Chapter 1
Phil Coulson looked up as SHIELD's finest agent, the Black Widow, stalked into the room. Stalked was the right word. No-one would call what she did walking – she looked too much like a predator. When she was at a SHIELD base, the crowds parted before her like the Red Sea. She had a glare that could kill at twenty paces, and was armed to the teeth – whether in friendly territory or not. Despite this, Phil liked to be around her. He had known her for many years, and it was a rare day when she didn't complete a mission. Although she remained aloof and cold in the presence of other agents, the two of them had developed a close bond.
She stood straight-backed in front of the desk behind which Phil sat. Her red hair was loose, and she wore a casual SHIELD uniform – not the jumpsuit that agents wore when out on missions. She was expectantly watching Phil as he gathered his notes.
"We've got a new target for you to check out," he began. "We don't know his name yet, but he seems to be an enhanced. Some control over technology, potential telepathy."
She was surprised, although her face, honed over years of deceits and deceptions, didn't show it.
"It's no surprise Fury's interested in this one. Am I taking him out, bringing him in, or getting close?"
Phil responded quickly, "We want you to get close to him. Get to know him, become his friend. You know what to, I won't tell you how to your job, just make sure that SHIELD knows who he is and what he can do."
He handed over the few photographs they had of him, none of which were particularly good.
"Does facial recognition have any names for him?" She asked.
"Of course, there are billions of people with black hair. Once we narrow it down, though, with where he lives and goes, we've got no-one. He's got two houses in England and Scotland, although what little evidence we do have suggests he spends most his time in England – in London. The London house was bought under the name James Evans, and the Scotland one, Godric Gryffindor."
She suppressed a short burst of laughter.
He saw the incredulity in her eyes, and responded, a smile on his face, "Good, you don't think that's particularly likely either? It sounds like a name for a knight of the Round Table – and no-one in the UK is called Godric or Gryffindor – the name is entirely fabricated, as far as I can tell.
"Now, onto the tricky bit. You'll be dealing with someone who seems to have some sort of power over technology, so we can't afford to give you any tech that might make you seem suspicious – an earpiece wouldn't exactly make you look normal. You'll have a phone in your bag which will be recording everything, but we have to assume that he'll notice anything else. If it's any consolation, we've modified the phone a bit – it's shielded against EMPs, the camera and microphone are six times more sensitive and, barring magic, it should be strong enough to withstand just about anything."
She took the phone from him and gave it a quick glance, before responding. "Barring magic? So in other words, it might be completely useless?"
He sighed before nodding in the affirmative.
"And the mind-reading? Is it wise to send someone with level 9 clearance into a room with a telepath?"
Phil again looked uncertain. "We don't have any evidence that he is capable of reading minds. All we have seen is that he can make people forget why they are near him. It's a risk, but we think that if anyone can detect a change in their emotions or memories, it's you. Just stay alert, and if you find yourself thinking irrationally, let us know and get out of there."
"Thinking irrationally. Of course." She picked up the last of the photos, before heading to the preparation room to get ready.
-o-
The next morning, a plane bearing a crew of SHIELD operatives touched down at a private airstrip north-west of London. The Black Widow drove into the city, and made her way to the small apartment down the road from where their newest target was living. It was a moderately wealthy residential area, close enough to central London to be practical, and just on the edge of where one could buy a house, not an apartment. On the drive into town, she had taken the opportunity to take some photos of his house. It was a reasonably small property, with his motorbike parked out front. Some of the windows were open, showing a warmly-lit, well-furnished, but empty interior. The stones that made up the front of the house seemed to have been repainted, and were stained a dark grey, with some faint markings and scratches on them that she couldn't make out from the distance. Out of the chimney there drifted a small wisp of smoke, as if from a small fire, or one that had been out for some time. His neighbours had nothing unusual or suspicious about them, and had not spent much time, if any, with him.
Before she could notice much more about the house, the car continued (so as to not attract suspicion), taking her off the road and onto the small side-street that contained the apartment that SHIELD had rented for the foreseeable future.
She had one of the floors entirely to herself, and kept it clean, so as to not be suspicious if anyone came in. She did, of course, employ her usual tricks to stay aware – a hair in the doorway, a speck of ... something on the handle, a chock in the window to keep it closed, and a light coating of dust on the ground to show footsteps.
The team that came with her had access to all local CCTV cameras, and were keeping watch for whenever their target left the house to go anywhere. In the meantime, there wasn't much to do. She would content herself with completing the pages and pages of mission reports, character reports, security analyses, and other assorted paperwork that had piled up over her time with the agency.
The trap had been set. The waiting game would now begin.
-o-
It was not until the next afternoon that the Black Widow got a call from the team, telling her that the target had left the house on his motorbike, and was now cruising down the road. By the time she had gathered her bag and checked that she looked fine, she had received word that he had stopped at a local café, the Spotted Owl Café, and was sitting down looking over a menu.
She left the house and started down the road, phone at her ear, listening to the constant stream of information being fed to her by the analysts. He had ordered an Earl Grey tea, he had picked up a newspaper, he was sitting at table 16. There were six other customers in the café, and two employees. It was a quiet day. The cameras seemed to be having issues, with the image distorting slightly, as if it was projected onto a pond after a rock was thrown in.
She waited outside the café, just out of view, until she saw a potential opening. A moment later, she approached the door, which opened with a ringing sound. She approached the counter, at the same time as the target. She was making notes in her head about his appearance and mannerisms. Black hair, messy, uncombed. Pale skin. Was sitting in the corner of the room, able to see everyone. Fidgeting somewhat – nervous? Had one hand above his jacket pocket – armed? He turned in her direction, and she got her first proper look at him. Strangely-shaped scar on his forehead, and wow. Those eyes. They were the most green eyes she had ever seen. They seemed almost to glow when he looked at her. Normally she wouldn't, but she noted this as well – eyes glowing, maybe something to do with being enhanced?
She took a step to the side, and 'accidentally' bumped into him.
What followed was twenty seconds of both, very awkwardly, attempting to claim responsibility and apologise for the contact. She was apologising for not slowing down, he was saying he should have looked where he was turning. The waitress watched, amused. Eventually, after much ado, he insisted that she, the lady, should order first. Sighing at his enthusiasm, she ordered her coffee and stood back as he ordered a toasted bagel with jam. He stepped back, looking intently at the bird paintings behind the counter. He seemed sad to her.
She made up her mind. It was now or never. It was time to pounce.
She looked up, took a step towards him, and, in her best 'shy neighbour' voice, asked "Do you live around here?"
He turned around, and looked at her, as if trying to recognise her. Eventually, he responded politely.
"I'm living a few minutes away on Matthew Place. Are you new here?"
"I just moved into the apartment down the road. What do they call it? Sunset Gardens? I thought it sounded awfully pretentious. I'm from the States, we just use numbers over there. Were you born here?"
He nodded sagely, having heard her accent, before responding, "Well, not here exactly. I'm from a .. small town out west, but I mostly lived in Surrey, near London."
She nodded, filing this information for a later date. "So what is there to do around here? Do you do anything interesting?"
He thought for a second before responding. "I mostly work elsewhere, so I don't spend too much time in town. You can always head into central London, though. There's always something on in the city."
"What do you do for work? I'm working as I.T. at a local business, but it's dreadfully boring."
The question seemed to take him by surprise, and he waited a few seconds before he finally opened his mouth again.
"Well, you see. I'm kinda, doing some work, a little while away. Doing … research. And, making things. It's not very interesting."
Sure. She believed him. He would have been more specific if he had said that he worked for a company doing stuff. She decided to try one more avenue of approach.
"Are you interested in showing me around? I don't really know where anything is, we could go for a walk?" He picked up his bagel, which had just been delivered. He thought to himself for a moment. He put his hands in his pockets. "Sure," he replied, "But I have to be back at the house in fifteen minutes."
The pair left the coffee shop, both discretely examining the other, and headed down the road towards the main shopping street. She asked the first question.
"I noticed you were looking at the paintings in the shop? Are you a collector?"
He looked confused, then responded. "No, not a collector. I know nothing about art, really. It's just that I used to have a pet owl. Those paintings reminded me of her."
"A pet owl?" She remarked, "That's not a very common pet. Was she actually tame, or did she just visit every so often?"
He looked affronted at the insult. "She was a good friend. She slept on a perch in my room. She would even deliver my mail sometimes."
She looked him, and said suddenly, "You're a very strange man, do you know that? I haven't known you for more than five minutes and you already seem like no-one else I know."
He looked proud, and began speaking confidently. "I will now begin a tour of this most lovely of suburbs. Please ensure your seatbelts are fastened and your tray tables are stowed."
He motioned to the building on the other side of the road.
"Here, you can see the cinema. You know it's a cinema because it says 'cinema' in big letters on the top. Next to it is the hardware store, which, funnily enough, has a sign saying 'Bob's Hardware Store.' It's pretty alright, just don't buy any drills made by Grunnings."
She looked confused at that statement, but he waved her off, before continuing.
"Unfortunately that café just closed down for good, so I've had to start going to the one we were cat. No-one knows what the building next to it is used for, so I suspect aliens. The pub on the other side is a regular pub, as far as I'm aware, but the owner waters down the beer, and every Saturday after the game, the local high-school gathers there to sacrifice drinks to the football god, who evidently likes a cold beer after a winning game."
She looked at him, her assessment of his stability rapidly plummeting. Although his strangeness wasn't threatening, like some. Stark's 'humour,' if it could be called that, was more like just insulting people in a way he thought was funny. Barton and Coulson were strange in their own way (Clint liked to sit in high places pretending he was a bird), and their quirks had grown endearing.
After rattling off a list of places on the street which she listened to, but didn't really care about, he glanced down at his watch, and, with a slight frown, told her that he had to leave. She decided to try for one last piece of information to hopefully make her superiors happy.
"Before you head off, could I grab your phone number? I'd love to get coffee with you again one of these days, are you interested?"
He looked uncertain at this, but eventually nodded in the affirmative, and grabbed a pen from his pocket, with which he wrote, in a messy scrawl, a number on a piece of paper she handed to him. She beamed a smile at him, before he made a quick goodbye and hurried off in the other direction. She ran back to the SHIELD base to give them the report.
-o-
As he hurried down the street, the black-haired man felt a guilty feeling settle in his stomach. He had given her a fake phone number, of course. Why? Well, she wouldn't really want to associate with him if she figured out that he didn't really have a job or a life. He had been approached by a couple of people, whether in pubs or cafés, but he never returned their calls or requests – really, it was for their own good, why would they want to hang around him?
If she was persistent, he could always cast a mild aversion charm on himself, which would make him feel bad, but was for the best. He had only been here for a little over a year, and he felt it would be a betrayal of his old friends to immediately replace them with new ones.
He would make new friends sometime. Maybe in a year. A few years. Maybe more than that.
