Chapter 22: Build Up
A/N: There goes Marvel again messing up the freaking timeline, saying it's been six years since Battle of New York, but you know what? Screw 'em. I'm sticking to the original claim by Feige that shiz went down in 2008 because I can't even, right now. Not after Infinity Wars and how it damned near put me in a coma.
Okay, guys, we're getting so so close to The Thing! *Screeches in excitement*
R&R, please, and enjoy!
Sutton Cemetery, England
Summer 2010
Ross gets out of the rented car, the humid air thick and uncomfortable. The sun reflects brightly off the clouds, and he slips on his sunglasses before slamming the door shut. He searches the vast emptiness that is Sutton Cemetery. Not even another living soul on the grounds paying respects to a past loved one.
He has no idea why she was here or why she called from here. Why England? What brought her here?
He's already done his research. There are five Abegglens in the graveyard, but he couldn't trace any of them to her. Still, he paid each site a visit, needing to see for his own eyes the undisturbed graves. The people they belonged to are long dead. Three of them formerly unmarked graves of German soldiers from World War I who never it made back home. The other two were a day-old baby and an eighty-three-year-old woman.
Every person stems from two people who each stemmed from their own families, but Ross doesn't know about Milas' family. She never talked about her childhood before the Red Room. Didn't even talk about the Red Room. She never talked about anything regarding KGB or FSB to him. He only knew what he knew which isn't anything outside of her heavily blacked-out, classified file S.H.I.E.L.D. provided the NSA and CIA six months post her capture in '03.
For all Ross knows, Milas Abegglen may not even be her real name like how Agent Natasha Romanoff wasn't born Natasha Romanoff and there's no record of a Natalia Romanova being born either.
That possibility weighs on him. There are things he absolutely despises about this world of espionage, and people never being who they say they are is up there in the top three. He hasn't searched archives for Milas Abegglen, but he intuitively knows he won't find anything.
Ross doesn't want to sound like he's stereotyping, but she doesn't look German and wonders if she even is. She might be partly, but there's something almost Mediterranean thrown in there, too. Her German is flawless, but so is every other language he's heard her speak and accent or dialect she's donned.
Four days ago, Agent Abegglen went missing almost immediately after it being revealed her true allegiance. She had never been rehabilitated from the KGB. She'd been a double agent for the Russians all.
He still feels sick, but more than anything, he's curious.
And fucking confused.
Ross traced her back here. She called him, and she was here. After she'd been declared missing and branded a double agent.
He smears a hand down his face, massaging his chin. Frustrated. His brain hurting. The locals have been asked questions, but no one has seen anything. Nothing out of the ordinary here in Surrey aside from a retired policeman dying from a massive stroke. Ross stares yards away at the funeral paraphernalia associated with honorable burials. The man was buried this morning, but Ross can't see how his death has anything to do with Abegglen, but it might be something.
Satellite tracing technology couldn't pinpoint the exact location from where she called him. All he knows is that she was here, and the perimeter is large enough that she could've even been across the street and not at this cemetery at all.
S.H.I.E.L.D. has an investigation going on. They're going to use their own satellite's imagery, and maybe if they're lucky, they'll find something.
Ross worries. Not just because Abegglen's missing. He's seen her handle herself just fine.
He worries because she called that number. A number she scoffed at three weeks ago and bluntly told him she'd never even consider it. A number that would be pointless to call at the point she did, given her status as a traitor.
Three weeks ago
Riyahd, Saudi Arabia
"You ever see an end to this?" asks Ross.
Hermione looks over her shoulder, seeing him slowly sit down in the pointless chair in the room. She returns to her task, folding up her clothes and stuffing them inside her suitcase.
"How do you smother belief?" she counters tiredly, shaking her head.
"That's not what I mean. You going back and forth between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the CIA. That's what I mean. Because I've been thinking."
"How dangerous of you," she quips, zipping up her bag and picking up her phone.
"You should come work for us full-time. This liaison gig has got to be killing you. Now even more so since D.C.'s home base for you."
Hermione texts a quick 'be home soon' to Nat and then another to Rogers before slipping her phone into her pocket. "I've got a flight to catch," she tells him.
He follows her and her luggage down the stairs, both of them pressing against the wall of the safehouse as three black-ops soldiers hustle pass them. One of them winks at her and tugs on her braid a little too hard.
Stevens.
"Was that really necessary?" Ross mildly admonishes as the three men snicker, Stevens the loudest.
"And you want me to work full-time with you and them?"
"But you really mean him?"
"They're all dicks," she says. "But him, he's a special kind of jackass. I should've left him for dead when I had the chance."
"Hey, now." Ross gets defensive even though he knows she's joking. "He's one of the best on my team. And he's the youngest. Imagine where he'll be in five years."
Hermione hops off the last step and dramatically glances at her nails. "Probably dead." She buffs them on her shirt. "Like the others who dared imagine that far."
"God, you're awful."
"Yet you want to work with me." She shakes her head, smiling grim. "You hate this gig as much as I do, Ross, and you don't care about the guys that much. Why don't you go back to being a spy?"
"Why don't you?" he countered.
"The world can barely handle Romanoff. Get us both out there, it wouldn't stand a chance."
She makes it to the doorway when he pipes up, "Before you go." He's got a card in wedged between his pointer and middle finger. "If you change your mind, call me at this number."
"I really, really won't." But she takes it and stuffs it into the back pocket of her jeans.
"You'll get health benefits. Dental. Vision. All the goodies. Those are hard to come in this economy. Especially if you're ex-KGB and not a U.S. citizen. I doubt S.H.I.E.L.D.'s dishing out the works." He leans in. "Imagine where you'll be in five years, kid."
Hermione can't help but laugh. Before stepping out, she grabs a black abaya from the entryway closet and throws it over herself. "It'll not include wearing one of these in a hundred-degree weather, that's for sure."
"I'll see you in D.C." He keeps the door open and watches her toss her bag into the backseat of the SUV waiting for her. "I'll get those tickets."
She closes the backseat door and then window rolls down, her hands pulling down on the gap to show her mouth. "I want good seats."
"You call that number, we'll talk about good seats."
She blows a raspberry, rolling the window up.
Slowly but surely, they're getting through Star Wars and mainstream Disney films. Hermione's got three hours of sleep in her back pocket, but she left work in Saudi Arabia to go to work here in D.C.
Rogers just finished a mission this morning in Pakistan. He's rested and showered—unlike her—and fiddling with the settings on his microwave while Hermione slips Revenge of the Sith into the DVD player. She hopes it's not as lame as the last one and what the hell? She thought these movies were supposed to be great or something. Is she doing it wrong?
Some of the things she does with Steve to get him caught up with the times are new experiences for her, too. Star Wars is one of them.
In all honestly, Hermione hasn't seen a ton of movies. While in the Red Room, every night was movie night, but there wasn't an endless supply of films nor a comfy couch and a bowl of near-burnt popcorn prepared by Captain America. There were metal desks and robotic recitations of movies' dialogue followed by oral exams on American-English pronunciation. It's why she and Nat sound the way they do instead like they grew up downing shots of Vodka and wearing over-fluffed ushankas.
Hermione collapses on Rogers' couch, remote in hand, psyching herself up for another two plus hours of turmoil. She's almost certain these movies would be incredibly incredible if Christensen and Portman were removed. But they're, like, important or something. Hermione's not too far out of touch with pop culture that she doesn't know what happens.
"So I was talking to Nat today." Rogers shuffles into the sitting room, near-burnt popcorn in hand. "Apparently we're watching them out of order."
Hermione internally sighs for a hell of a long time.
This was an absolute mistake, she thinks for the millionth time in the last eighteen months. Why did Pierce assign her to do this? She's not with the times. She doesn't watch television or movies. She reads books. A lot of books. And book recommendations for Rogers she can handle, and so can he. For the most part. Lord of the Flies had been rough for him, believe it or not. But stuff on screen. They're both out of their elements here.
And Hermione does know the answer to why Pierce asked her to do this.
No matter what she said to Ross earlier, she's doing spy work again. During her and Rogers' time together, she's eating and breathing his habits. His reactions. His mannerisms and behaviors. His likes and dislikes. HYDRA wants to know absolutely everything there is about him.
Hermione's been doing this for a year and a half.
She knows everything about him, and it's disconcerting because aside from Natalia, she's never known anyone this well.
Not even Brock, and she's never spent this amount of time with any man.
And they're not even sleeping together, for Christ's sake.
"Oh," she manages. She moves closer to the arm rest, so there's room for his gigantic body.
"We're supposed to be watching four through six first."
"That doesn't make sense."
He shrugs. "Nat said."
"Well, Nat doesn't know everything."
Rogers stares at her. Doubtful.
"Tony agrees," he mutters under his breath.
Hermione ignores him, and presses play on the remote.
Credits Roll
Hermione hits the power button on the remote. Both she and Steve sit in silence. Her exhausted glare hitting the black screen and his befuddled expression resting on his lap.
"That was…" he starts.
"I fucking hate these movies." There. She said it.
She feels him flinch at her profanity.
"Stark says it's un-American not to like these films," he says almost helplessly.
"I'm not American, Steve."
"Maybe the fourth one will be better."
"I'm not watching it." She dramatically throws crossed arms over her face.
"Not now. But later. We'll hit Disney more. I still haven't seen Cinderella."
"Steve?"
"Yeah?"
She removes her arms and frowns at him. "You need a girlfriend."
Like dunking a wild cat in bathwater. His mind is all hissing and screaming and scratching. On the outside, he's perfectly poised and gentlemanly and even smiling like he thinks she's joking, but she's not. If he got himself a goddamned girlfriend, she'd have a legitimate excuse to stop hanging out with him.
Sorry, Boss, he's busy bumper-boating Haley from HR and doesn't want to do stuff anymore.
Honestly, Hermione wishes Nat would just jump him already, but the woman refuses to touch him. Nat thinks herself unworthy. Impure. Tainted. Too red and not enough white and blue. She's killed children and if Rogers even knew a fraction of what she'd done for KGB, he'd never look at her the same.
Nat's probably right, but Hermione can't see why he'd ever have to know. Even if he went snooping into her file, half her sins are blacked-out anyway.
On top of that, Rogers is a flower. Un-plucked. Velvety-soft petals all intact.
He's stresses about it more than he should. He's Captain America. An extremely busy man. When he's not kicking up dirt in the Middle East alongside S.T.R.I.K.E., he's saving face at all these fancy political galas and making heart-felt speeches at the Marines' Ball.
Mostly the Frustrated Virgin ennui he sports is because he's lonely, but Hermione's not trying to court him for two reasons. One, she'd face Nat's hellacious passive-aggressive resentment for the rest of ever, and Hermione would rather suffer the Red Room again than do that. And the second, Rogers won't have her. She reminds him too much of Peggy Carter, no joke. He can't even look into Hermione's eyes for more than a few second because it's painful
She has the same eyes, he thinks all the time. And, Thank God she's not English because I couldn't handle it.
Irony.
Per eighteen-month old request of Pierce, the layout of her duties regarding Rogers and introducing him to the modern world did include seducing him.
To put it plainly, she was to be bumper-boating him.
Maybe that's too plain.
No, Pierce wanted her to make him fall head over hills in love. So much so, that when the time comes for HYDRA to rise up again, he'll question his allegiance to S.H.I.E.L.D. and everything the United States stands for. He'd thirst for her and her beliefs so much, he'd yield to her purpose and make it his own.
Pierce wanted her to brainwash him. There. Plain words.
Short of taking off her bracelet and shoving metaphorical, wriggling-fingers into his brain tissue, Rogers is uncrackable. He's never loved anything so much, he'd sway from his own foundation.
No current and living thing at least.
No current or relevant thing.
Hermione touches her lips and briefly dips a mental toe into her waters that house the Winter Soldier. Make that frozen waters. He hasn't come out to play in a while. Since the resurfacing of Rogers, Barnes has been sleeping and snug in his chamber.
Rogers dwells on his fallen best friend a lot. Missing him. So much to the point of dreaming about him. For Hermione, there's something to be said about seeing from both of their perspectives their last moments together. From Barnes, Steve disappearing into the train tracks of the sky. From Steven, Barnes fading into the depths of a frozen ravine.
There's something to be said.
She's not sure what.
There's a sort of…pang she feels for Rogers. But probably more for Barnes. He'd probably wish he was dead if knew better and again, she regrets not taking the initiative and killing him back in Kabul. She should've clawed his out throat instead of kissing those pink pouty lips. It would've been more of a thank you than anything else.
"You need a boyfriend," he lamely counters ten seconds too late to even have it be a good comeback.
"Meh."
He points his finger at her. "There's a rumor going around about you and some CIA guy. Huh? What's that about?"
Ross wouldn't touch her sexually if President Ellis himself ordered it.
"I'd rather talk about your rumors, Rogers. Star says you and Stark are all about the romantic getaways. Hm? Or about Us Weekly, especially? When are you and Nat going to set that wedding date? She's going to start showing soon and—"
He tackles her to cushion, digging his fingers into her ribs and tickling.
This is the real reason she wants to be done with the assignment. He makes her laugh uncontrollably in so many ways. She hasn't laughed so loud or so uninhibited since she was a child. Not all the time is it on purpose like this, and she worries. He makes her feel for him.
When she can't take anymore, he lets up and embraces her like he she's a cracked doll, and he's so sorry. So sorry for her and Natalia, and the monsters they were forced to be. He yearns his arms to be like glue, and he wants to fix her. He wants to tinker at her with western pop culture he knows nothing about, Starbucks coffee, and early mornings runs around the Capitol. He wants her to feel safe with him. He believes he's got her friendship but wants her trust.
Because like Fury, he thinks she's hiding something and wants to know what.
She sighs into his shoulder, maneuvering her head so her cheek rests their comfortably. They're tangled up together on his two-person couch, and it's absurdly intimate because they're not being sexual. He's not hard, and the only warmth she feels is in her chest. Hermione's never been this—quite literally—wrapped up in a man or woman without lips and tongues and clothing-removal. Sure, she and Nat "cuddle", but it's different.
"Let's go out to a movie next time," he offers, stroking her back. She has to laugh because he's not even pawing at her bra-lines. Most men would go for it. At this point, she almost questions her own prettiness and maybe even his sexual orientation. But she knows he thinks she and Nat are two of the most beautiful women in the world, and he's shamefully taken himself in hand on those extremely lonely nights whilst thinking about fire red hair and slanted green eyes. Brown hair and brown eyes, too, yet not Hermione's.
As ridiculous as it sounds. As stupid as it seems, she could fall asleep like this. She knows she's safe with Rogers. He'd never hurt her as the women she presents herself to be. He's warm underneath his tight cotton shirt and smells of good old American Tide with hint of cliched Irish Spring.
She's getting too comfortable, so it's time to leave.
Almost out the door, he asks, "You got your pepper spray?"
"Really?"
He lifts his hands in apology. "I'm sorry. One of these days we're going to spar. You're going to show me what you got."
Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel
Hermione is in the throes of making a terrible decision. It's three in the morning, and she's not alone in her room. She needs to be quiet. The safehouse is pretty nice compared to the concrete slabs she's used to, but the walls are still thin. Ross is next door probably still awake, too, talking to his girlfriend back in D.C.
Stevens is trying and failing to figure out her Stark designed S.H.I.E.L.D. suit. He's unclipping and unzipping and getting nowhere fast. She's not helping because it's too entertaining, and she's not even sure she wants to go there with him. He's a pretty slice of American chocolate pie, but she's taken a nibble out of his mind, and someone forgot to add the sugar. He's as bitter as a long-forgotten tin of unsweetened cocoa powder in the pantry.
He doesn't even like her, but he's begrudgingly grateful she saved his ass in Iraq way back when, and she's pretty enough he can overlook that she's an…inverse radish?
White on the outside. Red on in.
Good lord!
She laughs. Loud. Here it is 2010, and she's still facing Cold War slurs and from the next generation. Where did he hear such things?
He thinks her mirth is him finally conquering her suit. Her shoulders and long strip of her torso's exposed, and she takes pity on him. The utility belt around her waist will be a whole other code he'll never crack. According to Natalia who offhandedly pitched an idea to Stark a while back snowballed into a multi-million-dollar patent. Life's dangerous for spy, especially a female one. Life's dangerous for women period.
The suit makes her ninety-eight percent rape proof.
Hermione considers Stevens and sees the proof that not all sins go hand-in-hand. He'd never force her or anyone woman, but he'd impassively hold her down and choke the life out of her if his chosen occupation required it. He doesn't see woman as things to feel sorry for or protect. They're flawed and can be evil and terribly inconvenient like any man in the world.
As she disengages her belt, she continues to read him. Yeah, he definitely doesn't feel sorry for her. He doesn't pity the poor little Kraut who got misused by the Commies. People. Women. Children. Get abused all the time. It's just how it is. He does what he can with the means he's given, but at the end of the day, he's got bigger fish to fry.
Hermione's curious about that bigger fish, but she won't take all his secrets. He's not an assignment. He's a mistake she's prepared to make.
The suit's finally off, and the scent of talcum powder hits her. He wrinkles his nose, too, though, she's not one to be embarrassed. It doesn't smell bad. She just smells like a baby. It takes work to get in that clingy suit, all right, and the powder helps.
She's not completely naked, still wearing her sports bra and underwear, and there's still that moment of truth. For assignments, she hides her scars. For flings, she doesn't, and she can tell a lot by a person on how they react to her truth. The ved'ma scar is still noticeable as ever, and there's no hiding her apple scar now with longer sleeves. She has a dozen other scars, but those are the ones that really define her.
Hermione cups Stevens face. He's flicking those pretty eyes from her forearm to her lower pelvis.
"So it's true what they say." His fingers graze her apple like he knows. "You did this one to yourself, didn't—"
"Shhh." She silences him with a kiss because she's in no mood to reminisce over fairy tales and the parents who abandoned her. The kiss barely makes it passed a peck before her phone buzzes on the nightstand. Given the extra special ringtone, she knows it's Pierce. He's calling her home, and the sun's not even up yet.
She whispers a curse and flops onto her side, reaching for her phone.
"You're seriously going to answer that? That's cold."
"It's my boss." She gets off the bed and slides open her Milestone and flips it to better read the message. She lets out sigh. "I've got to go. Sorry. Maybe some other time we can finish this."
He's put out. She gathers he hasn't gotten laid in months, but he gets it. He gets himself comfortable on the bed even though he's still fully clothed save his boots. "Whatever," he says. "I'm staying here the rest of the night."
The unit and Ross will talk when they find him in her room the next morning, she reckons. Oh, well. It's not like she's got a reputation to uphold.
She gets packed and dressed and spares him a bummed half-smile over her shoulder before she leaves the bedroom. They'll never see each other again.
The message from Pierce has simply said:
Rogers is done. Meeting in my office at 8.
Hermione's not entirely sure what she expected at the meeting as she walked into his office. Certainly Sitwell writing down minutes and maybe even Fury if this wasn't HYDRA related, and all three of them were announcing to her that Rogers has lost interest in S.H.I.E.L.D. and will be going his own way in life.
No, when Hermione walks into Pierce's office, sleep deprived and starving, it's just him alone. He's standing close to his window looking out over the Potomac.
"Sir," she says.
"You haven't properly engaged Rogers." He sighs and begins to pace, his sight never leaving the waters. "What am I to do with you?"
The hairs on the back of her neck shoot up. "I-I've tried."
"I've given you eighteen months, and he's not even calling you a best friend."
"He's not attracted to me, sir."
This does pause him, and he stares at her now, brows arched. "Are you saying I should've had Rumlow or Ward take on this assignment?"
"No, sir. I remind him of Carter."
"Which is exactly why I picked you for this."
That's news to her, but okay.
"It puts him off," she explains.
He strokes his jaw and returns his eyes to the waters, wistful. "We've started construction today on the crafts."
"I know. I'm thrilled."
"Are you?" He gestures for her to join him, and she goes to stand beside him.
"Of course I am. We're only four years away. I've been waiting almost my entire life for this."
"Agent," he starts, "I know being apart of HYDRA hasn't been easy for you. I wouldn't be surprised if you've…developed doubts."
"My doubts." She treads carefully. "Are not in HYDRA, sir. They're in people."
He's facing her now, and he's cupping her shoulders. "Do you doubt me?"
She swallows because she has in the past, but does she now? When he's brilliantly managed to string together the people and the money in building HYDRA's future. He's not perfect by any means, yet he's exactly who the world needs as its leader when the revolution begins.
"No," she replies.
"Do you doubt HYDRA at all?"
"In her purest state, I am her slave."
The backs of his fingers stroke her cheek. "Then you will kill both Steven Rogers and Natasha Romanoff by end this week."
"It's been nearly five fucking years." Nott pulls out a bottle of Firewhiskey from his desk and pours himself a glass, mockingly saluting Soo-jin. His ex-fiancé sits primly on her chair unaffected by his impatience.
"For you. It's been five years for you," she clips. "She'll come, Theodore. I promise."
"She could be dead!" He slams his glass down. "I've poured what was left of my inheritance into finding her. I gave you my loyalty, but there comes a time, sweetheart, when you got to throw in the towel. We haven't heard a blip since Kabul. Nothing."
"She's not dead, I know it. I feel it. She will go to them and then she'll be here." She perches on his desk, caressing his hair. He can't help but lean into her touch.
"I wish I had your faith," he mutters. He pushes her hand away. "But until you've got something solid for me, I don't want see you again. You know your way out."
Soo-jin watches him leave, exhaling in exasperation. She, too, is at the end of her rope, and maybe Hermione Granger is dead, but she's not ready to give up yet. She's waited this long and will do so a little longer.
One year. One more year, and she'll be done. This obsession of hers has cost her so much already, the highest price being Theodore. Yes, one more year, and she'll give up. She'll move on. Somehow.
Unbeknownst to her, a year will be more than enough time.
To be Continued…
