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Chapter 27

Hope

Avengers Mansion

Steve awoke earlier than he had in days, feeling strong after a good night's sleep. He'd accomplished much yesterday. Picking up his phone from the side table, he checked his messages and smiled. Jan had worked miracles, saving him from the dreaded prospect of meeting with his fellow Avengers one at a time. The idea of having to relate again and again the facts of his illness, enduring an endless stream of sympathy... excruciating. Instead, Jan arranged for the bulk of the Avengers to hold off and wait until the poker game tomorrow night. Rather than people crowding around him like mourners at a deathbed, he would be able to talk with his teammates in a casual, upbeat setting. Jan also got out the news of Hank's possible cure to the rest of the team, another thing to ease the situation. Steve texted a quick message to Jan:

You're the best! Hank doesn't know how
lucky he is - I'd steal you in a heartbeat!

Thanks again…Steve

Hank was lucky. If he were being honest, Steve had to admit he often envied Hank Pym. At the end of a mission, when the members of the team went their separate ways, Hank's way led to a home, to a woman who shared his life. Having someone to love meant the difference between existing and living. For fifteen years, Steve had been existing. From the vantage point of his solitary existence, he watched his friends move on with their lives, many marrying; Sam, Hank—hell, even Fury managed to find a woman to put up with him, for a while.

But not Steve. After reviving, he carefully constructed a new existence for himself, one centered around work, duty, and service. He stayed constantly on the go, throwing himself into one mission after the other, chasing action and danger, pushing himself to the brink of even his nearly inexhaustible stamina. But always, there came that moment when it was time to go home and face the reality of four empty walls.

No woman's voice to relieve the loneliness, no gentle touch to ease the day's pain, no soft kiss to light the dark borders of the night…nothing but the quiet of his solitary existence. He built that existence brick by brick, with an exacting purpose. It required an exacting discipline to stay there. But at times, even the discipline of Captain America fell short, leaving only the man, the one behind the mask. When the loneliness cut too deep, Steve would reach out to find comfort in the arms of a woman, if only for brief moments. His thoughts drifted to the image of their lovely faces - Bernie Rosenthal; Rachel Leighton; Wanda Maximoff…Sharon Carter.

It always came back to Sharon.

Steve had loved two women in his life, and somehow, ended up with neither. Fate robbed him of the first love, and as for the second, he could blame only himself. He thought of Sam's words from the other night…

'…You think it honors the love you and Jacqueline shared if you spend the rest of your life alone, in misery? Don't work that way man. The past is gone…'

Every word of it was true. Not only couldn't he regain what was lost, he had threw away everything that might have been. Sharon's words came to him now, cutting twice as deep as the first time he'd heard them…

'…Go ahead Steve, walk away from me, like you always do. Only this time, I'm not leaving you….'

Those were true words as well. He always walked away from her. Only, there was a deeper truth; he never let her go. He always kept Sharon on the line, giving her just enough reason to hope that maybe there was a future. When the loneliness was too deep, he reached out for her, knowing she would come. The deepest shame came six years ago. Sharon had met someone, Paul Garner, the head of a charitable organization providing aid to refugees in war torn regions of the world. A good man, someone she might build a life with. By the time Steve learned of it, the relationship was serious. And the thought of losing her struck a chord of fear that shook him to the core. So he reached out to her once again, pulling her in, convincing her they could have a life together now—perhaps even convincing himself. For a while it seemed possible.

Then the coolness and distancing began. It was the demands of work, he told her, her work as well as his. There was some truth in that. It would be difficult to find two more demanding careers to juggle; one an agent of SHIELD, the other an Avenger. The weight of such responsibilities would make any relationship difficult, but it was always more than that on his part. It was the weight of guilt, the memory of Jackie.

And maybe it was just plain cowardice, a fear of commitment.

Whatever the cause, it wasn't long before things between them broke down. The fighting led to silence; silence led to distance; distance to separation. After six months, it was over. Sharon was the one to leave that time, but only after he walked away in every manner that mattered. He closed off his heart to her once again, but not until he had finished the job. Paul was out of her life, leaving things to go on as they had before. He would be faithful to Jackie when he was able, and when he wasn't, Sharon would be there to comfort him. All neat and tidy, the way he liked things.

Jesus. He felt sick to his stomach.

Steve sat on his bed. It had been a long time since he cried. He came from an era when men didn't cry, but the tears came now, flowing like water from a deep pool. He pushed his palms against his eyes, trying to hold the tears in, damn them up by the strength of his hands, but on they came, stronger than his strength. So he let them. Minutes passed…the tears dwindled, the ache remained. A memory came, words his mother had taught him long ago, sitting at his bedside:

The secret to having your prayers answered is to pray for someone else, not for yourself. Always pray for the people you love.

Steve closed his eyes and opened his heart.

"She deserves happiness, a man who will be there for her. She deserves so much more than I've ever given her. I want it to be me. I want the chance to make her happy. If I make it through this, if I survive…I want it to be me. But I don't pray for it. I pray for her. Let her be happy. Please."

He got up from the bed, wiping the damp from his cheek. It was almost eight-thirty. Hank would be waiting, ready to begin the first phase of the treatment. Steve headed for the shower, but stopped as he passed the framed photograph sitting on his dresser. He picked it up, gazing at the black and white photograph, taken seventy-five years earlier. He kissed it, gently.

"I love you, Jackie...but I have to let you go. I have to say goodbye."

Steve opened the dresser drawer, laid the photograph inside, and closed it away. Shutting off the light, he left the room.

Newark, New Jersey

Sharon parked the car and headed to the small, nondescript house at the end of the block. Her clothing and bearing were out of step with the surroundings. She grew up in a working class community much like this one, but lost the knack for fitting in. Climbing the steps, which were clean, if rickety, she rang the bell. The door opened, revealing a round-faced middle-aged woman, hair in curlers, coffee cup in hand, dressed in nightgown and bathrobe. Perfectly in step with her surroundings. The woman eyed her with suspicion.

"Look, if you're one of those Mormon ladies, I don't want to talk about Jesus."

"Actually, I'm a friend of Melvin's. My name is Sharon."

The woman's beady eyes went wide. "My Melvin? He doesn't have any friends. I'd remember a friend like you, believe me."

"We're online friends. Could you tell him I'm here please?"

The woman frowned, clearly judging it impossible that this attractive, blonde, model-tall woman could possibly know—or want to know—her son. She turned from the door, shouting towards the basement stairs.

"Melvin! There's some lady here who says she knows you!" She turned to her guest, speaking in a hush. "All day, all night, he's on that box…it's like a thing with him. With his father, it was gambling, with Melvin, it's computers. What do you two talk about, anyway?"

"Star Trek, mostly."

"Hmm…that sounds like Melvin. Still, I don't know..."

A voice boomed from behind the woman. "Mother! Kindly remove yourself from the doorway. It's nearly noon, isn't it time for you to watch The Price Is Right, and brew your second cup of Muscatel?"

"Melvin, this lady says she knows you from the internet."

"Mother, Move!"

Mrs. Kirkshank shambled to the side, fretting all the way. Melvin got his first look at his visitor. His mouth dropped open.

"Are you Sharon?"

"Yes. Could we step inside?"

Wordlessly, Melvin put his bulk into reverse, letting Sharon through the door. The inside of the house matched its exterior; a bit worn and threadbare, but clean. Mrs. Kirkshank smiled at her.

"Can I hang up your jacket, Miss..?"

"Jones," Sharon said, slipping off her jacket and handing it over. Mrs. Kirkshank ran her hands across it, appreciatively.

"Oh, genuine Eye-talian. My husband, God rest his soul, he worked in the garment trade forty-three years. I know quality leather when I see it."

"Mother, kindly stop molesting her jacket," Melvin huffed. "I shall be in my room, with my guest. Please do not disturb us."

Mrs. Kirkshank leaned over to whisper (loudly): "This isn't some sex-thing, is it? Like on that 'Craig's List'?"

"Krashla, Mother! Krashla t-plahth Moog!" Melvin cursed, in flawless Klingon. He turned to Sharon. "Let us go to my office."

The basement was half frat house, half computer center. Much of the equipment was custom-made. There were a few expensive machines, older models from universities and government agencies, cast-offs that still functioned perfectly. The place was dim and would have been dark without the glow of a dozen monitors. It smelled like a giant gym-shoe, overlaid with stale pizza and Doritos. Melvin slid a stack of Maxim magazines from a folding chair, and offered it to Sharon.

"The Evil Boll Weevil," Sharon said. "At last we meet."

Melvin appraised his guest with suspicion. Sitting behind his computer station, he quickly brought up a photo on the center screen. It was a woman, plain looking, with mousy brown hair. "You don't look like your picture, Miss Jones…if that even is your real name."

"The first half is."

"Obviously, I knew this wasn't your real photo—I suspected that immediately when I hacked your file at Langley. I knew this wasn't it, either," Melvin continued, pulling up a second photo, this one of a middle-aged Korean woman. "Or this one, or this one," he went on, scrolling through more pictures. "I did think this one was you," he said, stopping at a photo of a handsome woman with short red hair. "I found it three years ago, buried in an IRS file. I matched it with your FBI weapons permit, which also had your Social Security number…which I'm now certain was also fake. I was positive it was you."

"That's my dental hygienist. Nice woman."

"Very clever. I'm impressed—not to mention depressed. I never thought I could be duped by some systems analyst for the FBI."

Sharon made her decision before coming here today; the clock was ticking and she needed to win Melvin over right away. "I'm not with the FBI. My real name is Sharon Carter and I'm a special agent with SHIELD."

"I knew it!" Melvin shouted, jumping up from his chair. His belly flopped recklessly and Cheetos crunched under foot. "I knew you couldn't be with the FBI. Those morons still use PC's and AOL. I just knew you had to be SHIELD! Oh, wait until I tell those Philistines, Bratton and Pinnex…keep me off their precious committee, will they?"

Sharon laid her hand on Melvin's wrist, quieting him instantly. "No, Melvin. You can't tell your friends on the Harry Potter website. The same goes for the comic book shop. And you certainly can't tell your mother."

"Why would I tell mother?"

"Melvin, this is real. I am a SHIELD agent, for real. People go to prison for doing the things we're going to do. That's why you can't talk about it. I need to know I can trust you. Can I trust you?"

"Y…yes. Prison?" Melvin muttered, looking up towards the living room, where a game show theme song was playing.

"That won't happen. You're too smart to get caught."

"You caught me."

"I got lucky. And I'm pretty smart myself. Together, we make a good team. I promise to do everything in my power to protect your identity."

"I…I don't know."

"Melvin, ten years ago, you hacked the Pentagon. They're still hunting for you. You meant no harm, I know, but you'd be put away if they found you. I…don't want to have to threaten you into this." Sharon handed Melvin a thick file, along with a stack of Compact Disks. "That's everything. I have nothing to hold over your head. I'm asking for your help."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Two things. First, I need you to hack SHIELD. There are files I need that I can't access."

Melvin considered it, his expression dubious. "No one's ever hacked SHIELD. They have the best firewall in the world."

"Which makes it a challenge. And you've got an edge the others don't have. Me."

Melvin smiled. "True. Cracking SHIELD…that's big. Holy Grail big. Getting the plans to the Death Star big. Okay, I'll do it. What's the second thing?"

Sharon took a deep breath. "I need you to hack the Hydra mainframe."

Melvin's eyes grew alarmingly large. "Hydra? As in the Red Skull Hydra? Are you out of your mind? They kill people!"

Sharon put a finger to her lips, quieting him. "Yes, they kill people. In a few days, they're going to launch an attack that will kill millions. I need your help to stop them."

"I…I can't. I'm just a fat little man who plays on his computer. I'm a joke," Melvin muttered. "I'm scared."

"I'm scared, too. They're scary people. But they have to be stopped. And You're wrong," Sharon said, laying her hand on Melvin's. "You're not a joke. You're the best hacker in the country, maybe the world. Half the intelligence agencies on the planet have been looking for you for two decades, and you've evaded them all. You can do this, Melvin. You're the Evil Boll Weevil."

Melvin was teetering, but his fear and uncertainty held sway. Sharon pulled out another file, her ace in the hole. She opened the file, laying it before him.

"You've heard about Captain America's illness? This is the man responsible, a Hydra scientist. I'm forming a team to help Cap, and to take the fight to the people who're trying to kill him."

"You know Captain America?"

"He's a very special friend. I'm trying to save him...but I can't do it without your help."

"Cap…" Melvin said, airily. "He's the greatest superhero of them all. Well, second greatest. Clearly, Iron Man's technology makes him number one, but still, Cap…"

Sharon almost had him roped. "You'll be a member of this team," she said, handing him a stack of printouts. Melvin's eyes glazed with wonder.

"Oh my God. Falcon…Hawkeye…Ant Man," Melvin said, staring off into space. "I shall need a costume. Nothing flashy. Perhaps a cape? No, that's too much. I'll think of something."

"Let's talk about costumes later, Melvin. We need to get started."

Melvin turned to Sharon, a sly look in his eye. "Before I agree to help you, there's something I would like you to do for me." He leaned in, his respiration heavy. "It won't take long, no more than a few minutes, I promise…"

. . .

The door to Heroes Haven opened with a jingle. A greasy-haired kid looked up from his copy of the Overstreet Price Guide, grinning at the customer strolling in. He cocked his head towards the back room, and shouted.

"Phil, Gina! Get out here, it's Melvin!"

Gina came out, followed by Phil, who was carrying a stack of new comics. "Don't bend the spines," she growled. She took a sip of her Diet Coke, and looked at Melvin triumphantly.

"Didn't expect to see your sorry ass back here so soon. Ready to pay up on that bet, or are you still trying to claim you sold a script to Battlestar Galactica?" Gina tittered. "You really think we wouldn't check that out?"

Melvin skimmed the rack of new releases. "I never claimed to have written a script for them. I was a technical consultant."

"Then why wasn't your name on the credits?"

"I took my honorarium in the form of merchandise, not money. I received a Cylon battle suit from the original series, along with several scale models."

Gina snorted. "Yeah, right. Look, your name wasn't on those credits so you owe me twenty bucks." Gina paused, looking Melvin up and down. He was dressed nice—new jeans, actual shirt, not a t-shirt, hair combed…he even smelled good. Brute. "What's the deal? Why are you all cleaned up? Don't tell me you're going to ask me out again?"

Melvin sighed, bored. "Actually, no. I am on a date as we speak. Ah," he said, as the bell over the door jingled. "Here is my lady now."

Sharon Carter stepped inside the cluttered store, gliding like a celebrity walking the red carpet. She stopped at Melvin's side, and planted a slow, lingering kiss on his cheek.

"Are you ready, darling?" she asked, her voice low and sultry. "They're holding a table for us at Sardi's."

"Momentarily, my dear."

Melvin peeled a grubby twenty dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to Gina, who stared, slack-jawed. "Consider our wager settled. You needn't hold merchandise for me any longer. I shall purchase my comics from the Secret Stash from now on."

Arm in arm, Melvin and Sharon sauntered from the shop. The staff of Heroes Haven watched in utter amazement as they got into a gleaming black Ferrari, and thundered off.

Avengers Mansion,
Biochemistry Laboratory

Cap walked into the lab and found Hank, and his assistant, Scott Lang, waiting. Also there were Hank McCoy and Reed Richards. On video conference were doctors Walter Langkowski, Michael Morbius, Moira MacTaggart, and Tony Stark. A strange mood pervaded the room, and everyone seemed on tenterhooks. Hank approached Cap, looking uneasy.

"Steve, we've been approached by another…doctor, via video link. He's offering his assistance. I told him it depends on your say so."

Cap shrugged. "I've already given you the green light to work with other doctors, Hank. You'd know his qualifications better than I."

"It's not a matter of qualifications. It's Victor Von Doom."

"Doom? Is this a joke?"

"It's no joke," Reed Richards said. "You're right to be mistrustful, Cap. Victor is dangerous, I of all people can attest to that. But he's one of the most brilliant scientific minds in the world. We shouldn't dismiss this out of hand."

"You're actually suggesting we trust him?"

Reed considered his next words. "As twisted as Victor may be, he has a code of honor. I have never known him to break his word. He says he wants to help. He's already given us some important new insights."

The room fell silent. Hank broke it. "It's up to you, Steve."

Cap stood for a moment, in quiet thought. "I want to talk to him. Alone."

After the others stepped out of the room, and the remaining video links switched off, Cap brought the feed up on console nine. There, on the screen, speaking from the throne room in his castle-stronghold, was the supreme ruler of the nation of Latveria, Victor Von Doom. He spoke, his English flawless, bearing only a trace of eastern Europe in his accent.

"Captain. I have learned of your troubles. The people of Latveria offer their prayers for your speedy recovery. And their monarch offers you his…humble assistance."

Doom was not wearing his infamous gray armor and face mask, which he always wore in public appearances and affairs of state—and when he led his forces in battle. In less formal settings like this, Doom often removed his armor—though never entirely. His face was concealed by a slim sheath of gold, molded in the likeness of a Greek God. From his chin to his hair, which was thick and wavy, and blacker than coal, his features were hidden. What lay under that mask, no one knew. Some tales say the face of Doom is a hideous mass of scars, while others say he bears only a tiny scratch, which his monstrous ego cannot abide. Some propose he is beautiful beyond comparison, that to look upon him is to die, so he hides away to protect the world. Others claim he has no face at all, and is a demon of shadow. The only certainty is this; for twenty years, no living soul has looked upon the face of Victor Von Doom…and lived to tell the tale.

Cap wasted no time. "Why the offer of help? What's in it for you?"

"The satisfaction of knowing a good man has been saved."

"Try another one."

Doom chuckled. "Suspicion ill become you, Captain."

"Generosity ill suits you," Cap shot back. "I don't have time for games, Victor. If you really want to help, give me a reason I can believe. I don't trust you."

There was a moment of silence.

"Doom pays all debts. My nation suffered grievously under the Nazi occupation. For eleven months, that filth Johann Schmidt conducted a reign of terror, torturing and murdering thousands in his quest to gather items of occult power."

"I know. I was there."

"I know you were, Captain. You toiled to free my people and I would repay that debt. But there is more. As with all lands, there were two Latveria's. The haves and the have-nots. It was my people, the Gypsy's, who suffered most under the yoke of Nazi oppression. Many were shipped off to the camps. Do you remember Treblinka, Captain?"

"December second, forty-four. I led a raid that liberated the camp."

"In so doing, you freed many Latverian's, including a young man named Tevel Doomerov…my grandfather." The sound of a smile colored Dooms voice, cold and cruel. "I am curious, Captain...knowing what you now know, would your actions be the same? Some would judge a thousand lives a small price to pay for riding the world of Doom."

"I don't balance the scales of life and death that way. If I had it to do over again, I'd do it exactly the same. I only wish I could have done it sooner, saved more lives."

Doom paused. "You are either a man of honor and integrity or else you are a fool. Probably both. But I respect you, Captain. I have tried many times to eliminate Schmidt—as he has me. I have…not succeeded. He wields a powerful sorcery. You, alone of all his opponents, have dealt him setbacks, defeats. I would see you live and destroy him, for all time. There can be no hesitation, no 'balancing of the scales' this time. I sense his power grows. He must be stopped, and you must do it."

Cap thought for a moment. "If I agree to let you help, it's with no strings attached I'll owe you nothing in return, Victor. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

Cap summoned the others. Within the hour, the team arrived at a change in the antidote, which doubled the potency two fold, without a proportionate increase in toxicity. Reed Richards was generous in his praise.

"That was excellent work Victor, brilliant chemical engineering."

"Naturally. I only hope my correction of your errors has not come too late. I shall expect notification on any developments. The Captain will require six more courses of injections before efficacy will be established."

Doom turned his attention away from Reed. "Pym, why did you not consider polymer-bonding the antiviral agent to the protein molecules? It would have made your immune inhibitor a functional stop-gap in treating the Captain's illness, instead of being the failure that it was."

"I did consider it, you pompous bastard, but there was no way to insure molecular cohesion."

"I have already determined two ways to achieve cohesion. You are a disgrace to the Nobel Prize, 'Ant Man'."

"Screw you, Victor!"

"Ah, you know it is true, how nice. I leave you now, gentlemen. I have a nation to attend to. Keep me apprised."

The line went dark. Hank Pym slammed his fist into a filing cabinet, denting it and scraping his knuckles raw.

"Hank," Reed said, "Don't let him get to you. You've done brilliant work here. If not for you, Cap may not have made it this far. Don't listen to Victor."

"He's right, damn it. I should have cracked that polymer problem. Biochemistry is my field of expertise, I'm supposed to be the top in my field. Victor dabbles in it, and leaves me in the dust. Can someone tell me how a mind like that winds up in a personality so warped?"

"I've been trying to figure that out for nearly twenty years," Reed said. "Come on, let's grab a bite and try to unwind. It's a waiting game now."

The two scientists headed out of the lab, the lights blinking off as the doors closed behind them.

. . .

Cap returned to his room, and retrieved Sir Richard's book. The conversation with Doom served to remind him of what he was facing. 'He wields a powerful sorcery' Victor said. Surely that was true. Schmidt was once a man of flesh and blood—bad and twisted, but still just a man. He was much more than that now.

Or was he? A shard of memory flashed into focus, something Bucky had told him about the Skull. 'No, not more, that's wrong. Now he's something…other, something beyond.' The answer to defeating Schmidt was in the book he was holding in his hand. Cap quickly stripped off his uniform and got into street clothes. He needed some uninterrupted time to dig into the book, and the Manor was not the place to do it. Grabbing his com-unit, he quietly slipped out of the compound. He spent the afternoon in a Chelsea coffee shop, reading the book from cover to cover. No answer presented itself. He read it again, until night fell and exhaustion drove him back to the manor and his bed. The answer had not come. As sleep stole over his senses, Steve thought, 'Buck, if you have any more suggestions, I'm all ears'. But no dreams came.