satisfying the parameters of the mission. Yet he stayed to study her features, serene in her unconscious state.

There was something about her that was different from the one who assigned his missions.

The target moaned, her eyes fluttered, and opened. He watched her as she got to her hands and knees and stood, pressing a hand to her head. She ignored his presence, moving past him to sit in a chair, rubbing the back of her head.

~~O~~

Christine blinked to bring the world back into focus, somewhat confused that the subject was still there. In just a few seconds, she saw her most recent actions and thoughts since Sonja had touched her with the wand, cringing and mentally berating herself, even knowing it would do no good. The information thrust into her brain by the chair reminded her that, in this instance, resistance had been futile. There were no documented cases of anyone resistant to Loki's scepter.

Not knowing what the subject's orders were if she'd sent a return message saying, in essence, "Go **** yourself", she again employed the translation program to speak to him, making her words an order. "Return to the lab, subject. Advise Dr. Sandberg that her cautionary directive has been received and I await her orders." She hadn't said the next words yet and they'd already left a bad taste, but she could do it. Christine stood and looked the subject unflinchingly in the eye. "Hail HYDRA."

He was there and gone so fast, she would've thought he was a figment of her imagination caused by the fall, if it weren't for the open door. She ran to the door, holding her breath for some minutes after the subject had disappeared into the darkness, thinking he might come back.

Shutting herself inside her combination home office and lab, Christine sat heavily in the armchair, elbows on knees, and hands covering her eyes. "This is a ****** mess!" She jumped when the phone repeated her words in Russian through the app. She shut it off and put it in her pocket so she could think.

It wasn't long before the only solution that had a snowball's chance of working presented itself. To pull it off, Christine would have to call on skills she hadn't used since she was a teenager. But, like most who had been, and those who were still, in the business, it was like riding a bike, albeit one she hadn't ridden in decades. It would work.

Queens, New York

The Next Afternoon

Two well-muscled men stood near the hot dog cart on the corner, seemingly intent on their phones rather than the people pushing and shoving their way through the streets of Brooklyn. In reality, they were watching an attractive brunette exit the apartment building down the block. She passed them without a first or second glance, descended into the subway pulling a wheeled cart filled with reusable bags, and was soon lost to sight and any form of natural sunlight.

The men waited a few minutes to be certain the woman had gone before setting off in the direction from which she'd come. While the taller man kept watch, the other produced a small kit from which he took two slender pieces of metal. He inserted them into the front door's lock and soon they were inside.

They avoided the elevator, choosing the stairs instead. If they'd hoped to go unnoticed, they were out of luck because the stairwell was full of people traveling in both directions as well as others who'd taken up temporary residence on the landings. Some were studying, others were reading for pleasure, and the rest were on their phones. None of them looked up as the men took the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor.

Only a few residents were in the hallway. As in the stairwell, all were engaged in private pursuits, oblivious to their surroundings. The taller man knocked on the door adjacent to the elevator. It was answered by a young man with brown hair, on the short side, and young, just as they'd been told by a reliable source.

The Parker Apartment

Lying on his bed, Peter stared up at the ceiling, huffed and rolled over onto his stomach, a pillow bunched up under his chest and his head resting in both palms. The talk with Aunt May about his parents and Uncle Ben hadn't yielded the answers Peter had been looking for because she didn't have important details. She'd given him so little information he didn't already have, he was absolutely certain the authorities had kept the true nature of their work, as well as the name of their employer, confidential.

QualTech had been their employer of record until two years before his mom and dad died. Yet May said they'd worked there until their death, which was impossible because QualTech had been bought out by another company and all their scientists had been laid off, including his parents and Ben.

Considering the facts, along with healthy doses of speculation, theories, and wild guesses, the conclusions he came to were, one, that Ben's death in a robbery-in-progress hadn't been random. It had been carefully planned down to the last second, leaving nothing to chance.

To Peter, that meant someone had to have been watching them for some time. Some unknown entity knew that Ben would be home alone the night May was out of town for the weekend. Nowhere in the police report had there been mention of what motive the unknown perpetrator had for scaling the building to an occupied apartment on the sixth floor when there had been empty apartments on the first and second floors ripe for the picking. "Even I could've broken in without getting caught."

Saying the words out loud made them seem more real, somehow. It wasn't true, of course. He'd been nine years old when Ben died and short for his age, just like now.

And second, there was no way he could ever forget the night his parents died. He'd been staying with May while they were out of the country for a scientific conference. On the way home, the plane developed engine trouble and had crashed into the mountains on the border between France and Switzerland. There were no survivors. The crash site was so remote, it had taken three months to locate the wreckage, and even longer to remove and positively identify the bodies.

While that was happening, Peter and May had been at the Stark Expo when Iron Man and WarMachine had gone up against the out-of-control armored soldiers ostensibly created by HammerTech. He'd idolized Tony Stark with and without the Iron Man suit and wanted to meet him, even going so far as wearing the helmet to his Iron Man costume from Halloween and the fake arc reactor with real arc reactor sound effects. Truthfully, he still harbored a few sparks of hero worship for the man.

When the iron legion attacked, May had grabbed him by the hand, putting herself between the fighting and him. Wanting to protect his aunt, Peter had run off when her grip loosened, taking a firm stance in the middle of the courtyard, right hand up to blast the out of control robot. Iron Man landed behind him, and to his nine-year-old mind, they'd taken out the robot together, as a team. He basked in Iron Man's "Good job, kid" for weeks. Any and all attempts to wear the helmet and arc reactor everywhere he went were thwarted by Aunt May.

Peter shook himself free of the past and turned on his computer at the same time May knocked on the door. "Come in."

She opened the door just wide enough to see him. "I'm going out to run errands. Want anything special for dinner this week?"

He shrugged. "Not picky."

"Ha! Since when?" A smile turned up the corners of her mouth making her look years younger and taking the bite out of her words. "Back soon. Call if you change your mind."

He waited for the front door to close and the key to turn in the lock to open a hidden file. After skimming what he already had, Peter added the new information to the document, saved, and closed it, leaving him just the mysterious box with which to contend.

He picked up the box and gave it a shake. The contents shifted, but still no tingling in his danger sense. Going to the desk, he opened the middle drawer and pushed the junk around until he found a box cutter. He hadn't even thumbed the blade out when there was a knock at the door.

Annoyed, he tossed the box cutter on the desk and shoved the box in the bottom of his closet. As he approached the front door, he called out, "Forget something, May?"

But it wasn't his aunt standing in the hallway, though their faces and the scowls were more familiar than he liked. Both had on dark sunglasses and ballcaps. If they wanted to go incognito, it wasn't much of a disguise.

How'd they find me? As the saying went, the best defense was a good offence. "Yeah?"

"We need to talk." Steve Rogers asked with a slight nod at the people in the hallway.

Sam Wilson added, "Inside."

Putting on his best confused as hell face, Peter closed the door to within a couple inches. "Do I know you?"

The taller man took off his sunglasses and hung them on the pocket of his shirt. "You missed our meeting the other night… Peter."

~~O~~

Peter's eyes widened in what Steve could only describe as terror. A door down the hall opened and the boy quickly opened the door, motioning for them to hurry. He peeked out, drew his head back in, closed the door, and put the chain on. When he saw them watching, the boy glanced away and scooted past them to the hallway. "In case May comes back."

Steve and Sam were ushered into a small bedroom furnished much like his had been before his mother passed. Twin bed, desk, built-in shelves in place of a dresser, and a single nightstand. Steve could see himself at the desk, hunched over a stack of scrap paper Mom had brought from the hospital, drawing-his had been near the window to make use of the light-instead of the old computer and other unidentifiable equipment.

Sam wandered to the desk, looking everything over. He picked up an old calculator that had been connected to another piece of equipment. "Where'd you get the retrotech, kid? Craigslist? Thrift store? Salvation Army?"

"The, uh, garbage, actually." He took the calculator away from Sam and replaced it on the desk.

Not understanding, Steve looked to Sam for clarity. "He's been dumpster divin'."

The look of terror hadn't abated. If anything, Peter looked even more scared than when he answered the door. To put him at ease, Steve sat on the foot of the bed and Sam took the desk chair. "We should've introduced ourselves. Steve Rogers," he pointed at his friend, "Sam Wilson."

"I-I know who you are." He touched a hand to his chest. "Big fan, by the way. But why are you here?"

Sam already had his phone out and cued up to the videos they'd watched repeatedly over the last few days. "That's you, kid."

"What? No. It's… It's from YouTube, right? Faked, like the UFOs over Phoenix." He tried to smile, but couldn't quite make it. "All done on the computer," he finished lamely at their stares of disbelief.

Crossing his knees drew Peter's attention as Sam got up to roam around, pretending interest in a poster on the wall by the door. Behind Peter's back, he glanced up at the maintenance access and the closet with a question. The boy was staring at his feet, his fingers worrying at the tail of his t-shirt. Steve pointed his chin at the ceiling and Sam pushed the cover up. A bundle of red and blue fell out, dangling from a thin rope.

With a gasp, Peter grabbed the bundle from Sam and threw it in the closet, his eyes filled with guilt. "That's not…"

Sam displayed another video, this one giving a better view of the suit, showing a black spider on the front. "What d'you call yourself? Spider Boy? Spiderling?"

Blocking the closet, Peter crossed his arms. "S-Spider-Man."

He showed annoyance at Sam's bark of laughter as he reached around the boy and pulled out the suit. "Not in this onesie, you're not."

Peter grabbed the suit and put it out of sight again, muttering, "It's-It's not a onesie."

Again, Sam held up the material showing it to be a single article of clothing with feet. A mask, gloves, and a pair of dark goggles were clipped to the suit. Sam held the goggles up to his eyes. He moved his head around, taking in the room. "Whoa! How can you see with these?"

The suit and goggles were yanked from Sam's hands and shoved in the closet again. "I can. I can see in them, okay? It's just that when whatever happened, happened, it's like my senses have been dialed to eleven. There's just way too much input for me to handle without going nuts. They help me focus."

He was getting agitated, so to distract him, Steve asked, "Does anyone else know about your abilities?"

He shook his head. "Nobody."

Sam held up a framed photo of Peter and May together, taken at the Stark Expo. "Not even your extraordinarily attractive aunt?"

"Absolutely not. If she knew, she'd freak out, and when she freaks out, I freak out." Crossing his arms petulantly, Peter made a sound of frustration. "You know, everything was going good the past couple of days. We went out to breakfast, which we never do, May and I had a long talk about my parents and Uncle Ben. Didn't get as much information as I wanted, but that's okay. She hasn't been bugging me too much about getting home late when I'm…" he looked away, "you know. Then you guys show up at Mr. Mendenhall's store and again at the jewelry store. Now you're here, in my apartment."

Getting to his feet, Steve went to the window, one hand in his pocket. "We're here to ask…"

"Strongly suggest," Sam added.

"…that you stop what you're doing." He went back to the bed and motioned for Peter to sit next to him. "Saving people can be addictive, even if no one knows who you are." He leaned his elbows on the tops of his thighs, hands clasped between them, and head turned to look Peter in the eye, to let him know this was serious. "But innocent people could get hurt. You don't want that and neither do we." Sitting up, Steve laid a gentle hand on Peter's shoulder. "You really can't keep playing superhero, Peter."

Steve and Peter both turned in the direction of the front door when they heard the jingle of keys followed by an exasperated, "Peter! Why'd you put the chain on? Come let me in!"

The boy jumped to his feet. "Oh, no! You gotta go! Now! If she sees you here…"

At the window, Steve looked out. "Let's go, Sam." He pushed the window up and put one foot over the sill, stopping when Sam grabbed his shoulder.

"It's four floors down, Steve. Not a big deal for you, but I don't wanna break my neck. I got plans for it."

"Peter!" They could all hear the anger building in May's voice.

"Coming, May!" One hand over his mouth, Peter seemed to be thinking through every possible scenario. Then suddenly, his expression lit up and included a smile that was just short of a smirk. "I got an idea." He pointed at Steve. "You go that way. Sam, here's what we're gonna do…"

~~O~~

Frustrated and tired from shopping and riding the subway in both directions, May was about to call out again when the rattle of the chain preceded Peter opening the door. He jumped out of the way as she barreled into the apartment, dragging the cart behind her. "Why'd you chain the door? What were you doing?"

Peter trailed behind, automatically unloading the full bags onto the counter. "Sorry, May. A friend came by and…"

"Ned's here? Why didn't you say so?"

He turned his back to put items in the freezer. "It's a new friend. Just moved in a few days ago."

May turned as heavy footsteps came down the hall and an African-American man she'd never seen before stopped in the kitchen doorway. He was good looking, well-muscled, and just her age, maybe a year or two younger, with a laptop case over his right shoulder. A pleasant smile showed dimples in his cheeks. She was immediately charmed and he hadn't even said a word.

"Hi. You must be Peter's aunt." He stuck out a hand and she took it. "I'm Sam."

"I'm May. Pleased to meet you, Sam."

His charm flowed around her and she had the feeling he knew the effect he was having on her. Peter stepped between them, pushing the bigger man toward the door. "Sam came by to have me look at his laptop. But he's in a big hurry. Aren't you?"

To May, her nephew had put undue emphasis on the last words, as if he'd felt the attraction between them too and wanted him gone.

The door slammed and locked behind Sam, and Peter came back to finish the job of putting the groceries away.

"He didn't have to rush off on my account," May told the boy who looked more and more like his father every day.

"No, it's okay. We were just talking."

Picking up the red bag, May carried it down the hall to the bathroom, raising her voice to be heard. "Know what apartment he's in? I could take him a basket of muffins as a welcome gift."

"Didn't say." Peter's voice sounded strained in a way that could mean he was lying, or at least not telling the entire truth.

She opened the cabinet behind the door to put away the toothpaste, bathroom tissue, and soap. "Okay. Well, the next time you talk to him, invite him to dinner one night so we can get to know him."

"Um, sure thing." He appeared in the doorway. "I'm gonna get online and play a game with Ned. Call me for dinner?"

She touched his cheek. "You bet. Now go." His bedroom door slammed a second later. "Such a sweet boy. Just like his dad."

Secret SHIELD Training Base

Location Unknown

A long finger poked the end key to shut off the video conference Hill had with Coulson. Of the Avengers, only Steve knew he was alive. And though it wasn't her decision, she was of the opinion that Coulson should tell them ASAP before they found out through other means and showed up on her doorstep. It was never a good idea to piss off the Avengers.

She put the subject of Coulson's resurrection aside for now and concentrated on Steve's request to join him and Wilson in Queens hunting down a wannabe hero. Klein had analyzed the videos every which way he could, but couldn't get a handle on the man's identity. All they had was male, average height, lean, and strong. The man was covered head to toe, making even his race and age impossible to see. New York had such a diverse population, the vigilante could literally be from anywhere in the world.

Adept at compartmentalizing, Hill put the issue of the vigilante's identity away with the rest of the unknowns and let her mind drift. It was something she'd seldom done before her relationship with Steve had become intimate. He's rubbing off on me.

She was still annoyed with him for going behind her back to arrange the visit with her dad. At least now they were talking, which they hadn't done in more than a decade. If anyone had mentioned a few weeks ago if she ever planned on making an attempt to put things right between them, she'd have punched their lights out. But now, after Steve all but forced her to see her father, she was glad she had. The animosity was still there, somewhat healed from its previous festering wound, but present, nonetheless.

Sitting back in her chair, Maria let her mind wander back to the last time Dad and she had engaged in what, for them, passed for a real conversation. She wouldn't be at all surprised to know that back in Chicago, Robert Hill was also thinking about that night.

Hotel Empresario

San Francisco

Ten Years Ago

Robert Hill, senior partner at Hill, Bastian, Jones, and Krakowski, the most prestigious law firm in Chicago, presented his invitation at the door, and was ushered into the grand ballroom. Inside, he was immediately approached by a uniformed server carrying a silver tray. The young woman handed him a glass of champagne with a bland smile. He sipped the amber beverage as he circulated the room, keeping an eye out for the one person he'd traveled halfway across the country to see. Yet, when he found her, he hesitated.

They hadn't seen or spoken to each other for more than five years, and he wanted her to know that his life and way of thinking had drastically changed. Before she left, he'd been a bitter and angry man, often targeting the one person he should have been going to for comfort after the death of his wife. He'd blamed Maria when Vanessa had been the one to make the choice to give him a child, despite the risks involved.

The crowd swirled around her, parting so Bob could now see that she was in the company of a tall African-American man with an eye patch and a scowl that flirted with a smile as they talked with two men and a woman. All had unreadable expressions, bland smiles that gave away nothing of their thoughts.

The others walked away, leaving Maria and the tall man alone. They accepted glasses of champagne from a server, sipping while communicating thorough eye contact alone. The man pointed his chin and left her alone. She turned, preparing to take a drink, her forehead crinkling slightly when she spotted him over the rim of her glass.

She upended the glass, draining the contents. Another of the circulating servers took the empty glass before she could lob it at his head and kept going. Bob saw her chest expand as she took a deep breath, lifted the hem of her gown, turned, and walked away.

Disheartened, Bob automatically accepted a canapé from a tray held out by another of the servers, more for something to do than because he was hungry.

The friend who'd gotten him the last minute invite appeared. Bob faked enjoyment and enthusiasm for the event as any good lawyer would, completely fooling the other man. They spoke for a while, shook hands, and his friend went back to mingling and glad-handing, talking the ears off possible donors to the cause.

Another glass of champagne came into his line of sight, slender fingers wrapped around the stem. Bob followed the arm covered in an elegant black material back to the source. Familiar blue eyes glared at him through long dark lashes. He took the glass and just held it, waiting for her to speak.

Bob took a moment to absorb her appearance. While not vastly different than the last time he'd seen her, she now projected an air of strength, confidence, and overall composure, her emotions kept tightly restrained. She would be calm, level-headed, and in control during a crisis.

"What are you doing here?"

He waved the glass carelessly, diminishing the importance of his visit, and ignoring that she'd called him by his first name. "The same as you, Maria. I was invited." She dipped her chin, looking so much like her mother, he could hardly speak. He took another sip of the champagne to clear his throat. "And to see you, of course."

"Why now?"

Bob met her eyes, willing her to understand all the words he couldn't say, at least not in public. "Our circumstances…"

"Circumstances? So now I'm a 'circumstance'?" Her bark of laughter wasn't anything close to humorous. "You haven't changed one bit, so don't pretend otherwise."

Bob realized he needed to get on better footing with his daughter so he tried another tact. "Who's that man you're with? Isn't he a little old for you?"

Maria lifted the hem of her skirt with her free hand, the light in her eyes dulling to a flinty blue-grey. "I'm an adult, Robert. You don't get to question my choices anymore. That's a privilege you gave up years ago."

With that parting shot, his daughter strode away, and was soon swallowed up by the crowd.

Scott Lang's Apartment

San Francisco, California

At the knock on the door, Scott put down the tape gun he was using to seal a box and went to answer it while wiping the sweat from his face with the tail of his ratty t-shirt. The identity of his guest startled him. "Hope."

She gave him a pointed look, and, belatedly, he stood back to let her in. Turning in a circle, she took in the boxes stacked around the living room. "Moving, I see."

"Uh, yeah. Now that I have a legitimate job that pays good money, I thought, why not?" Scott moved several boxes from in front of the sofa so Hope to sit down. "Can I get you something to drink? I have water, beer, and coffee."

"Water, please."

He felt her eyes on him as he took a paper cup from the stack on the counter, opened the refrigerator, and poured. To break the uncomfortable silence, he asked, "How's Dr. Pym?"

"Same as always. Cantankerous." She accepted the glass and took a long drink without blinking or breaking eye contact until she set the glass on an old magazine in lieu of a coaster. The apartment had come furnished and had already been in bad shape, so he hadn't bothered with trivial things like coasters and dust covers.

Scott dragged over a dining room chair and sat down, waiting for her to continue. When she didn't, though he knew the answer, he commented, "You're still mad."

Head tilted to the side thoughtfully, Hope let her eyes flit over the room and back to him. She'd been here before though she hadn't stayed long each time, acting as if she might catch something contagious. "Not as much as I was. You want to do the best you can for Cassie, and I understand that. Dad understands too. You just have to give him time to get used to the idea that his hand-picked protégé now works for the man he considers," she made finger quotes, "the enemy." Hope crossed her knees and clasped her hands around the top one.

Encouraged by her words, Scott sat up straighter, adding a small smile. "So, next week then?"

They laughed together and it felt good. Hope took another drink and replaced the cup on the magazine. "Let's just say don't hold your breath. He's stopped yelling profanities. Now they're muttered under his breath at random moments."

"Is that why you're here? To tell me he still hates me?" He did and didn't want to know the answer to that question. Especially if it meant he'd be back in the suit. "You could've called."

"He doesn't hate you. And I came to take you to dinner, to celebrate," her elegantly manicured hands waved at the boxes, "the new job, new apartment, and the new car. I assume you're not still driving Luis's beater van."

Shoving his hand into his pants pocket, Scott brought out a set of keys he tossed her way. "Can't have either of my girl's seen around town in that old rust bucket."

A frown came over Hope's features, making her look more dangerous than the first time she'd hit him. "You're back with Maggie?"

Taken aback, Scott's eyes went wide at the mere suggestion. "What? No! She and Paxton are married." He left the chair and went to sit next to her on the sofa, hesitating before taking her hand, optimistic about their future together for the first time in weeks. "I was talking about Cassie… and you. That is if you still…"

Hope stopped him with a kiss that was every bit as passionate as the last one they'd shared before she found out by whom he was employed. She separated their lips not even an inch. "Yes, I still. Shower and change. We have reservations at Twilight for dinner, after we make another stop." Their fingers entwined briefly. "You're buying."

Excitement seared its way through Scott's chest. "You bet your ass I am!"

The bedroom door closed on his last word, slightly muffled by the shirt he pulled over his head and dropped on the floor as he left a trail of clothing to the bathroom.

Tyur'ma Khabarovsk

Khabarovsk Krai, Russia

Yuri Rozhenko stood over the bodies of the three men and one woman who had helped him escape from Tyur'ma Khabarovsk Correctional Facility. A wisp of smoke drifted from the barrel, disappearing in the dim light.

It had taken over a year of planning, but Yuri was a patient man. He was also a great believer in the phrase "the more you know". Arman had taken a position as a guard to learn all that he could about rules, policies, and schedules at the prison, while Vasili and Boris made arrangements for his passage out of the country. A chronic condition sent him to the infirmary several times a month. A situation that was relatively easy to contrive. Yuri had used that time to seduce the prison nurse, Leka, into assisting with his escape. He allowed her to believe that they would marry, have children, and live the rest of their lives away from the criminal element that had been a part of his life since he was a young man.

He wiped the gun clean and dropped it on the floor. When the politsiya investigated, they would find that it had been sold to one of Russia's allies. Several other such weapons had been procured by the men lying dead at his feet, and when he reached America, they would be waiting. He would use them to eliminate those that had put him in prison: Natasha Romanoff and her lover, Clint Barton.

TBC