Chapter 13.

Natasha stared out at the city, letting her tea grow cold. She had a lot on her mind, too much to multitask. Sometimes she just needed a minute to think of nothing, to do nothing.

"You look cozy."

Tony Stark stepped off the elevator, dressed down in a band shirt and jogging pants. His hair was five kinds of crazy and he had deep circles under his eyes – but he still managed a smile.

She rolled her head onto the back of the chair, watching him fall dramatically onto the couch. He had decorated his little 'team housing' area like a cozy early 2000s home. Dark carpets, heavy drapes, fluffy furniture, a wooden coffee table. She would never admit that she liked it, but it was just what she needed after five days of looking for answers. Someplace quiet, comfortable.

When she stirred from just a few precious hours of sleep, she came into the common area and dragged a recliner up to the window, wrapping a blanket completely around herself. It was three in the morning. She should be asleep. He should be asleep.

Five days.

It had been quiet, with hardly any signs of progress. Not a peep out of their prisoners, not an inkling of how to counteract the gas. Dr. Bloom had been locked in one of the chemistry labs since the previous evening – maybe he had something. It seemed unlikely now, out of reach. Steve, Thor, and Bruce had gotten so stir-crazy that they left the tower, getting themselves into trouble, careless about the fact that they were all purely human now.

Rhodey and Sam had found no signs of more mercenaries in the city. She had looked into every angle she could think of, spending the long hours digging into Nicholas Freeman's past, into the gear the mercenaries were captured with, into every miniscule detail of their operation.

She got nowhere. She had nothing.

"I keep thinking an answer is right around the corner," Tony said, quiet, somber. He was a thinker, and a talker. He always had a vein of curiosity in his voice, no matter the subject. "I think Freeman is in the wind. Must know we're looking. Feels like a ding-dong-ditch situation."

Natasha left her cozy chair and joined him on the couch, passing him half of her blanket. She had a more complicated relationship with Tony than she did with Steve – or any of their team, for that matter. He was less trustworthy, less honest than Steve, and not as kind and humble as Bruce. He was no match in her mind for Clint – but no one ever would be, really. Tony was a wildcard. He was passionate, aiming to be good but sometimes falling short.

What she really appreciated about him right now was his empathy. He never had powers, but he seemed to understand how the others felt. And he was taking this attack very personally.

Natasha drifted off in the middle of a conversation about an infomercial. Her phone woke her up at nine. She was alone in the common area, sprawled across the couch.

A SHIELD agent was calling her. Peters. "Romanoff, there's been another gas attack. Block party. I'm sending you the address."

She was still for a fraction of a second, gathering herself, hardening her resolve, processing, and then she hopped off the couch. "We're on the way."

XxXxX

They received urgent updates through Jarvis.

"Bystanders have said that a young boy collapsed at the scene and was taken away by men in black body armor. Police pursued them, but they appear to have lost them."

Tony was flying just over the quinjet. He said, "Rhodey, pick up where they left off." Rhodey peeled away in his somber gray suit, leaving a bright trail as he put on speed. "Kid might have been enhanced," Tony said. "How the hell did they gas an outdoor party?"

It was chaos at the scene. Natasha put the quinjet in a hover, hopping out to join the crowd. Hazmat trucks, police, firefighters, and paramedics swarmed the place. She shouldered her way through, picking out points of interest.

Tony landed in the midst of the first responders. "Jarvis, show Romanoff her new toy."

She was in the middle of asking, "What toy?" when a small object broke away from her belt and latched onto her face. Glasses. A thin frame projected a translucent screen, and on it, multicolored markers pointed out fire and rescue, plain clothes police, victims and onlookers. It was a little overwhelming at first, but she acclimated quickly.

"Thoughts? Concerns?" Tony said.

"Could have used more warning. Pinched my ear."

Natasha found the glasses very useful in a crowd like this. She could pick out every gun on site, and even a few suspicious bulges on the ankles of a couple of cops. Backups. She was mostly interested in the civilians – particularly a doe-eyed couple giving their statement to an officer. Her glasses picked them out as witnesses.

She knew who they were.

"His parents," she said, to no one in particular.

Her new glasses drew green squares around their faces, and Jarvis said. "Accessing DMV records. Eleanor and Sahib Parker."

A row of picnic tables had been set up at the 'bulb' part of a cul-de-sac, food still laid out, grill still going. It looked like there were fifty, maybe sixty seats available. Gas cannisters were spread all over the place, some of them larger and bulkier than the ones they'd used in the previous attack.

And they were standing there, in the place where their son was taken. Sahib had a bloody nose – he was lucky that was all they had done to him. She imagined him trying to protect his boy, trying to hold onto him, the way she held onto Steve when he went down at the veterans center, but he just wasn't strong enough. It made her sick.

Natasha got to the edge of the gathered crowd, listening, waiting. Sahib was speaking, giving the usual information, answering the standard questions. No, no one had it out for the boy. Why would they? No, he was not in a gang. No, Sahib did not have enemies. She gleaned that the boy, George Parker, was thirteen, and that he wouldn't hurt a fly.

When the officers dispersed, giving pats on the shoulders and words of comfort, Natasha ducked under the barrier and approached.

Sahib looked taken aback by her appearance, but Eleanor recognized her immediately. "You. You're an Avenger, aren't you?"

Natasha was momentarily alarmed, worrying that her life was too public now, but then she remembered she was wearing black leather and a high-tech visor. She couldn't be more conspicuous. She said, "Uh, yes. I am. I'm Natasha."

Sahib said, "Why aren't you out there looking for George?"

His wife tapped him gently on the chest. Tears fell down her cheeks. "I don't understand why this is happening. This can't be happening. This is a dream."

Nat said, "What can you remember about what happened?"

It was an attack no one could have anticipated. A block party, a gathering of neighbors, friends, to celebrate something or another. George was at the table with his dad. Black SUVs rolled up, the mercenaries piled out, and cannisters flew. Everything was enveloped in mustard-yellow gas, taking visibility down to a few feet, then a few inches, in a brief and terrifying moment. Someone grabbed George, and Sahib tried to fight them off, only to get hit so hard that he flipped over the table. And then George was gone, and the gas cleared, and the SUVs pulled away in a flurry.

She asked them as many questions as she could, hoping they knew if the boy was enhanced, but they had no clue what she was talking about.

She said her goodbyes, got their numbers, promised to tell them if she found anything out, and left them there to hold one another.

And then her glasses picked up on someone standing to the back of the crowd. A boy.

He seemed about twelve, maybe thirteen, sort of scrawny. And he looked dazed. He looked straight at her all of the sudden, like he felt her eyes. Her glasses highlighted his face, but found nothing about him. Not surprising for a kid.

"Hey, you okay, kid?" Nat asked, joining him beyond the chaos.

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. His trembling gave him away. "Yeah, I guess."

"What's your name?"

"Jonathan." He looked back toward the barricades, scanning the crowds. "Did they really take Georgie? Everyone keeps saying it."

"Yeah, looks like it." Nat noticed a small dab of blood on his hairline, turning his pale brown hair chestnut. "Are you hurt? You're bleeding."

Jonathan touched his head, winced. "I fell down when I heard all the banging. I couldn't see anything, and everybody was running around everywhere."

It seemed like a logical explanation, but something in her tone triggered one of her most basic instincts – the one that told her when people were lying.

"Do you know George?"

"Yeah. He's my friend." And then his expression suddenly changed. He was all bright-eyed and hopeful. "Are you an Avenger? I saw Iron Man over there with the police."

"Yes."

"I'm a huge fan." Jonathan was beaming, not matching the tone of the situation. "Can I have your number?"

It was so far out of left field that Nat laughed. "Why?"

"In case I know anything about Georgie, you know?"

"You guys must have been really close. His parents don't even call him that."

Jonathan's enthusiasm was dimmed for a split second. "I used to pick on him when we were little and that's what I called him. I just never stopped calling him that." He looked up, and then down again quickly. "He calls me Johnny."

Natasha noticed George's parents looking at them, focused on the boy.

Jonathan said. "So, can I have your number?"

Nat lingered on the Parkers, curious. "No."

"Why not?"

"If you have something you need to tell me, you can call the Avengers Tower and try your luck with the receptionist." She swapped tones, trying to impress how serious this was. "Was George able to do anything… unnatural?"

He spoke nonchalantly, "He could breathe underwater."

"He could…? Wow." Natasha imagined the implications of that, what sort of mutation he might have, how his body worked differently from others. Dr. Bloom was going to wet himself. "Anything else you think I might need to know?"

"Um, no. But if I think of something-"

"How about this. I'll give you a number. If you think of something, call it and ask for me." She wrote down Bruce's number and handed it over. She said, "I'm being serious. The guy behind that number has a temper, so you better have a good reason, got it?"

Jonathan was not put off at all. He tucked the card in his pocket.

She came away from her strange interview with a dozen new questions. Was Freeman just launching his gas into crowded areas to see if he could drop any Enhanced? What did he want with them? If he wanted them dead, he could have just killed them when they went down. It took extra effort to kidnap someone. Was the attack on her team intentional, or happenstance? Why the move from Washington D.C. to New York?

And where did he take George Parker?

Tony met her near the quinjet, which had gathered an audience of fascinated civilians.

"George was Enhanced," she said, as the bay doors sealed themselves. It was dark in the jet, and the outside noise was completely cancelled.

Tony said, "I found two types of gas cannisters – the grenade kind they used at the veterans center, and a bigger one that was designed to shoot the gas directionally. It was a lot more pressurized, so it was potent for longer. I haven't seen weapons like this since…"

"Since you made them?"

He nodded grimly.

Rhodey came over the coms, "No sign of them out here yet."

Tony glanced at Nat, clearly regretting being up at three that morning, and then said, "Keep looking. I'm heading the other way."

Natasha said, "I'll try to track down the vans on the city traffic cams. No security in the suburb. And maybe we'll get lucky and find a car rental company that gave out a bunch sinister black SUVs."

"Yeah, what is with that?" Tony said, stepping out of the jet. "It just screams 'villain.'"

XxXxX

Natasha groaned, barreling through another firewall. "Maybe this one."

Steve had stopped looking hopeful a couple of hours ago.

She was on the couch in the crew quarters, feet up on the coffee table, a laptop humming in her lap. Steve was beside her, arms crossed over his fragile chest, staring up at the ceiling, and Thor was sulking by the window, looking longingly at the clouds.

"Could be the one," Nat said, though only halfheartedly. She had already found the answer. "Nope. Never mind. Well, that rules out finding a car rental place. Either they rented them outside of the city, bought them, or stole them. Dead end."

Bruce arrived in the elevator, coming into the common area with his arms crossed in that insecure way he had. "Hey, guys. Any luck?"

Nat shook her head.

One of the window panels suddenly slid open, startling Thor so badly that he flipped out of his chair. Tony soared in, landing with a solid thunk and stepping out of his suit. His face was grim, those deep circles under his eyes now more like bruises.

He grabbed the remote, flipped the TV on to the news.

Somehow, Nat knew what she would see.

A reporter was standing in Central Park, gesturing behind her at the woods, where police came and went up a steep embankment.

She was in the middle of a sentence. Tony turned the volume up.

"-who was abducted from a small party in his neighborhood this morning."

Tony had a stiff jaw, black eyes, "George Parker was found dead in Central Park. Rhodey is there checking it out."

Bruce was very still, staring at the screen, horror unfolding on his face. It was mostly in his eyes, blossoming, illustrating the misery that always seemed a stone's throw away.

"Just more of my antics, spilling over on innocent people," he said softly.

"You didn't do this," Nat said. "It was Freeman."

Bruce seemed to be done passionately defending Freeman at every turn. He said, "I gave him what he needed to make this happen. No." He put his hand to his temple, groaning. "No, no. He wouldn't do this. I swear, this can't be him."

Natasha got up, hoping to offer some comfort, but when she reached out for him, Bruce staggered away.

"N-N-No. I have to go. I need to get out of here." He went for the elevator.

"Bruce, you're human now. You have to-"

"I can't," Bruce said simply, shrugging, flaring his hands out like he was surrendering. "Please. I just can't. I have to fix this."

She was going to have to physically stop him.

Tony put his hand on her shoulder, "Let him go."

Bruce was getting into the elevator, now almost out of reach.

"He'll get himself killed," she objected.

"He needs to clear his head. Look at him. He's spiraling. I happen to have a lot of experience in that department." When the elevator doors closed, Tony added, "Besides, I injected him with a GPS tracker a while ago."

Nat turned on him, "What?"

"What? He has a tendency to go off the rails, not sure if you noticed."

"Stark, I swear, if I have a GPS tag in me-"

"Relax. I didn't tag you. Yet. We can put something on the books, if you want."

He winked.

She rolled her eyes, unsure what to do with herself now. George was dead. Rhodey was out there assessing the scene, preparing some info to bring back to them. But Freeman was still in the wind. His mercenaries were good at vanishing.

"We just wait," Tony said, answering her unspoken question.

She sank back onto the couch.

Steve said, "Do I have a tracker?"

Tony stepped back into his suit. "I'm gonna go help Rhodey out. Sam didn't pick up the phone, but if he shows up, send him to me. I'll be back to give you guys the scoop."

As he hopped out the window, Steve called, "Tony! Do I have a tracker?"

XxXxX

George Parker.

Since he accidentally created the Hulk, he had been responsible for many deaths. His chaos, his strength, had lasting consequences. Bruce tried to remember their names as much as he could. Maybe one day he would make it right.

George was thirteen years old, a freshman in high school, probably. The news story played over and over in his head. He was found under a bush.

Under a bush.

The mercenaries took him that morning – took him from his parents, his friends, his own neighborhood, maybe only a hundred feet from his house – and killed him. And they left him under some random bush in Central Park.

Why?

Why even bother taking him, if they were going to kill him anyway? Privacy? Did they want something from him? Blood samples? Information?

Bruce parked the quinjet in the field beside the ruins of Freeman's home. Natasha told him it was destroyed, but he had no memory of it. When the jet door opened, he stood there on the ramp, beholding the rubble. Did he do this?

He picked around in the snow, recognizing the structure, the rooms. He had been sitting in this house less than a week ago, talking to Freeman, eating cookies.

There was no way he was behind the attacks.

Someone must have taken him, taken his research, his creation, and they were forcing him to produce it. He would never do this. He would never hurt anyone.

But Bruce had distinct memories of sitting on the couch, hearing a soft hissing sound. Gas. By the time he identified the sound, it was too late. He fell unconscious – and he woke up to Natasha standing over him. It was vague at that point. He had focused on her face, remembered her telling him to stay awake, and then nothing until he woke in the Avengers Tower.

Bruce stopped in the kitchen, putting a hand on the snow-covered stovetop.

He had stood there once, months ago, talking to Freeman about his affliction. Freeman was kind, empathetic. He promised he would free Bruce of the Hulk, save him from it.

If he was the one doing this, did he think he was freeing people from their abnormalities?

Did he think everyone suffered the way that Bruce did?

Am I free?

Bruce sat on the couch, tucking his hands into his armpits. He was colder than usual, shivering, but that was bound to happen now that the Hulk was gone. Bruce felt an empty space inside where that enraged creature used to live.

He thought he would feel free with the Hulk gone, but he felt like half of him was missing.

He grasped at happiness, at finally reaching a nearly lifelong goal, but all he could feel was guilt. He had lost a friend by taking his blood without permission, and he had given Freeman what he needed to produce that gas. Whether Freeman was the one doing it was irrelevant – it had led to the death of that kid. It was being used as a weapon.

Bruce was directly responsible for whatever happened next.

He dug out his phone, calling Freeman, hoping he had it on him.

It went to voicemail.

"I'm not sure what to say," Bruce began. "I guess it should start with, where are you? Are you okay? I'm sitting here in your house – or, what's left of it. Some bad stuff has been going on. But you probably know that. I guess you found the cure. Look, I know the odds of you hearing this are pretty slim, but I have to say it. I know this isn't you. It can't be. You wouldn't attack people. You wouldn't hurt anyone. But… you're the only one who could be making the gas. So, if it is you, you have to stop. That kid is dead, Nick."

Bruce hesitated, running out of things to say.

And then he added, "Please, just call me if you can. I need an explanation. Please."

XxXxX

Natasha left her room just before midnight – regrettably, she thought of it as hers now, even though she said she would never willingly live under same roof as Stark – and took up her spot on the couch in the living room. For the last few decades she had never really thought of anywhere as home. She drifted, staying in hotels wherever her SHIELD missions took her – and wherever the KGB sent her in the past. She had always thought of herself as a wanderer. But it was sort of nice to have a spot on the couch.

She wrapped up, sunk into the cushions, and watched the TV on the lowest volume setting.

Tony appeared an hour later, coming in through the window, stepping out of his suit and staggering a little. He looked even worse than he did when they were here in the wee hours of the morning. She should be asleep. He should be asleep.

"You okay?" she said.

"Maybe went a little too long," he admitted. "Just stiff. How's morale?"

Natasha gave him a thumbs down. "The boys are pretending to sleep, but they're just sulking in separate corners."

"Bruce come back?"

"Yeah. Also sulking."

Tony sighed, plopping into the armchair. "I wanted to get back into things after what happened with my rampage and all – but not like this."

The news was playing the story of George Parker over and over, getting every ounce of airtime they could out of it. His face was still there on the left side of the screen, a haunting, spirited smile on his face. Natasha rarely dwelled on death, becoming accustomed to it when she was a child, and causing it as an adult. But this… it seemed unshakable.

Tony said, "You should watch something else, stop wallowing."

She shrugged. "Keeps me motivated."

Tony heaved a big sigh, sinking further into the cushions. His eyes occasionally closed. After a while, Steve came into the room. He looked tired, too, concerningly warn from a day of doing almost nothing. She wondered if he was getting weaker, fading – worried that if they couldn't find out how to reverse the gas, he might just wither away.

He sat beside her on the couch, giving her a long look with those pretty eyes, and then settled in to join the pity party.

A moment later, George Parker's parents appeared on the screen.

Nat sat bolt upright, jacking the volume up.

His mother was speaking, tears in her eyes, standing in front of her dark front door. "I just thought… with the Avengers out looking for him… I just thought he would be okay."

Tony was watching her, not the interview. "Change the channel."

Nat fingered the remote, but in the end, she only turned the volume down. Steve reached over and put his hand on hers, the warmth of his skin giving her something else to think about.

She said, "When I first joined SHIELD everything was just a mission. It was just like the KGB. Clint convinced me to join, saved my life. I owed him. And I was better than I used to be because of him. But when we fought Loki, it felt different. It felt more impactful. And then Hydra and SHIELD… I see it all differently now."

Steve said, "George was killed by whoever was behind this – and we'll bring them to justice."

"You're taking it personally," Tony added.

But there was fire in his eyes.

She said, "So are you."

Tony looked away, his voice softer than usual, "I didn't say I wasn't. It's not healthy, but that doesn't mean I can turn it off."

Weeks ago, Nat had been ready to kill Tony to protect their team – to protect Steve – but they were a lot alike. She saw it that morning, and she was seeing it now. Both of them were willing to take extreme routes, taking a hit when the house of cards tumbled down. It was becoming that way for all of the Avengers, even their new recruits. Sam and Rhodey were working double-time. Sam had gone to the hospital floor to sleep, because there weren't enough rooms for everyone to spend the night. Rhodey was stuck to Tony like glue lately, waiting to catch him when he fell apart.

A little family had formed, and Nat realized that she trusted them – even Tony.

"I'm gonna hit the hay," Tony announced, looking a decade older as he pulled himself stiffly from his chair. "You should, too. Plenty to do tomorrow. New leads."

Nat finally changed the channel, watching filmmakers describe the courtship rituals of an obscure species of penguin.

Steve still had her hand, running his thumb softly over the back of it, offering a simple comfort she never realized she had been missing. She put her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes. It felt like this day had been going on for years, beginning on a somber note, ending with a death and overwhelming feelings of guilt.

Steve said, "We'll find the person behind this – and we'll stop them."

But he might have been talking to himself.